February 5, 2011 We have a hail of a time beachcombing...

At 10:30 AM in 39 degrees (we hear it is in the 70s at home) Marcia and I go beach combing on the gulf side of this long but narrow barrier island. It begins to hail, lightly. The beach is pretty, the shelling not good, and it is very, very cold.

We encounter 20 other beachcombers, but they are being paid (presumably by BP) to sift for tar-balls from last year’s huge oil leak. They look cold, too, and they will be doing this for eight hours. There are pea-size to marble-size black balls on the beach but they are unlike beach tar we know. This looks like a make-work project more than anything, and maybe these people worked previously in industry hurt by the spill. It looks like a waste of time and money. We go back to camp as it starts to rain.

An hour later we venture out to explore the beach on the side of the island facing land. Less of the black stuff here, just dead jelly fish or man-of-war remains, and human trash of the traditional type – plastic bottles, trash bags, etc.

The original bridge to nowhere?

We pack and leave, driving as close to the gulf coast as we can. The sand is sugar-white and very fine,very beautiful.

Outside the park we pass through an area of pastel homes and three-story triplexes, with views to water, front and back. I have abut an 8-second fantasy – we retire to the top floor of one of these houses, and there I am, looking toward the gulf, computer on my lap, my three-year-old grandson asking me to show him again how to do an Excel spreadsheet. As we gaze toward the beach, we can see his sister and grandmother looking for shells and material for art projects.

Hello.

Parking for lunch is sometimes a challenge.

But soon the shoreline becomes more commercial and less happy looking – many “for sale” signs, and schlocky commercial spot as we leave higher income greater-Pensacola. We settle for the next two nights at Grayton Beach State Park ($33/night E,W,S). Hedda calls from the Hobo Rally in Blythe – she has just been named Hobo Queen. We are very proud of her, particularly knowing Marcia-provided boas and stuffed flamingos probably helped. (Hedda succeeded Marcia as “first lady” of our NorCal WBCCI unit.)

February 4, 2011 Pensacola is better than Pepsi or CocaCola

Fort Pikens - built by slave labor.

Larry offers to drive today so we start with a quick look at Fort Pickens then on to the Pensacola Naval Air Museum where we join the others.

Pensacola Naval Museum

A German jet, found at the end of the war.

Larry and Kathy

This is a very interesting museum with a collection ranging from the first plane to cross the Atlantic to space capsules returned to earth. The Blue Angeles are based at Pensacola and the main building is large enough to house four of their planes, suspended in formation from the ceiling. The floor appears chaotically crowded but people accustomed to loading carrier decks probably think it looks good.

Dinner at a place called Crabs – We Got-em, and crabs, we get. Then another round of Joker with Larry and Kathy.

February 3, 2011 Four states in 200 miles - the causeway states - we reach Florida!

We have become somewhat feral in our five weeks of independent travel. We decide to leave New Orleans at our leisure, not joining the NorCal departure at 8:30 AM.

I arise about 7:30 AM, 37 degrees outside and 47 degrees inside – sounds cold, but it would have been close to 10 degrees lower without our trusty portable electric heater.  We have a propane furnace but it is noisy, windy, and expensive to operate.  I turn on the heat pump (which is noisy and windy but operates off the park’s electricity) and in half-an-hour the temperature inside reaches 65 degrees, allowing Marcia to get up with a minimum of moaning and groaning. 

We eat and with the outside temperature now up to 39 degrees I do my hook-up chores.  The NorCal group is gone, but we aren’t totally feral – we may run in to them later today so I attach the CB radio that has been in storage, but leave it turned off.

The campground has allowed us to see New Orleans on a reasonable budget and has done it in a nice way.  On the way out I stop at the office to compliment them – interrupting one employee in a head-down nap.   Her head pops up and with a neutral expression she asks what I want.  I give my compliments and receive a funny look in return then a slight smile, and a quick request that I complete a comment form.   I take one and with a wide grin she wishes me a safe trip.

We hit I-10 and as we pass all the landmarks from Katrina news coverage we notice again all the infrastructure work going on, but on the private side things aren’t looking so good.  The French Quarter is as we remember it (it didn’t seriously flood) but empty of tourists (this is January).  On the fringes of New Orleans we pass homes and apartments still missing shingles and siding, and large vacant retail centers, victims of a combination of Katrina and the bad economy.  Payday loan signs abound, as do television commercials for lawyers, a few Katrina related.

In short order we cross into Mississippi, the temperature locked on 39 degrees but the vegetation looking greener.  A nice black lady at the elegant visitor center tries to interest us in spending more time in the state, or at least visiting Jefferson Davis’ last house nearby.  A elderly white gentleman breaks in politely also encouraging us to visit the home, remarking that his great-grandfather (?) was confined to the home when it served as a hospital for Confederate soldiers.  It seems odd but nice listening to this black and white pair, with their dramatically different ancestral histories, trying to get us to visit the Jefferson Davis home.  With California now ranked so low in so many ways we no longer choose to be snooty about Mississippi; we will try to spend some time here on our return journey.  

Then comes Alabama and the temperatures creep into the low 40s.  A side excursion to a Panera Bread for lunch and internet goes awry by 45 minutes because we put too much trust in our new TomTom GPS – we are becoming increasingly disappointed with this TomTom because of problems at critical times, although it does have some nice features not available on the Garmen.  

As we drive through Mobile, it look like an interesting city.  A pair of  skyscrapers stand out, as does the retired battleship USS Alabama.  We will try to spend more time here, too, on our trip home.

Crossing into Florida we stop at a visitor center for complimentary OJ.  Both the Mississippi and Florida visitor centers are elegant, one displaying Mardi Gras costumes decorated with images of NASA rockets in sequins.  One center has a very welcome wood-burning fireplace fronted by comfortable chairs.

Florida is starting to look good.  The trees banding the freeway are greener and the weather not as cold.  We leave I-10 and head south toward the Gulf Islands National Seashore, our camp for the next two nights.  Soon we are crossing island to island, and ahead I see what looks like high waves breaking on distant beaches, but this is the gulf and the weather isn’t that bad.  As we near we realize we are seeing incredibly white sandy beaches.

Battery Langdon

Fort Pickens, a product of slave labor.

We enter the Seashore, owing nothing thanks to the generous taxpayers and my Golden Age Passport, which also cuts our camping fee in half to $10 (W & E).  The attendant informs us we are late, about five Airstreams checked in earlier.   We proceed to our campsite passing scattered overgrown ruins we later learn are Battery Langdon, site of Fort Pickens’ largest guns, capable of firing 17 miles to sea, and hitting it every time, when completed in the 1920s.    Fort Pickens itself dates to before the Civil War and once hosted/housed/imprisoned Geronimo.  We conclude the evening with three games of Joker with Larry and Kathy.

January 31 – February 1, 2011 New Orleans – and some friends

It isn’t the state slogan, but a sign entering Louisiana declares it the “wet state” or maybe “wetlands state” and it is.

I-10 crosses miles of shallow water on a causeway, and on our drive south on I-55 to New Orleans we again drive miles on a causeway; in fact, interchanging with I-10 is all accomplished 20 feet above shallow waters and soggy looking bedraggled ground. Occasional fishermen in flat boats, one old bayou-type settlement, and a lot of twiggy and broken trees, grey-green colors. Maybe more appealing in appearance in the wet season, foreboding, but bug-free! in January.

A lady-bug visits.

We enter greater New Orleans crossing the old Huey Long bridge on a construction-narrowed lane – reminiscent of the situation that got me in trouble coming home from Gillette. We camp at Bayou Segnette State Park in Westwego, named for the shouts of settlers as they headed west. Nice campground, about $22 (W, E), free so-so WiFi and free so-so washers and dryers. Protected from a bayou by a levee wall, which is being raised by the Corp of Engineers.

Surprise! Bill and Beth are here, also winding their way to Florida for the caravan. They are Oregonians that we met at the Grass Valley rally. Bill publishes a blog with fantastic photos – http://web.me.com/ferry360/ferry360.

New Orleans style atop a tall building.

Hurricane, a man's drink.

A Mint Julep for the lady.

Two very old bars to each side, Pat O'Brien's courtyard in the distance.

A slow night at Cafe Du Monde.

It is late afternoon but Marcia and I decide to go to New Orleans as thundershowers, a tornado watch, and “severe hail” is forecast for tomorrow. In sunshine and 70 degrees we drive at least 10 miles and catch the free (for pedestrians) Algiers ferry across the Mississippi, and walk to the French Quarter. This is a Monday in January and things are pretty pathetic – loud amplified sounds from nearly empty bars, few tourists. We go to a courtyard at Pat O’Brien’s and have a Hurricane and a Mint Julep; it feels right, but we can’t help noticing we are easily 15-20 years older than anyone else. We walk south through the historical area (makes us feel young again) and eat gumbo and jambalaya at a no-name restaurant, cross the street to the Café Du Monde (a rat scurries away) and finish the evening with the traditional beignets and coffee. We are home by 8:45 PM, our ferry crossing the river in very heavy fog.

Mike and Jane

Tom and Deanna

Bob

Larry and Kathy

John and Elain

National WWII Museum

Bob's BD party at Olivier's in the Quarter.

The next day, as we get ready to go to the National World War II museum in New Orleans, the NorCal caravan to the Florida Fantasy arrives – John & Elain, Tom & Deanna, Mike & Jane, Bob, and Larry & Kathy. They settle in and we split into two groups – the guys going to the museum, and the ladies hitting the shopping areas. I can only report on the museum: very well done, including the 45 minute “4D” film that covers the entire war – from origins to surrender – with enough pizzazz and brevity to satisfy the short-attention crowd and their seniors. The rain lifts and we reconvene for a nice birthday dinner for Bob at Olivier’s on Decatur, another walk through the quarter (more people than Monday but still sad), and a return to camp by 7:30 PM. No tornado, no hail, and much less rain than forecast.

Bob savors his seafood gumbo.

On Wednesday, the wind is strong and the temperatures are in the mid 30s. The wind-chill is terrible – a laundry day for sure. At night we go to a second birthday dinner for Bob at a neighboring grill, good for the price but scampi served very wet in a soup of yellow buttery flavorings (or maybe real butter, I dunno). It is a bit heavy.

January 30, 2011 Natchez – Ah, those cotton pickin’ days.

Natchez, Mississippi.   In the Pasadena elementary schools we sang a lot of Steven Foster songs, and I can’t help doing that as we pass huge plantation homes with occasional glimpses of the Mississippi and paddlewheel boats – even if the boats are now casinos and they only move when nudged by hurricanes.

We stay in the very nice Natchez State Park CG on the outskirts, still in a drizzle, and explore this tidy town of maybe 12,000. It still looks reasonably prosperous and in the 1800s it was the social center for great cotton wealth. Many plantation homes survive, and we visited Melrose Estate, now managed by the National Parks.

Marcia learns about Natchez.

Melrose Estate

Punkahs - child slaves pulled the rope to power the fan.

This immense home of 16000 square feet of living space (excluding huge attic and basement, outbuildings, and slave quarters) was owned by a lawyer who also owned several cotton plantations miles from Natchez. This was typical of these plantation owners – many rarely saw their cotton fields. Natchez was where they lived, in a social whirl competing with other plantation owners. Slaves were kept in nice looking white-painted quarters, as it reflected on the owners, but inside the buildings life was more primitive. Life was never this good on the cotton plantation, which a man’s neighbors would not likely see.

Montrose was constructed in 1845 and sold at the end of the Civil War as cotton farming became uneconomical with the end of slavery. It was staffed by 25 slaves, and the slave privy is a 16-holer. Not a bad ratio, no reason to linger. For the most part Montrose stayed in the same family after the war until purchased by the National Parks, so around 85% of the furnishings are original.

We like the punkah, a large hinged decorated fan blade above the dining table that would have been operated by child slaves pulling on ropes. These fixtures on well-to-do plantation owner homes.

William Johnson house - a former slave that became very successful.  Owned a Dodge  just like ours.

We also tour the house of William Johnson, a mulatto freed by his owner (and likely father) at the age of 11. He became very successful, eventually owning several barber shops, a public bath, a plantation, and slaves. A neighboring mulatto in a property line dispute murdered him at the age of 41. The witnesses were all blacks or mulattos, and Louisiana law did not permit the admission of evidence from blacks if the accused was white. The neighbor convinced the court he was an Indian/white mix and escaped conviction; later it came out he had no white blood.

We enjoy dinner that night "under the hill" as the fog moves in.  We have no luck at the casino.