Sitting here in the house by brother owns in Austin, Texas, beautiful place, spacious, sunny, magnificent, and empty. My Texan brother is, of course, in New York right now, of all places, but he's coming back tomorrow and we're going to hang out. In the meantime, Moochfest '03 continues on its triumphant path, and I'm crashing here all day and night. Things are looking good. So, where were we. The Sunshine State, that oft-ridiculed home of old Jews, drug dealers, dimpled chads and hurricanes. Well, not the part I visited on my trip. Jacksonville, let me tell you people, may be the nicest and most livable place of any I have seen on my journeys. My tale begins one week ago today, when I entered the state of Florida to pouring rain and set out to meet a girl named Amy, a friend of a friend, at a bar on the beach. Knowing only that she was blonde and medium-height (and, of course, very sweet, based on our phone conversations) I set out to find her. This being Florida, that was no mean feat. There must have been twenty girls there who fit her description. But I was up for the challenge. Twenty minutes and maybe ten conversations later (never awkward, and always greeted with smiles, despite my looking like unshaven, unshowered hell after the long drive), I found her with a few friends, and we catch the first outside table after the rain stops, look out on the ocean, and talk about the world. After dinner at a Southern themed restaurant (served with a touch of irony, since the true deep South was well to our north and our west at this point, though the food was excellent nonetheless), we went back to her parents' home and we all chatted some more. The next day, after a nice breakfast, while Amy and the rest of the civilized world went to work, I hopped in the car and toured historic St. Augustine. Ate at the Florida Cracker Cafe, sampled the fried alligator tail, saw a Spanish fort, read plenty of plaques, and got caught in a nice deluge of rain. Came back to the homestead, and the family was having an early evening snack of wine, cheese, and shrimp cocktail, and we sat in the Florida room and enjoyed the late afternoon sun (the deluge now being over, of course, though it would return again shortly thereafter) coming in through the glass panes, the greenery of the backyard and the golf course providing the perfect backdrop. After another nice meal out, a drink at a downtown bar, and another good night of sleep, I offered my very sincere thanks (people are so nice everywhere on this trip, I'll tell you) and headed out. Jacksonville, my friends, is going places. Not an old, chaming Southern city like Charleston or Savannah, but a place with both feet planted firmly on the ground, looking towards the future. A sprawling metropolis, to be sure, but one of nice, affordable homes amidst the greenery (and, of course, much nicer, less affordable ones in gated communities and along the beach) as well as a downtown area ripe for riverfront development and revitalization. And plenty of character to boot. That being said, it was time to move on. Westward, at the genesis of I-10, the great southern road which goes all the way to Los Angeles, I headed. Needing to be in Alabama by early evening, I cranked the Sebring up to 85 and smoked through that Florida panhandle like it was a pack of Winstons. Made such good time that I felt I deserved a little beach, so I got off the Interstate fifty miles from the border and headed south to the Gulf coast. Drove through Destin, and then saw a gazebo bar on a dock in a place called Navarro Beach, so I stopped in and had a seat among some locals. "Let's see some ID, kid," the leathery-skinned waitress asked me, and I produced it. "New York, New York, huh," she said suspiciously, and then, to the entire bar, "Who here believes that this kid is twenty-nine years old?" Despite the fact that I've been legal for nearly a decade, she wasn't buying it. I offered to recite the lyrics to any '80s song she could name, and while that line got lots of laughter, it didn't quench my thirst. Eventually she relented (once I produced about ten credit cards with my name on them), and I ended up talking about my trip. Someone asked what I did for a living, and when I said I traded stocks, someone said "Ouch! Sorry to hear that. Hey Mary, don't let this guy run up a tab, he might not be good for it!" and plenty of fun was had at my expense, but the beer was cold and the local characters were out in full force. Soon, I was receiving travel advice relating to everything from the Pensacola bar scene to the best way to get to Santa Fe, New Mexico from Lubbock, Texas. I bid everyone a warm farewell and headed for the beach. Parked the car at Gulf Islands National Seashore, where the sand was so pristine and white it squeaked, and the water so blue you could see the ocean floor. Passed by a few plaques, but I was too sweaty from the drive and psyched for the water to read them, and I went into the warm water, at peace. For a second, at least, until I noticed the jellyfish. Small ones, everywhere. Didn't realize it at first, but I was stinging all over, and noticed that no one else was in the water. Got out, scrubbed off, and plopped myself in a lounge chair, basking in the sun, on the verge of a nap. Until the heavens opened again, without warning, as has happened in this state. A complete mess, I ran back to the car and high-tailed it for Alabama the Beautiful, where another friend of a friend was waiting for me. I'm telling you, folks, if there was a connection to be had to any person who knew anyone, I found it before starting this trip. I've been told about that Verizon commercial where the guy travels cross country so many times that I could recite it from memory, even though I've never seen it. AL-A-BAMA! I'm not going to lie to you people, I was psyched. The east coast was behind me, and truly unfamiliar territory lay ahead. This girl named Amanda was waiting for me in Gulf Shores, Alabama, and she knew everyone in the place. New Yorkers were not a common breed around here, but I was addressed with reasonable respect and extreme curiosity all around. After a nice seafood dinner, we went to the Pink Pony Pub in Gulf Shores and saw a fantastic band called Spank The Monkey who, despite the connotations of their name, absolutely rocked. In addition to an indescribably awesome metal-rock rendition of "Baby Got Back," they brought the house down with a custom version of John Cougar Mellencamp's "Pink Houses." They sang it as "pink ponies," of course, given where we were, which sort of changed the theme of the song in my opinion. After all, is ownership of a grotesquely unnaturally colored miniature horse really the American dream? And let's just say that when they belted out that "vacation down in the Gulf of Mexico" line, practically the whole state (or at least "LA," as Lower Alabama is actually referred to in local parlance) sang along at the top of their lungs. The next night in Gulf Shores was even more interesting. After a day of food, roller coasters and real estate speculation (this area is set to boom beyond anyone's wildest dreams, believe me when I tell you this) we hit a place called the Flora-Bama, which may be the best beach bar I have ever experienced. And yes, I have been to Seacrets in Ocean City. The name, as a local patron tells me, comes from the fact that it sits on the border of the two states so, in his words, "we can drink in Alabama and spit on Florida!" Sitting in the country saloon, one of the bar's many areas, an old white dude was strumming away at his guitar, and came up with some truly mind-boggling lyrics. In one song, an ode to a female driver he had recently collided into with his light blue sedan, he sings to her: It could have been worse, you could have run into a tree Or you could have got stuck, somewhere in the mud And got raped by a min-or-i-tee! What did that guy say? If anyone other than me was shocked, they didn't express it. When the next act came on, a woman this time, she asks where everyone is from, and after a bit of hesitation, I scream "New York!" and people start booing, though jokingly, maybe, I guess. And then she says, "Well, Yankee, this one's for you," and went into a nice rendition of "The Night They Drove Ol' Dixie Down" about how people like me destroyed the South. Remember that thing I said about people in Charleston having forgiven us for that whole War Between The States thing? Yeah. Not sure if that applies to Alabama. Take note. The next morning, early, it was time to get out of Alabama. I made Biloxi, Mississippi by 10 am and checked out the Beau Rivage casino, but my heart wasn't in its dead, luxurious sterility at that moment, so I gunned it for New Orleans. And as for that town, well, let's just say that no trip is complete without a nice visit there. Arriving in the afternoon after taking a few wrong turns, I checked into hotel, a four-star badboy right in the French Quarter. Since no one in his right mind travels to southern Louisiana in mid-August, I got a room for the excellent rate of $49 a night, and soon hit the street to tour the historic Garden District, get in a little culture before the decidedly non-cultural nighttime activities would begin. I did mention that no one in his right mind travels there in August, right? Fifteen blocks in, in a desolate stretch between populated areas, I nearly fainted in the 97 degree, 97% humidity sweat bath. This place made Savannah look like a nice, air-conditioned ice cream parlor. I went to bar, for a glass of water if nothing else, but it was happy hour, so I changed my plans. The woman next to me, getting nice and tanked at four on a Thursday afternoon, a mother of two, I might add, was born and raised in Levittown, PA, right near where I grew up! So, we toasted our old, forgotten home state, if not her new state's school systems and paved roads, which she claimed were among the worst in the nation. Of the roads, I could certainly concur. And then I finally did make it to the garden district, which was truly a beautiful sight to behold (even after the freak rainstorm that succeeded in drenching me for the fourth time in as many days), and I saw someone walking out of the house owned by author Anne Rice who turned out to be her cousin and sometime driver and errand-runner, so we talked for a while about the house and the district and Anne herself and I caught a trolley back to the hotel. Amazingly, I remembered that one of my old college friends who I'd completely lost touch with half a decade ago was working for Exxon Mobil and lived in town, so I looked him up, and we ended up hanging out. After a sweet Cajun dinner at the Palace Cafe, the four of us went out for drinks in the Quarter (the four being my friend Mike; his fiancee Jenn, a great girl who also worked in the oil industry; Mary, a girl I had met on the trolley who was even more disoriented than I was, and your humble narrator). Walked around Bourbon Street a bit and concluded that it's always Mardi Gras on that famed thoroughfare. At some point, I even visited Mike and Jenn's home, a nice one in a residential neighborhood that they shared with their two cats, one of whom is named Crude. I told you they were oil industry people. Next day, after a nice leisurely lunch with Jenn and one of her co-workers, I did some more walking around in the oppressive heat, and kept walking until the French Quarter was behind me. Stopped into a place outside the tourist area and had another fine meal, chicken and andouille gumbo, and blackened catfish with a side of jambalaya. It makes perfect sense that New Orleans is the fattest city in the nation. After another night of debauchery, a morning of walking, hung-over, around an old cemetary and an early afternoon eating one of the best brunches of my life with Mike at the Commander's Palace, I headed west into Arcadiana. At some point, Creedence Clearwater Revival's classic "Born On The Bayou" came on as I was cruising Rue d'Evangeline south of Lafayette, heading towards the swamps of New Iberia, and I nearly lost it. Toured the Tabasco factory in Avery Island, then headed back up to Lafayette for yet another insane meal at Prejean's restaurant, recommended by some Lousiana natives I'd met in Alabama. They didn't steer me wrong. Listening to a zydeco band while sitting at a wooden table in what looked like a converted barn, eating Cajun delights that defy description, drinking the local Abita golden lager, I was loving life and excited for a night out in this Bayou town. Until I stopped by the Super-8 where I was staying and promptly collapsed. The weeks of living on fumes and, more recently, gumbo had taken their toll. Woke up early, hit the road, and did the 380 miles to Austin in five and a half hours flat. And that includes two stops for gas and one for lunch. Do you know who you're dealing with here? I think maybe you might. At some point early on, though, I accidentally broke the antenna for the XM satellite radio, so I was at the mercy of the good old fashioned FM radio for that whole stretch of road. Started out listening to some Lousiana zydeco and a DJ who talked over each song in a drunken, unintelligible Creole slur, but soon I was getting near the Texas border where I was forced to listen to songs like "The Red Dirt Road" in which some modern-day country boy belts: That's where I had my first beer! That's where I found Jesus! That where I wrecked my first car, Smashed it to pieces! Yee-ha! But now I'm here in the fully stocked home that my 26 year old brother owns, complete with concert grand piano, two story foyer, and backyard. The true West awaits. 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