It's getting hot in here...

When I lived in Cambridge, I started doing Baptiste yoga. It's similar to Bikram yoga, in that you do it in a room that's 90-100 degrees, and sweat a lot. You get used to it, and it feels really good. Purifying, and all that. I was going a couple times a week, and I really loved it. Then I went back to Vassar and there was no Baptiste yoga to be found. Sad. I never made it to the studio I found in Georgetown. I was too busy re-assembling my life.

But. On arrival in Tucson, I looked for one and found that the only Baptiste-type teacher in Arizona is... 5 minutes from me! There's a cute little studio!

So I went one day, taking my mat and my towel and bottle of water, and talked to the teacher. He was psyched that I came from the original Baptiste studios, and he was really sweet, and very into connecting with people. I took the class and felt like I'd just come home. It's kind of hard to describe the bliss you can get when it's that hot and you accomplish so much.

At the end, he approached me and said he needed some help with the business-running end of things. He was doing it all by himself, and it'd really help if he had someone who could help out -- manning the front desk before class, and such. So was I interested in doing that? We could work out a trade.

I was, and we did. So just by showing up for class, I ended up with a little job to do, where I get to meet people and be "in."

Is it just me, or are really strange and awesome things just falling on me from all sides?

It's aliiiiive!

Sorry guy. Lame. I know. Really lame.

So, while my parents were in town, we went to a Tucson Sidewinders game. (That's AAA baseball, y'all.) And we had amazing seats, because in the minor leagues, you know, nobody really goes, so there are amazing seats just there for the taking.
Meaning that we're sitting two rows behind the dugout.
The sidewinders have this Mascot, Sandy. Sandy is a snake. A Sidewinder, in fact. And he/she (we've gathered that Sandy is supposed to be a female snake, but it's kind of hard to tell) was doing usual mascot things, dancing, running around high-fiving people, etc. Then, (s)he was passing by, blew me a kiss, and stopped, right in front of me. (Keep in mind, I'm with my parents here.) Okay, I'm gonna start saying he instead of she now, because it just.... makes more sense from this point forward. He then put his hand inside his shirt to make it like a beating heart, and blew some more kisses, and then... rubbed where his nipples would be if snakes had nipples? And then made some thrusting motions? Um, people, this is a mascot. A dude (I think, though stranger things have happened) in a fuzzy suit and a big creepy head. Making thrusting motions at me. In public. With my parents.

Then, there was a baseball game, and Tucson won. And it was Thirsty Thursday, which means dollar beers, so that's fun. But still. WTF?

I'm going to try to make more updates. Sometimes. I have to tell you all about some of the other strange things that have happened to me, including yoga-love at first sight, and the theater that's like having a big screen in your living room!

BIKE!

So I got some kind of sketchy responses to my "I need a bike" craigslist ad. Like people saying they had five or six, I could have any one of them for $20... I mean, why not just say "I stole some bikes, I'll sell ya one?" I also got a response saying that someone had a bike and he wasn't sure he wanted to sell it, and he wasn't sure it was big enough for me, but maybe he would....

And then I got a response from a guy who said he had a safe, rideable, non-fancy bike, a kind of 50's style repro (took me a minute to figure out that repro was short for reproduction), and he could bring it by, since he was a pool maintenace guy and had a job in my area.

I called him up and asked how much he wanted for it.

Oh, he said, there's no price. You can have it. I got it for my wife, but she doesn't ride it much, and you want to ride to class... I have a daughter in college. She loves having a bike. So I'll bring it by, I can meet you someplace in the neighborhood, and if you want it, take it, and if you don't want it, I'll take it away, no hard feelings.

I was like, um? What planet am I on? This is awesome!!

Two days later, I met him in the parking lof of the Four Points hotel two blocks away, and he gave me my AWESOME bike! And I rode away on it, into the sunset. The end.

Stay tuned to hear about my interesting encounter with Sandy the Sidewinder. Mmm, mascots.

All apologies!

Sorry I'm so lame. My parents are visiting, and I've been very busy lounging by the pool at their fancy hotel and taking them to all sorts of beautiful mountains and hiking trails and botanical gardens and movies and restaurants. They are napping, so here I am.

Now. I'd been considering getting a tattoo for some time. A lotus flower. On my back. I really liked the lotus flower idea, both visually and symbolically (creation, growing in the dirt, and all that.)
And I decided that since this was a new place in my life, it was a good time.
We asked around a little, and eventually, I found that Olde Town Tattoo, quite nearby, had a good rep for being scrupulously clean and safe.
I was going to be driving by it when I went to get a new battery in my watch.
So.... I went in, with my design. And I talked to Bugsy.
Bugsy.

His name was Bugsy.
He was all over it. He gave me a tour of how sterile everything was, and showed me his portfolio and all their certificates and whatnot, and decanted ink and opened new needles and all that nice stuff, and now, I am tattooed.


A word about the drawing: Betsy has this fabulous tattoo on her lower back, off to the side. And I'm really, really crazy about the line-drawing. I'm not as into tattoos with shading, and lots of color. I like them on other people. Just not on me.

So fifteen minutes leaning over the arm of a chair, and there it is.
The only part that really hurt substantially was right over my spine... the rest of it could've gone on quite a bit longer and I would've been content. Then, I went home. Without the watch battery. Alas.

Thanks, Bugsy. It's all healed up and I love it!

I'm still going to write about the bike. In... my next post. Yeah.

it's VINTAGE!

One of the (many!) up sides of having an identical twin, it turns out, is being the same size. So, if, say, your sister picks out a shirt that only comes in one size, and then decides that it looks more like something you would wear, she can very generously offer it to you.
So Betsy discovered this shirt at the Buffalo Exchange. And it quickly became my icon.
The chick at the counter had a sweet tattoo -- I asked her about it, since I was thinking about getting one -- but it turns out she got it from a dude named Eddie. In his basement. So nevermind. (I was also tempted by the $30 Manolos. But I was strong.)

Later, we hit some further thrift and vintage stores on 4th Avenue. Liz was in search of a scarf to turn into a bag as suggested in Blueprint. I found an adorable miniskirt -- but it turned out to be for Betsy. I love how a bunch of these stores were organized not by size or type of clothing, but by era. If only I looked good in flapper dresses. Alas. We also found some great bookstores (new and used!) and a coop. Why is Tucson so CUTE?

We're hot and hungry, so we head out in search of some frozen custard at a place I discovered on my househunting trip. They also have the BEST lattes I have ever had. And in case you don't know me -- I have had a LOT of lattes. A whole latte lattes. Hahaha. haha. ha. sorry. But for serious. Their frozen custard is AMAZING. They make a Blizzard-like concoction where they mix things in, and they're all dangerously yummy. Espresso milkshakes, too. The girls say it's doomed, and they're probably right -- it's not popular yet, though it's new, and everything is just a little too fancy.

I also see that it's a very bike-friendly city -- bike lanes everywhere, bike racks everywhere -- and since I live close to a lot of things but not THAT close, I'd really like to have a bike. Betsy suggests posting a craigslist ad that I want one for cheap.

Hear about what awesomely happens with that in my next post!

God bless the boutique.

Next up was Target. We needed some basic things -- dish rack, trash cans, shower caddy and what have you. And some fun thing -- like cute lights for the patio. (See left.) And some citronella candles. I got a cool lamp shade. Got some kitchen stuff. A theme seemed to be developing -- red. The dish rack is red. The potholders are red. I like it, I like it!
Also, I got one of those windshield reflector shade things for my car. Because GOD DAMN it's hot in this part of the country. And sunny. And I like to be able to, you know, hold onto the steering wheel. And of course, we had some pictures to get developed.

We also bought a teeny tiny grill for the patio at the next door Home Depot. For like, fifteen dollars. The charcoal cost more than the grill. So hot dogs it was. And beer. Oh yes.
(Ladies: yes, I know, this was a subsequent trip to target. But I'm not writing two entries about shopping at Target. Deal.)

At the check out, we just had to snag a copy of Mean Girls (for Bets, but for all of us to watch together ASAP) and some diet coke. Because... we are us. Diet Coke is our nectar.

I just LOVE how we can get all this stuff at one store. I know Target is sort of on the shit list for their practices regarding emergency contraception. And small businesses, blah, blah, blah. But there are some sacrifices I just ain't gonna make. Cute, cheap clothes, kitchen stuff, bedding, bath, music, movies, electronics, sports stuff, accessories like whoa... all in one place. For a good price. How can you not love it?

Now excuse me. I have to go load up my bread machine.

Our lives are complete.

It's Friday morning. We've just slept in a house (as opposed to a motel) for the first time in a while. Our adventure is coming to a close. And we're very hungry for breakfast.
We get in the car and drive a ways.
And there we sit it, in the distance. . . a shining beacon of hope. . . like the star shining in the East over Bethlehem. . . like the holy grail. . . we can almost hear the heavenly chord of a choir of angels. . . there it is. . . at long last. . .
Note that Dixie took this picture herself... it's no stock image. It's authentic.
We sat down. It was freezing. We three ladies ordered coffee. J ordered orange juice. (I just knew he was gonna be one of those, our sassy waitress says.)
We three order pecan waffles. Steak and eggs? the waitress asks J. He goes for some sort of omlette. (I guess he didn't understand that WAFFLE house means you should get the WAFFLES.)
And we are in heaven.

in the BEDROOM!

. . . a phrase that Betsy seemed very fond of saying. I'm going to take a nap, she'd say. Where would you like to take it? In the bedroom!
Where do you think we should hang this picture?
In the bedroom!
Did you see where I left my water glass? In the BEDROOM!

Once we arrived and looked around, I started doing some unpacking. I had a lot of clothes. And shoes. And books. And desk-type things. J had mostly taken care of the kitchen already. (Bless him.) It was late afternoon. So we set to work.
Betsy and Liz were kind enough to alphebatize the books for me. Now those are some good friends. I was starting to envision this place being my home.

It was decided that a trip to the grocery store was in order, to lay in some basic supplies. I remembered there being one on a very nearby corner, so we piled into the car and headed for it. We drove around for some time, and couldn't find it. But I remembered it being there! A Safeway! It was right here!
And after about the fourth time we turned around J. remembered that the landlady had pointed out to him that there had been a Safeway right on this corner that had been torn down the week before. Oops. Nice timing, dude.
Back home we went, and to googlemaps, which pointed us to another grocery store.
Where we discovered that in Arizona, you can buy HARD LIQUOR in the GROCERY STORE. Tequila all around. And a lime. And some salt. We headed back home.

Betsy and Liz took a short nap, as they didn't have the excitement of nesting to keep them going, and as dinner time approached, we had a pizza delivered. One veggie and one Hawiian. I loooove pineapple on a pizza. Yum. We ate out on the patio. Because we have a PATIO.
And we discussed the exciting fact that there are cacti everywhere. Including this one. I have a question for the person who grew that cactus.

Tomorrow, we have a celebratory breakfast, hit up target, and Buffalo Exchange, a very fruitful vintage store!

The Home Stretch!

Faced with the prospect of just one more meal on the road and mostly just chains and fast food in sight, we decided to go for something distinctly regional: Whataburger. I'd first heard of this amazing chain on a teen tour of Europe one summer in high school from Iyleya Fitch, from Sugarland, Texas. She and the trip's two other Texans were appalled to learn that we lacked such ammenities on the East coast.
As we approached ours on the outskirts of El Paso, we had some gigling about the logo. It's very much "Weezer". Slightly less "Wu Tang" and "Whatever." But still, very evocative.
My favorite thing about the menu here is that many of the items start with "Whata." Liz got a "Whataburger" with jalapenos and stuff, and Betsy and I went for "Whatachicken." You can observe the chain's mascotts, Whataguy and Whataboy. It's just so durn cute.
They have the same system as the DQ: you order at the counter, then they give you a little number and bring your food over. (Only chi-chi little cafes seem to do this where I come from.) So we wait.
Liz's burger comes out right quick. And we tell her to go ahead and chow down. She does, with approval. Time goes by. No whatachikens. And still none. And still. I'm approaching my threshold of "get up and go ask", which is fairly high, because I hate doing that, when they arrive, along with a complimentary apple pie for each of us, to thank us for being patient. Jackpot!
Whatachicken is really quite good. Definitely beats Wendy's and BK. I've never had one from McDonald's. Mmmmm. We're fortified. One apple pie gets sampled by all of us. The other comes in the car.

We stop for gas and I finally remember to sponge the windshield! Woo! Now we can see out it! And we're ready to head straight to Tucson.

We cross New Mexico without much incident -- except that this is where we find the town of Antelope Wells, a key final ingredient in our yummy linguistic road trip stew. And we also pass a series of souvenirish stores with great advertising -- billboards for miles before you approach, offering all kinds of strange items. (Girls: help? Can't quite remember?) There are also ads for "The Thing," an attraction whose identity we never discover.
And we cross into Arizona. Or "The Zone."
And it starts. . . raining? What? Yes, definitely raining. Who does that? In the middle of a desert in summer?

We're fast-closing in on Tucson -- familiar territory for me, as I've traveled here twice by plane to visit and find an apartment, nay, HOUSE, so down go the maps. Ladies, we're cooking.

Waffle Houses have become much less common -- but fear not, Gentle Dixie, the motel I stayed at was right across the street from one, so I will take you there for breakfast tomorrow, and there will be pecan waffles for all!

As we drive past the campus of the University of Arizona, we see the banners that decorate all the streetlights, bearing the letter A. A for Amy. We're home.

We pull into the driveway and come through the door. J is there to greet us (what a good boy, coming ahead by plane to meet the moving van) and the house looks beautiful. Once we have a chance to pee, we're all happy and sad at the same time because we made it! But our epic trek is over. We can pin the map to our wall with the route hilighted, and we might smell kind of bad and have bandanas tied around our heads and one-armed tans, but this is it. At least for now.

I realize writing this that the last leg of the trip sounds really rushed. It kind of felt that way, too. But getting this close, I gave in to the desire to get where I was going, my house, all of my things. Perhaps that was a failure of will on my part, or the triumph of my tamer nature.

Betsy and Liz are staying for a few days. You stick around too -- I'll tell you about our sweet, sweet trip to Waffle House, a much-needed mission to Target, the miracle of frozen custard, and how J learned that cacti are sharp.
(J is being referred to by initial to protect the innocent, since he's not really implicated in all this road-trip business.)

Spanish for "The Construction."

We set off from Pecos on what seemed to be the last day of our trip. It simply wasn't all that much further to Tucson. Liz took the wheel. Betsy grabbed a "cereal and milk" bar and a banana from the hotel. And... wheeeee!

As we drove through the remainder of the big nothing, I got to wondering about the word "roadkill." Isn't it strange that "kill" is being used as a noun? Wouldn't "roaddead" make more sense? But it's kind of funny. Roadkill. haha. There's something kind of slangy about it, yet it's an actual word. It's in Webster's: : the remains of an animal that has been killed on a road by a motor vehicle. And the date is 1972. Who knew? Does anyone have further info on this?

We promptly came thisclose to running over a snake. A SNAKE.

It slowly starts to get more interesting. We can see some rising and falling. Some mountains in the distance. (Are they really mountains, or just clouds or shadows? No, they're really mountains.) Everything goes from dusty tan to a kind of reddish color. The mountains get bigger and closer. And they had a scenic overlook! That's what the picture was from. Very scenic indeed! We even saw some lizards!

We finally made it to El Paso. And noticed:
1. It was under construction. Like, a lot of it. Real pain in the ass.
2. There seem to be two chief industries: pawn shops and bail bonds. Just in case you couldn't quite make it to Mexico. Haha. Ha. But seriously. Every time we turned around, we saw another sign for bail bonds.

So we drove around the city for a little while, saw some stray dogs and not much else, and decided to keep going. We'd considered having some lunch there, but it just all looked kind of... poor and dirty. And we were getting a little tired.

I would like to take this opportunity to let you all know that while we are getting perilously close to our destination, some pretty funny things happened in Tucson, too, so I'll keep blogging, though perhaps not quite as excitingly or religiously, once the road trip is over. You can hear about things like Bugsy and the awesome free bike show and the biggest hot dog I have ever seen and death by chocolate.

That being said, we're not there yet. We still have to stop for a late lunch and come up with an awesome nickname for my new state. So don't touch that dial.

Want to place bets on the next state to secede from the union?

Here's the thing about west Texas. There is NOTHING there. You can look out and see nothing but dust and dirt. The exits are twenty miles apart, and only every couple of exits is there a gas station or a fast-food restaurant. Occasionally, there is an oil refinery -- and the associated smell. Which caused Dixie to announce that "Texas pooted." Indeed. It's a smell that reminded our east-coast souls of New Jersey.
We also passed several wind farms. Giant colonies of those new modern windmills. Which we found a little surprising, given that we were in the oil capital.
Keep in mind, also, that it's perfectly flat, so when we say we could see nothing at all, we could see pretty far.
When it got dark, the emptiness became really obvious. There were no lights anywhere. Those of us not driving (sorry, 'Lope,) could stick our heads out the window and see the most and brightest stars we'd ever seen. We also noticed that the concentration of bugs on the windshield was getting a little out of control.

Further, the speed limit is 80. Now we're talking.

The signs at this point say "El Paso." Which Betsy brilliantly informs us is Spanish for "The Paso." Thanks, lady. You really got it covered.

In stopping for dinner, our options were severely limited. So we went to Dairy Queen.
Now, I've been to Texas before. I've observed things like bud lite cans with special Texas logos on them, and Texas-shaped corn chips. Here, we found that not only do fast food places in this part of the country wait on you (you order at the counter, they deliver your food to your table,) but all the paper products come in their own special "Texas" version, with a special logo with the shape of Texas on it. DQ even has a motto for this other country they operate in: "That's What I Love About Texas." I guess nobody told them that we had Dairy Queen in PA, too. Shhh. Don't tell. Shhhhh.
Now, check this out. They have a Texas-specific website.

Okay. I'm a little scared. We're nearing Midland, early home of you know who. (No, not Voldemort.) But we power through (nice driving Lizziepie!) and land in Pecos. (As in Pecos Bill, as all of our mothers point out when we call to let them know we're alive.) At an independent motel called the Laura Lodge that is way bigger than any motel we've stayed in yet, for the same price. Wheeeee! Snuggle up and sleep tight, cause tomorrow, we're heading for.... THE PASO!

They're so SASSY!

Antelope here. I don't have much to add about much of anything, but gosh, my thoughts are too entertaining to keep to myself, and that's why I can create posts on this blog, not just comments. Yes, I do rule.

So, in no particular order:

a) When you say "Dallas fashion" to most people, shoulderpads are the first thing that come to mind. Well, maybe taffeta.

2) The part of AAA's description of Dallas that I personally took the most issue with was where they described it as "unabashedly cosmopolitan." As an effete, coastal (for the time being...), latte-sipping, New-York-Times-reading, etc. etc. elitist, I just find it hard to believe that Dallassters (?) would so gleefully put themselves in my company.

3) The cowgirl museum? Was Awesome. As you can clearly tell by now, I'm a total museum geek--any time, anywhere. The woman at the info desk said they'd been in that space since 2002, and you could totally tell. The effort that had been put into making everything interactive, and shiny, and entertaining was just palpable. Consequently, there was, I think, a little something for everyone--and the ones that were a little more old-school still had some visual flair. Or maybe I'm just saying that because my favorite crappy Dixie Chicks song, "Cowboy Take Me Away" was available on the jukebox (yes, the jukebox). Of course, having that song on a "cowgirl" jukebox is sort of problematic, but whatever--I'm not going back to school until September.


Oh, Tejas.

Yeehaw!

As we passed through Dallas, one of the girls read a description from the AAA book about the city being a cosmopolitan city, at the center of the southwest's culture, active in fashion and other industries. This led to a protracted debate about whehter one could consider Dallas to have anything to do with fashion. I said it could. Dixie said it couldn't. She was operating on the idea that fashion meant couture, runway shows, and Vogue. I took the term a little more loosly. Either way, there was some serious bickering. Maybe I was just getting overly defensive of my new part of the country.

We were heading for the Cowgirls. This was no Graceland. I knew why I wanted to go to the Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame in Fort Worth. I've had a long-standing fascination with Cowgirls. I keep dressing up as them for Halloween. I wear the boots. I'm infatuated with Tom Robbins's character Bonanza Jellybean.
Liz game me this shirt for my birthday one year. My grandmother brought me a tank top that says "Genuine Cowgirl, Superior Construction" when she went out West. So it's kind of a thing for me.
I fist learned that this museum existed from Peter -- he was living in Austin, and we considered going, but decided it was too far for the amount of time we had. (Still, props to him for offering.) Still, I didn't forget about it. And opportunity was knocking.

We pulled up, parking in the hot sun, and went inside, getting our sweet $1 discount from an internet coupon I'd printed out. The first floor had an exhibit all about riding, and the history thereof. There were hats and boots and saddles from many countries and many time periods, right up through today's saddle with a cell phone holder. (Nope, sorry, not kidding.)

Then, we flipped through their high-tech hall of flame display. I'm not exactly sure how it worked, but it was this big screen thing where you can scroll through everyone in the hall of fame. The classics are there, of course -- Annie Oakley, Dale Evans and what have you. But my personal fave? Sandra Day O'Connor.

We watched a corny movie about The Spirit of the Cowgirl. And then we went upstairs to see the rest of the exhibits.
There was one about actual farm/ranch life -- the hard day-to-day work of modern working cowgirls. Lots of pictures. Neat. There was a bunch of stuff about women getting the right to ride, and riding astride instead of sidesaddle. There were riding pants with a skirt that could button over the front so women wouldn't get arrested for being indecent.
And, of course, lots and lots and lots of boots and hats and beltbuckles.

Then we saw an exhibit about rodeo riding -- barrel racing and trick riding, mostly. Thoroughly enjoyable.

The whole thing was really nicely put together -- it was a nice blend of "exciting" stuff, the sterotypes that idiots like me eat up with a spoon, and real life info about the history and the work involved. Way to go, Fort Worth.

As with Graceland, we finished in a round... Dixie, Looseahatchie, Antelope. but that's okay. There was a gift shop.

Which was kind of lame. They had a lot of sort of generic western gifts, many of which were quite expensive. After some digging, I managed to find a bandana, printed with "National Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame," a shot glass, and a bumper sticker that says "My Heroes Have Always Been Cowgirls." But honesly? I'd hoped for more tacky, kitchy, fun souvenirs.

Coming up: Texas as its own country. (It's bigger than France!)

Finger-lickin.

Across the street from our motel in Benton, Arkansas is another Waffle House. The motel has some mini-muffins, cereal and milk, oatmeal, tea, coffee, and apples for free. I want to get the heck to Fort Worth for some Cowgirls.
Dixie begs and begs for Waffle House. But I decide to put my foot down. I want to get going. There are millions of Waffle Houses. We don't have a ton of cash, and we have snack food. I'd already been up for almost 2 hours while the others slept in a little. So we left, sans waffle.
Now, I know this may be perceived as cruel. By Dixie in particular. But what can I say. I was started to get anxious about getting to my new house and running out of cash.

As we drove, we listened to some local radio. Classic country, mostly. There was a song (don't remember who or what) that was going on about rainbows, and butterflies, and all kinds of nice things, and Liz suggested that puppies were next. Sure enough, puppies popped up in the next verse.

The destination on the signs at this point was Texarkana. I found that rather pleasing. Simple, descriptive, nice. Texarkana.

Arkansas has nothing in it. Just thought you should know. Some consolation: the speed limit is 75.

We crossed into Texas, and started seeing a little more stuff -- and, as lunch time approached and our gas tank started getting low, we spotted Soul Man's BBQ. Sure, we could've gone for Wendy's or Subway, where we'd know what to expect when we walked in, but this place had a sign shaped like a pig wearing sun glasses. And the little gleam in the reflection on the sunglasses was shaped like Texas.
The place was kind of crowded with workmen-looking guys. There was a line kind of like a cafeteria.
Sandwiches for the other two girls, but I went all out. Ribs.
And let me tell you. For the second time in 24 hours, I seriously needed a bath. But that was a little bit of heaven, right there. Ribs and lemonade. The smallest order available was half a pound. I comforted myself with the fact that this half pound included the bones, which I didn't eat.
The TV in the back was on some kind of news station, which was showing a very long "headless fat people" montage. Which struck me as a very, very funny thing to watch while stuffing my face with BBQ.
Now, folks, I have a nice picture of this BBQ place. But it's still trapped in my camera that actually uses film. So if I remember, I'll post it once I get that taken care of. But alas, I used black and white film, so a one-hour deal will not do the job.
Mmmmmm. BBQ. Getting hungry again, just remembering. And I just ate. (this is becoming a blogging theme for me!)

By this point, we have an abusrd number of bugs on the windshield. I intended to sponge them off at the gas station next to SoulMan's, but... that went the way of the Memphis map.

Next stop, Fort Worth, and on the way, a debate about Dallas and what constitutes fashion!

One, mississippi, two, mississippi...

I really wish we had a better picture of this, but we were living it first, photographing it second, so this is what we get. We are crossing the Mississippi River. This occasioned Liz's talk about radio stations starting with K instead of W. Upon request, I supplied some bullshit story about two dudes whose names started with K and W having a wonderful radio empire over the whole country, and then getting into a fight over a girl and dividing up the territory. Mr. K totally got more territory. Way to go.
Pretty quickly, something (Memphis) turned into nothing (Arkansas.)

So, Arkansas. Indeed. And specifically, Little Rock. We follwed the directions to the Clinton Library, but as it was lateish and again we were brokeish, we just observed it. Kinda cool. It's in a very cute part of Little Rock and, I know, I'm really smart, but I was thinking, it looks so... new! The whole thing made me very depressed about the current political situation. Because let's be honest here, people. Is there actually going to be a W library? a LIBRARY? Seriously. Remember when we had a president who was smart?

When we were finished there, we decided to head back to the cute little part of the city we'd spotted on our way by, stroll around, and look for some dinner. And again with the parking space!! Right where we needed to be! Legal and everything! I'll probably never get another good parking space for the rest of my life, but that's okay. We spotted a public library with the names of lots of authors cut into the stone around the top. We saw cute stores and a big farmers market and a waterfront concert pavillion. In search of a place with no cover charge and readily available food, we stumbled into a British-themed pub called Underground. It was kind of dark, and nice. We ordered some beers, and Liz ordered some friend pickles. Now maybe I'm really sheltered. But fried pickles? What? Betsy liked them pretty well. I'm not sure what Liz thought. They really just tasted like... fried. Pickles. And since I'm not a huge fan of either... well... yeah.
I got some hot wings. Suitably hot, though they left me in dire need of a bath. Liz got some kind of locally-produced sausage? Betsy went for fried chicken salad. We were all pleased.

Our waiter was a character. He seemed to be in his mid-late 30s, wearing cowboy boots, a funny shirt (Liz: help! I forget!) and had long curly hair. He didn't write anything down... we'd all order, and then he'd look really confused for a minute, then repeat the whole order, and disappear. He got all the orders right, so... whatever works, I guess. It was decided that his name was Travis.

At one point I ran back to the conveniently-placed car in search of a map and guidebook to study, and a guy on the street stopped me to ask a question. He wanted to know what the yellow equals sign sticker on my car is. I told him about the Human Rights Campaign, and he was really psyched! Not really what I expected from Arkansas. But awesome. Awesome, awesome.

Upon my return, there was much giggling... it seems that the girls may have called the waited "Travis" to his face. Nice work ladies. Truly nice work.
Farewell, Little Rock! You treated us well!
It was getting late, and we were tired, so we only drove another hour or so, where we landed in Benton, Arkansas, at a motel where the clerk said "Y'all holler if y'all need anything!"

Tomorrow: I am the waffle nazi, and we see some cowgirls!

We met no gin-soaked barroom queens.

We did, however, see some sights.
We pulled out of Graceland and onto Elvis Presley Boulevard. That's just a great name for a road, right there. We had a vague idea of where we were headed -- we wanted to get a look at the outside of the Civil Rights Museum (it being in the hotel where MLK Jr. was shot and all,) and Dixie and 'Lope were interested in checking out some Beale Street touristy goodness. So we went in that general direction, trying to make sense out of the AAA city map. Instead, we just ended up following the signs put up by the Board of Tourism. But not before we passed a motel with a sign affixed to the outside proclaiming "No drgus. No prostitution." Now, if I were trying to think of a sign to put up to let people know that my establishment was a place where one might find crack and ladies of the night... that is probably what it would say. Just sayin.

We suddenly found ourselves driving along the river, where there were expensive-looking loft apartments everywhere. Not sure how that happened. And then we saw where we were on the map, and were able to steer ourselves to the civil rights museum. We weren't so much into more museumishness, post-Graceland, but we did see a woman set up by the entrance with a table and an umbrella and some signs, apparently protesting the whole idea of the museum. It wasn't entirely clear why -- something about dishonoring King's memory? Or perhaps the whole idea that Civil Rights belong in a museum, instead of in action in the real world?

Anyway, our last Memphis destination was Beale Street. The area has a reputation for being kind of a touristy "Blues-mall", but also being kind of cool, so we went to check it out. (Observe Liz and me, checking it out, left.)
Somehow, we found a parking space on the street RIGHT at the intersection of Beale and... whatever we were on. I have no idea how it happened, but it did. We took it as a sign, and got out to stroll the streets. It was pretty neat, I gotta say -- musicy and colorful. I was snapping some pictures, and a man passed by and said to me, "Take my picture, baby!" I considered doing so, and decided against it, lest he think I was likely to do whatever he suggested I do.

It was awfully toasty out, and we were getting a little hungry, so we decided to stop for a snack. Dixie felt the urge for a milkshake, so Liz suggester Dyer's, a place she'd read about that happened to be nearby. We went in, sat down, and ordered. (Drinks for me and Liz, and the shake for Dixie.) But the waiter came back and said he was sorry, but their freezer was broken, hence, no shake. Dixie put on her extreme sulking face, and said she wanted to leave, so we did. We wandered the streets for a while looking for another place to eat, but she would have none of a place that didn't serve milkshakes, so after rejecting several places, we finally followed her to Ben & Jerry's, where we waited at a table outside while she retrieved the precious shake. We decided to press on to Little Rock and get some dinner there, and back to the car we went. I stopped on the way to collect a T-shirt from the B.B. King blues club.
(Dixie: feel free to jump in and defend your milkshake craving.)
Of course, as we pulled out of Memphis and onto the highway, we discovered that I did in fact have a much better, more detailed map of Memphis. That I'd forgotten about. Because I'm really smart. You're welcome, guys.

Up next: crossing the Mississippi and adventures with pub food (and waiters!) in Little Rock, Arkansas!

GRACELAND

Now, I'm trying to sort out exactly why I was so drawn to the idea of visiting Graceland. I'm not a huge out-of-control Elvis fan. As I've already said, I'm not usually very interested in museums. Or houses, for that matter. It was bound to be incredibly tacky and crowded. It was kind of a rip-off.
But there's something legendary about the trip to Graceland. Blame Paul Simon if you must. Maybe it makes me a poser. But it was first on my list.

We went straight there. There was a big complex with multiple gift shops, cafes, and ticket sales. We bought our tickets, and went out to get in line. The line was to get on the "Elivs Express," a little bus that would take us across the street to the door of the mansion. They distributed headsets for the audio tour. They lined us up and took our picture in front of a mural that looked like the gates of the mansion that we could buy later. Some kind of Elivs Greatest Hits album played on repeat over the loudspeaker. And when our turn came, we boarded the bus.


And then, we started on the tour of the mansion. Most of it has been kept intact -- actual rooms, set up the way they were when Elvis lived there. The upstairs -- his private spaces, bedroom, dressing area -- aren't open to the public. I really like that. Some small measure of respect in an industry based on people out-tackying each other. We saw his living room, his kitchen, his dining room, his TV room, his parents' bedroom, his pool room (complete with table damaged by a friend's risky trick shot,) squash courts, his father's office, a trophy room. . . the list goes on. Though much of it was a little extravagant, what really struck me was that it looked like somebody's house. Somebody's house decorated in the 70's. But he lived there. Not to say that there weren't all kinds of crazy things no one I know would ever have in their houses. A personal favorite was the "Jungle Room".


There were also exibits set up around the estate, detailing different phases of his life, his early recording career, his many, many awards, his movie career, his time in the army, his return to the stage, and, most touchingly, his charity. There was a display of canceled checks he'd written to organizations and individuals who needed his help. Yes, we saw gaudy costumes and gold records, but these looks at the kind of person he was spoke to me a lot more.
(I know, I know, at this point, even those seemingly authentic touches are largely manufactured, but I can't help but be fascinated by the "man behind the legend" phenomenon. The most famous person in the world is still a person.)
Now, I'm sure at least one of you will be disappointed without a glittery jumpsuit, so here ya go.

Now, back to my musings. The tour ended in a "Meditation Garden." Which is actually the graves of Elvis and his family. It was really nice.
Somehow I expected the whole thing to feed a kind of Elvis-mania. Elvis Lives. The King. All that. But it had the opposite effect on me. It made me think of him in a much less sensational light. I'm really, really glad I went.

Now, all this somber musing didn't prevent us from hitting the gift shop. Here's a souvenir I didn't buy. But all three of us procured some Elvis shot glasses, bearing the slogans "Burning Love" and "All Shook Up." Also, some post cards and a key chain.

This, by the way, was the first time we observed our natural tendencies in exhibit-viewing. All three of us listened to the whole audio tour, but somehow, Betsy finished first by about ten minutes. Then, I came out. And finally, another ten or fifteen later, Liz. I like to blame this on the fact that she's a huge nerd. But luckily, there was a nice little gazebo by the meditation garden to protect us from that fierce Memphis sun while we waited for her.

We'd spent a good deal of the early afternoon swimming in Elvis bliss, but we still had a few things left to hit in Memphis. Stay turned for our AAA city-map induced trip past a really fabulous-looking motel, and some other great landmarks!

Here is what the billboard said:

This was pretty much all we saw of Nashville, as we were eager to get to Memphis where very important things awaited us. But if we were only going to see one thing, I’m glad that was it.


(Okay. I now know what the billboard is actually for. If you figured it out too, don't spoil the awesomeness for the rest of us.)

Next stop Graceland!