Well. At some point I had to break the Southern Hemisphere tradition and stick to the north, and thus travelling in June-Augustish.
And at some point I had to break the Eastern Hemisphere tradition and head west. And thus, USA/CAN, here I come!
Once there lived a musician of sorts in Memphis. His name was Elvis Aaron Presley, and his home, called Graceland, is now a museum.
But Tennessee is so much more than rock’n’roll and Elvis; bang in the centre of the state lies Nashville, home of country AND western. Obviously we went to an open mike bar and drank Bud. Yee-haw, y’all!
Leaving Louisisana, crossing Mississippi (the river and the state), the state is now Tennessee, and the city Memphis. At Lorraine hotel, the Dr. Martin Luther King was assassinated 1968, and the building and its surroundings are now The Civil Rights Museum.
It was still hota as hell, so we all welcomed the grey clouds. Until they opened their gates and unleashed the Niagara on our yet unfinished tents.
It may be big, but it aint easy. If Independence eve caused every bloke and his mum to go out partying on the streets of New Orleans, then Independence Day caused every bloke and bird and his mum, uncle, grandpa and niece to do likewise. It was crowded, to say the least.
The fireworks were stunning and the semi-organised dancing gay moves on the street was good for a laugh. And embarking on the mostly impossible task of finding a taxi, we found ourselves in the middle of a mass panic, with hundreds of people running away from something. That something turned out to be a shooting, but the hysteria lasted only a few seconds and the place was packed with cops. And we even found a taxi.
The Big Easy. The Sodom and Gomorrah on the Mississipp’. Home of pirates, drunks, and whores. Crummy, lousy, rancid, and rank. New Orleans.
It was hot hot hot and expensive expensive expensive walking the streets of Louisiana’s, and possibly Americas, party capitol. Drinking is not only allowed on the streets, but almost encouraged. And so it was, that many too many bucks were spent on Abitas, Hurricanes, Seabreezes and Handgrenades before finally catching a taxi back.
And all that jazz.
The Riverwalk in San Antonio is a pleasant one, at nighttime bustling with life with restaurants, pubs and cafés covering the semi-submerged riverbanks. A steak is a must in the cattle state, and also karaoke seemed to be on the agenda. The entire group made an effort with Livin’ on a Prayer, followed by me covering Bohemian Rhapsody to cheers and applause from the rest.
Deep deep deep underground lie the Carlsbad Caverns. Stalagmites and stalactites intersect majestic cave halls and offer a refreshing cool contrast to the pressuring heat of Texas. And where there are caves, there are bats. The up to a million bats emerging simultaneously from a cave opening at sunset is supposedly a remarkable sight. I had half expected to see something similar to the smoke monster in Lost, but no such effect was to be found. Big ouverture, small show.
Apparantly there’s a New Mexico now, as Monty Burns would put it. The state’s capitol Santa Fe was visited, along with it’s interesting architecture of claywork.
Capitol though it may be, Santa Fe is not the most famous town in New Mexico. That would be Roswell, and whether the 1947 landing occurred or not, the aliens are everywhere in this small military town. In the form of plastic mugs, fridge magnets, guitar picks and t-shirt, to name a few.
Along an empty, deserted highway, Tom Hanks’ character suddenly decided to stop running, after having run from coast to coast and back. As did we. Stopped, that is.
On the protective alcoves on the vertical cliff walls of southern Colorado, there once lived a tribe of skillful potters, masons and stonecutters now known as Ancestral Puebloans. However, they disappeared back in the late 1200’s. Just so you know.
