Is this real life?

(Houston, TX)

Continuing the never-ending drive out of Florida, we stopped in Tallahassee last Saturday to watch the U.S. lose to Ghana (I did not publicize my partial leaning toward Ghana, especially when surrounded by red white and blue painted faces). We had a great time and met some really friendly and hospitable people, a precursor to our even better evening, when a last-minute success with couchsurfing led us to sleep on the futon of this old hippie and his family. The house was like a live 3D version of those I Spy books – randomly assorted items on every shelf, in every drawer, on every wall. This guy had collected insane numbers of old maps, doorknobs, toy cars and army men, glasses, hats, photos, and tons more, that kept us entertained for hours. He also operated on a 24-hour open door policy, so certain friends could stop by just to get a glass of water and play with whatever new little antique gadget the guy had acquired – even if he himself wasn’t there. This was the beginning of the unbelievable southern hospitality we have experienced for the past several days now.

The drive then took us through the rest of Florida, including a stop at Santa Rosa Island, about half an hour east of Pensacola, where we took a short break on the beach. Along with blinding white sand and warm waters, we found what we think were the first signs of the oil spill hitting that beach. Neither of us knowing exactly what a tar ball looks like, we can’t be sure, but scattered everywhere were these little nickel- and quarter-sized chunks of dark brownish red, malleable, course, greasy dough-like stuff that at first we didn’t notice but then couldn’t stop noticing. It was all over the place, and it stuck to our feet when we left. The weird thing was, when we stopped again at the beach in Mississippi, there was no sign of anything like it, or anything resembling crude oil in any form. So who knows.

We got to New Orleans, set up camp at Bayou Segnette State Park (the cheapest place we could find within a good distance of the city), ate dinner with some armadillos who wandered up to the site, and headed in to explore the French Quarter. We fell in love. Where else in the world can you go out for the night in flip flops and T-shirts, get three drinks for the price of one (standard in most upper level bars), and sit on a beautiful veranda to consume them as you listen to a live (and actually good) band, on a Sunday night? This city knows how to have a good time on the right level. No “pretty people” bars – no high heels and pretention. But on the other end, a certain amount of refinement – a scarcity of ignorant rednecks, to put it bluntly. This is the balance on which I thrive.

Fate took care of us that first night in New Orleans. We got to talking with our bartender, Shana, who turned out to be very active on couchsurfing and offered us a place to stay for the remainder of our time there. We moved in the next day, and thank God, because it rained from then on – camping would have been horrendous. Shana and her boyfriend, Luke, turned out to be total godsends, and they made our stay unforgettable. Vagabonding only gets better when you have a few locals to show you around, and New Orleans definitely got better and better…