Songs and French Names, Etc.

 

Here's where I had my pre-book-signing meal.
Here’s where I had my pre-book-signing meal.

I didn’t expect to write a blog today, thinking there was too much driving to do and I’d be either busy or bummed by the time I got to my destination, which is a motel room in Texas. It was, oh, 360 miles or so, which is less than yesterday’s mileage, but yesterday was in two segments.

As I am fairly bummed, this is unlikely to receive widespread adulation.

Just some observations from the road …

Louisiana has an impressive range of places I can’t begin to pronounce, such as Boutte, Labadieville, Natchitoches and Grosse Tete.

I didn’t expect a Chopin, La.

If the speed limit is 70, people drive 75. If it’s 75, they also drive 75. It seems there is a kind of market value. It’s much more comfortable to drive the speed limit when most others are doing it, too.

Having an iPod helped immeasurably.

A list of interstates I’ve ridden on this trip: 26, 385, 185, 85, 75, 20, 55, 59, 10, 49, 635, 35E, 35. And I’m taking another route home.

Last night, I was stopped dead for 30 minutes on I-10, 1.3 miles from I-49. Today I knew better but routed myself too close to Dallas, anyway.

I make some sort of trip like this once or twice a year. I enjoy the way out, but I hate the trip home. Maybe it’ll be better. The side trips will be different. I’ll get frustrated when I want to go home, and it will seem much farther. Coffee might be more important than music. Also, I won’t exactly be rested.

Sight today that I wish didn’t stick in my mind: a buzzard patiently picking away at armadillo roadkill, looking annoyed as cars whizzed by, forcing it to hop away repeatedly from the carcass. Just another buzzard day. More amusing: a flock of white birds, flying south in formation, and a tardy one several 100 yards behind trying like hell to catch up. Life ain’t easy for a bird named Sue.

It’s not hard to find great food in New Orleans. I just drove along, block after block, trying to find a rustic little place and a parking spot nearby. If I had a town in Louisiana, I’d call it Muffuletta, and it’d be on the outskirts of Gumbo, which I might spell Gumbeaux.

Now I’ve got to play my guitar, or else I’ll nod off.

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