7" of Separation

The best way to move to New York, we’ve decided, is to first live in a van for two months. Then, when you arrive, the small apartments seem like castles. I have so much space, in fact, I don’t quite know what to do with myself sometimes.

These first few days have buzzed by. Meeting Ellyn’s friends, connecting with one of my own and taking advantage of free independent movie passes has kept us with much to do. Also, sending my resume to publishers and media giants has kept me entertained, if not a little stressed. In a city buzzing with activity, my drive to create something, to produce media, has awakened with fury.

Williamsburg has proven to be a suitable home. Two Mexican restaurants down, with another recommendation tonight, I haven’t had a bad meal. Living in Brooklyn, where it only smells because trash day is tomorrow and the humidity rots the bags of garbage a bit faster, is a different experience than living in New York proper. Having a true neighborhood, where you can buy cheese from a cheese shop, bread from a bakery, and grab a cup of coffee with a $4.00 Sunday Times ($5.00 outside the grater NY metropolitan area) and then sit in the sun reading the morning away, is literary-romanticism come to life, my life.

A colorful group of friendly Puerto Ricans barbecue outside a tienda on my corner on the weekends. Hipsters in mustaches and cut-offs wander the streets. Ellyn and I do, as well — me playfully disdaining her incessant window shopping, truthfully hoping for the type of work that will allow me to pay for all the shoes and dresses she could ever want. The city streets get inside you quick, they waste no time becoming the most powerful character in the lives of millions. Even at night, as Sunday turns to Monday, the city rolls along. Against the claim of never sleeping, she tosses and turns, sleeping, though maybe with apnea and startling dreams.

On Saturday afternoon, we went into Manhattan to see the newest documentary by Werner Herzog, “Encounters at the End of the World.” The man who brought “Grizzly Man” turned out another quirky, undeniably pretentious, yet totally mesmerizing tale. This time, it’s Antarctica, the characters that inhabit it and the much grander themes that resonate from it. Art movies in New York just feel better. In one scene, Herzog forces the audience to watch silently as divers blast through the ice and suit up, the whole time creating a total sense of wonder, almost child-like amazement, of something foreign and beautiful.

Sunday, after the aforementioned morning with the Times, we attended a church where the pastor is Jay Bakker, the often touted “punk rock pastor” and son of Jim Bakker and Tammy Faye Messner. The experience, set manly by the small group of thirty or so crammed into the back room of Pete’s Candy Store, a bar with a full crowd up front, made me feel like something of a real Christian, the kind that met in houses and back rooms, away from persecution from Pagan Romans. Overall, the day was a complete success, especially seeing that we had good burritos to end it all.

Tomorrow, I have to move Pam back to my side of the street after everyone else moves their cars for the street sweeper. If accomplished, I buy myself an extra day before I have to worry about moving her again. Then, as I grow tired of the constant dread associated with moving her, I will be trying to track down the best lot for her to live in. Of course, I’m hopeful for a call from one of the many recipients of my resume, though I won’t yet rest in sending it out to ever more publishers. Let me edit, let me write, let me create, I say. Suck me in New York, give me something to make.

I drove for two days straight. Nine or 10 hours a day, pushing through so many states that, one in Maryland, I couldn’t for the life of me tell anyone where I was. I-95, straight from Florida to NYC. A night in South Carolina and one in Delaware. After the touristy, retirement swamp of Florida, I was ready to stop, ready to settle, ready to live a life with Ellyn so close.

I got into the city yesterday morning, around 11. Pam got a little hot on the bumper-to-bumper freeway, so I pulled off into Brooklyn. Driving around New York is an experience all its own. If you drive like a maniac you fit in better. Swerve, use no turn signal and go way too fast. This is the only way to succeed.

I have a bedroom in a nice two-bedroom brownstone on S. 4th and Bedford, the edge of a neighborhood called Williamsburg — a area that hit its hipster peak about a year ago. Things are only cool for a little while in New York, before something else takes over. I live with white hipsters and Puerto Ricans one block away from the Hasidic Jewish neighborhood. Jerry curls and great coats.

The neighborhood is fantastic. After a cup of coffe in a little courtyard this morning, I walked out to find a guy in pink shorts soaking his feet in a pink plastic tub. New York, New York.

So, the goals:

Work.
Long-term parking for Pam (though, the street parking outside is pretty good.)
Long-term living.

But first, lunch with a friend in Manhatten.

It's been awhile and things are happening. Last I left you, I was pulling up to visit Sarah and the G in Sebring, Florida. Ladies and gentlemen, Sebring is where you go to die. Or, to manage a newspaper sports department. And that's about it. On a lake, the town features a few beautiful views and a great state park with tropical hikes.

Mostly, we just hung out, watched sports and caught up. It's nice visiting friends you can pick up right where you left off.

On Sunday, we took the hour drive to the gulf side and hit the beach at Sarasota. White sand beaches, warm water and lots of people. We frolked a bit, played in the water and burnt ourselves a bit. Sad for Sarah, she won the burning contest.  Youch.

This morning, I made my way up to Orlando and onto the Disney grounds — massive. My cousin, Terri, was in town for a banking conference, living the good life of a traveling CFO. We had a good meal and walked the grounds, mostly wondering how much these people were spending to experience the manufactured enviornments around them. After seeing the country in all its real grit, Disney's safe little boardwalk seemed pretty boring.

Now, I'm about an hour outside Orlando, on the coast. This is the first step toward the end. Let me explain.

As of today, I have an address in Brooklyn. I am a New Yorker. A sub-let for two months, I'll be hitting the ground running on the job search. In fact, my resume went out to a couple of people this morning.

With all that, I'm antsy, missing Ellyn, getting tierd of driving, ready for the next huge chapter.

So, it's up the coast for me. North we go, Pam and I, free for one week more.

So, my thoughts about New Orleans could fill a book, but I want to try to pass on just some of the feelings that I've had since arriving yesterday.

Coming into town on I-10, zipping past bayous on extended bridges, a storm hit. Down here these storms are frequent and called "the storms." They drop inches in hours and come almost every night during the summer months. Even with the thick wall of rain in front of me, traffic slowed little. However, seeing that I've seen a lot worse, I pushed through, as well.

Getting into town, you start to notice neighborhoods don't exist anymore. The city is mapped out block by block, with a series of nice houses followed by a group of crack houses followed by another set of nice ones, all within a few hundred feet of each other.

My old friend Katie works as a teacher, one of a few thousand white, northern, 20-somethings that has flocked to the city as part of some sort of teaching program. Katie teaches special ed and yearbook in the 9th Ward, a mainly black area that was hit hardest by the storm. Her school is a large collection of FEMA trailors, nothing more. She told me that there are no plans to replace the school building for the next ten years. Things are rough, students tough, low reading skills, lots of gangs, crime and conviction. The stories shes tells about her everyday life are shocking, but the fact that she speaks so matter-of-fact-ly about them make them more shocking still.

Now, on summer break, Katie gets a vacation. So, we hit the town.

On the first night, a friend had a brother in town who wanted to see a ghost, figuring the best place to do so would be the haunted history tour in the French Quarter. No ghosts, but lots of history was the result. New Orleans has a history of misfortune. Fires, disease, murder, weather, it's all there. Best of all, our guide Paul. A gruff, biker type, he knew his history and told some great stories.

Then down to Bourbun Street to Pat O's, a dueling piano bar. One of the three musicians, the permanently scowling but very nice Henrietta, sang Purple Rain for us. Our table of friends hung out until the piano's stopped dueling. The bar had cleared out, but New Orleans was still going. We ended the night, though.

The next day, Katie took me on a tour of the city, showing me the 9th Ward, as well as every other major neighborhood. Again, its hard not to be taken by all the rebuilding that has happened set right against all the building that needs done. All the fast food is back, but families still don't have homes.

Also, we hit the art museum, where a special exhibit called "Gentleman Callers" showed us too many views of male genitalia for our taste.

We attempted to watch a concert in the park, but at 100 degrees and 50 percent humidity, it only lead to standing around sweating and whining about sweating. We hit up a movie, with air, instead. Pretty great.

So, that's a quick hit list of the Big Easy. I headed out toward Florida two days ago and made it to Sarah and Gjurg's house in Sebring, Florida, last night. Florida is long and hot, not fun to drive. My journey here was completely uneventful, just two days on freeways, trying to get to the end.

Sorry I'm behind. More to come, of course.

So, my long promised pictures from Graceland and Loretta Lynn's ranch at Hurricane Mills are finally here. Sorry they aren't a bit more exciting, but a lot of the pictures from Graceland didn't turn out due to not being able to use flash. And Loretta only allowed photos outside.

Hurricane Mills was a beautiful piece of property, with Loretta's huge house on a hill overlooking a stream, her museum and her doll museum. I missed the latter, but did go through her personal museum, which mainly showed off her awards and costumes. She had quite a few of both.

For being extremely rich, Loretta still has good taste. Everything on the grounds was well designed and fit the surroundings pretty well. Not something I was able to say about Graceland.

The house, which has been featured on a number of album covers, was the coolest thing to see, though. I could just imagine sitting on the porch, taking it easy southern style.

Elvis' tastes were a bit different, however.

Graceland is an event, an all day type thing. For the $35 it costs to take the mid-range tour, it better be. For that price, you get to tour the house, his car collection, his two planes and a room filled with about 100 jump suits. Obviously, the jump suits were the best part.

Forgive the fact that I don;t have tons of pictures. Elvis' taste was pretty terrible, and I wasn't ready to be like all the other people walking around taking pictures of every single inch of green shag carpet.

The history was neat, though. Seeing how Elvis spent his days, out of the jumpsuit, was pretty interesting.

And even though I've never been a huge fan of the king… he was the king, indeed.

I made it into New Orleans this afternoon, spending the night out on the town with my old friend Katie Gill. There was a haunted tour and a piano bar. I apologize for being woefully behind. Tomorrow, I promise Elvis pictures, updates and tales from the most mind boggling place on earth — post-Katrina New Orleans.

I wasn't in the car for too long yesterday. After getting a haircut from a 88-year-old Southern Belle, I took the Interstate from Nashville toward Memphis. I made a stop at Loretta Lynn's ranch, and I'll have pictures up at some point from that.

It was a pretty uneventful night, and I made it into Memphis today. For my first day, I hit downtown where the Blues were born — Beale Street. Then over to Sun Studios to see where Elvis, Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis and others all recorded under Sam Phillips. It was a pretty amazing tour,just to stand on the same floor in the same room where so many greats sang and recorded.

Memphis is the first step into the true south, and things here are a little rough compared to Nashville. Still, people are nice and the food is good. Crawfish Enchiladas were my lunch, and they were just fine, with a delicious spice to them.

Later, I see a local place delivers Fried Green Tomatoes and Hushpuppies, so that might be dinner.

Tomorrow, Graceland.

More later…

After leaving the Knoxville area on Wednesday, I made it about half way to Nashville, only driving a few hours before pulling off the highway to camp. The camp site was rather neat — a series of wooden decks situated on a hill above a lake.

I eased Pam out onto the deck, hoping the planks would hold. They did, and I spent the evening grilling sweet corn I picked up at a fruit stand earlier in the morning.

The heat continues to hold me back. It sucks out my energy in the form of sweat. Also, bugs decided to make a meal out of me overnight. Apparently, that's the trade off for keeping the windows down. With the heat, Pam becomes a sauna at about 8:30 in the morning — I feel like a prisoner of war in a hot box at times.

It was only about an hour drive to Nashville this morning. On the way, I kept getting honked at by cars of 20-somethings. Wooting out the window and pumping fists, I couldn't figure out what was going on. When I stopped to get gas, a trio of kids came up to me and asked who I was most excited to see at Bonaroo, which is a huge music festival that, as it turns out, is going down this weekend outside of Nashville. My answer was Cat Power and Sigur Ros. I just couldn't let them down. They had such fire in their eyes looking at Pam, going on about how cool it was to drive all this way from Oregon just for Bonaroo. "We'll see you there," they said cramming back into their Jetta. No, you won't.

I made it into Nashville pretty early and rambled over to the Grand Old Opry, which these days is in the parking lot of a mega mall, no longer in the tiny Ryman Auditorium downtown.

I wandered around the museum, looking at classic country memorabilia, with the highlight being all the instruments. My favorites, Johnny Cash's guitar and Mother Marybelle Carter's autoharp.

After wandering around, I opted out of tickets for the Friday performance for a couple of reasons. First, it's rather expensive. And more importantly, the lineup is a little too modern country for my tastes. I'm happy with the glimpse I got. Plus, all the best acts (Okay, only Johnny Cash and Neko Case) have been blacklisted, anyway.

I headed downtown to find the Ryman, Earl Tubbs Records — where Loretta Lynn sold her first record — and, on a most unexpected recommendation from my mom, some of the bars lining Broadway. There, at the bars, during the middle of the day, young, alt-county newcomers play live sets covering old country standards. It was a fabulous atmosphere, and I could have hung out all day. In fact, I did hang out there most of the day, digging through 7" records and taking in the sounds of a number of musicians. Then my parking ran out and I headed off to find a hotel to watch the game.

Now, Boston has just taken the first lead of the game after being down by more than 20 for pretty much the entire first half. Let's get this done.

Tomorrow, I might bum around downtown some more before finding a haircut — the shag is getting pretty serious. Then, either hang out here for another night or head for Memphis and Graceland.

I pushed through Kentucky and down into Tennessee, finding a hotel outside of Knoxville. The main reason for the hotel stay was to catch Game 3 of the NBA finals — worth it, though I wish the Celtics would have held on.

Tennessee is known for its hospitality, the very friendly, overly chatty hotel clerk told me. His southern drawl mixed with his openly-gay flamboyance made for interesting conversation, though. I learned Tennessee has the same meth problem Oregon had ten years ago. Also, when two public school teachers joined our conversation, I also found out the state no longer teaches its students how to write in cursive. That seems like a pretty significant hole to leave in education.

Overall, the entire population has been nice, friendly, willing to chat and instantly open to talk about deeper topics, though the insane heat is still the first thing everyone talks about. Also, I haven't seen a mullet yet.

I like Tennessee, and if all goes as planned, I'll see the whole state, with stops in Nashville and Memphis on the radar. Graceland, perhaps.

Tonight, the heat is nearly unbearable. Now in Kentucky, I've entered the South. Nothing makes this more apparent than the mullet to not-mullet ratio, which, even with every other haircut grouped together, is something like 5:1. Also, No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service seems not to apply.

My reception here has been mixed. Almost no one address me when I pass, some have even been rude. Though, one friendly South Virginian biked past and admired Pam. There have been many long looks at my VW girl, most with whispers of amazement. The VW Van became scarce somewhere around Wyoming, and judging by my reception in camp, the VW diaspora hasn't settled south of the Mason-Dixion at all.

The biking Virginian and I also spoke of the "locusts," which I would call cicadas. They are everywhere, constantly filling the sweltering air with a wall of buzzing noise. So loud, in fact, they drown out highway noise.

The campsite is busy, the accents thick and the mullets long. Across the camp, a family has stretched out a white bed sheet, on which they have projected the recent Dukes of Hazzard movie. Honestly, not seeing a whole lot of stereotype busters here. On the way to the camp, on the narrow country road, there were indeed two different sightings of the native pants-less  beer-drinker in his natural habitat — the front porch.

First impressions are the important ones, so they say. As I venture south, I'll let you know if  my first impression is broken or not.