By the Numbers

Total miles driven: 7259
Most Consecutive miles driven: 1435
Most Consecutive Hours driven 22
Hot Dogs eaten: 19
S’mores eaten: 15
States visited: 13
Nights Below Freezing: 9
National and State Parks: 8
Number of “Jesus Saves” signs: 7
Mcflurries/Blizzards/Sonic Blasts eaten: 5
BBQ Restaurants: 4
Timeshare presentations sat through for free stuff: 2
BBQ Baloney sandwiches:1
Times we said “Where the fuck are we?”: Countless

Going Home

“One fowl swoop.” These are the words that Mylinh uttered when planning our trip home. I advocated a more sauntering approach to our drive back to California. A stop here, a night there, some sight seeing, some noodle salad – a good time would be had by all. Then she reminded me that we were out of money and that she was out of her will to travel. I didn’t blame her, for the most part, I was too. Not to mention, Mama Jo and Papa T have a warm bed, fresh coffee and more BBQ that all of the south can offer waiting for us. So there you have it, we made the plan to drive from New Orleans to El Paso to Tucson to Santa Rosa.

We got on the road and started haulin’ ass. 800 miles and 12 hours into our trip Mylinh decides that El Paso just isn’t the place for her. She comes up with the plan to sleep and drive in alternating shifts all the way to Tucson, AZ where we will stay with her brother-in-law for a few hours to shower and rest and then get back on the road. Essentially, she was advocating for driving almost straight back to Santa Rosa with a mere 4 hour stop in Tucson. And so she proclaimed her plan and so it was done.

At midnight I jumped behind the wheel of the car, pounded a red bull and sped down that lonely highway toward the desert. I didn’t have wings, but I did have a good time listening to soft rock from the early 1990s and local Arizona punk rock that is probably only on the radio at 4am. Jonah, Mylinh’s sister’s husband, graciously let us in his house a little before 5am and let us crash on his futon. At 8:30am the alarm went off and we cleaned up and hit that asphalt river that Eisenhower ensured would connect America and its people.

Looking back on our trip a lot of things come to mind. It was one of those months of my life that I will never forget. One of those months that I will look upon as both fun and formative, tiring and invigorating. After traveling over many different parts of the world, it was seeing and experiencing America that was missing from my travels. America in all its forms - its different cultures, different landscapes and the different sorts of people that make up this melting pot.

My only regret is that we didn’t have more time to meet more people and see more things, but that is life. We looked into the eyes of America and America looked back into us. Forever will both we and America be changed. In these historic days of presidential elections and wars and depressions, seeing America as it was meant to be seen, from a car, and meeting the people who make up America was inspiring and only increased my love of our nation.

Whether I’ll ever see B.B King in Memphis, Hank Williams Jr. at the Grand Ole’ Opry, own a farm in Kentucky or a timeshare in New Orleans is uncertain, but I know in my heart of hearts that this isn’t the last I’ve seen of America and this isn’t the last America has seen of me.

Nahlins

New Orleans was OUR STOP. I mean, this is where the trip began. Not literally began, that was California, but figuratively. While sitting in a small village in Nepal, I sat there reading On the Road, and just as Dean Moriarty said to Sal Paradise “Let’s got to New Orleans,” I leaned over to Mylinh and exclaimed “how about a road trip to New Orleans.” An idea was born and like cancer it spread. The road trip to the Big Easy quickly turned into a road trip across the south; a road trip across the south quickly became a road trip across the southern states of the United States..

More than just being the climax of our trip, New Orleans was so much more – what I am talking about is a bed and a roof. After weeks of camping we were desperately seeking a padded bed and a warm night of sleep. New Orleans was also more than just a party. It was a Halloween celebration, a reunion of friends, new and old, a place to rest our head and fill our bellies.

Coincidentally, my sisters and a few of our friends were also headed down NO for Halloween. This meant lots of catching up and lots of partying. Not only that, but I peer pressured my good friend Chris into taking some time off work and partying it up for the weekend. I won’t get too much into the specifics of our partying. Every night is the same on bourbon street. Hurricane, hand grenade, hurricane, hurricane, followed my some mix of the aforementioned and 3 for 1 beers. Life was good, my head the next morning, not so much.

Halloween was a spectacle to be seen. Half naked women, slutty old ladies, and a mix of every costume you could name (nothing was too scandalous). As we sat for what was to be our first of many hurricanes, a bartender approached Chris and asked if he wanted to be in a costume contest. You see, Chris, usually not the most enthusiastic Halloween participant, had found the perfect costume. Chris is a big dude, no wait, in fact, Chris is a huge dude – 6’4”, 240 pounds. His costume, however, was a child’s Eeyore costume, which he had torn and sewn to have it fit over his head. It was like if big dopey Goliath and ripped a hole through David’s head and stuck his face through it. It was awesome.

Chris had the added benefit at the costume contest of rolling deep. There were nine of us in all and that was plenty to make lots of noise by cheering, the sole way to win the contest. However, one formidable obstacle stood between Chris and his prize. That obstacle was a man who had clearly put much thought and effort into his costume.

His opponent, had long-ish curly hair, a purple jacket, and cigar hanging from his mouth – he was The Joker. As the Joker slid and strutted across the bar top he pulled out two switch blade knives – the ultimate detail that helped put his costume over the top. While Chris’s costume was good, this guy was great. It was an unequivocal win for the Joker, but Chris made it to the top three, which wasn’t too bad.

The night got messier and sloppier as time went on. We had more hurricanes, beers, jello shots out of plastic syringes, and ultimately wound up singing karaoke. This included about half our group (the drunker half) going up and singing “Friends in Low Places.” However, my claim to fame was putting my priest costume to use and jumping up during “Enter the Sandman” by Metallica and blessing the girl on stage during the prayer in the song. It was pretty fun and crowd screamed like crazy, but as I forgot the lyrics to later parts of the song I quickly exited stage right – my 15 seconds of fame were up. Let’s just say that at the end of the night I was glad I woke up in my bed and not on a street corner like many of the people we saw the next morning still in costume.

The following days of New Orleans were fun, but a little more low key. We walked the city, looked at art, drank Chickery coffee, ate beignets and enjoyed the elegant debauchery that is New Orleans. As we had had enough of this walking business after a couple days, Chris and I decided that we’d like to roll in style – that means on Harley’s.

We woke up early Sunday morning and headed out to get us a couple hogs on which to cruise the Louisiana countryside. Two Fatboy’s called out our names. We put our bitches on the back and painted the road with some burned rubber. The countryside was a far cry from the metropolitan tourist trap of the city. Run down or boarded up houses sat next to run down or boarded businesses that sat next to industrial centers that line the Mississippi river.

We followed the road the snakes along the Mighty Mississippi and saw more than our share of plantations and tobacco fields. The drive was sometimes scenic, sometimes ugly, but always informative. It was interesting to see another side of the south. Staying confined to cities, even those like Mobile, give you a skewed view. It makes the south look more modern and more progressive than it truly is. The backroads of Louisiana revealed a depressed economy and small town life that neither felt nor looked like Norman Rockwell.

From the drunks who stumbled along the streets as our motorcycles passed, to the man cooking on an open fire in front of his FEMA trailer to the unbelievably sweet and cute, yet pregnant (one probably led to the other) 16 year old waitress at the pizza place we found open (the only restaurant open for 50 miles). Renting the bikes was great not just to ride, but to see and see we did.

We had visited New Orleans a couple years ago, about 10 months after Katrina took place. At that time even Bourbon Street looked empty. A plethora of “for hire” signs were scattered about the city as most residents were still living in toxic FEMA housing all across the south. Today, as compared to 2 years ago, it seems as if New Orleans really has been renewed. No more boarded up restaurants, vacant buildings and FEMA trailers in downtown parking lots. While this renewal clearly hasn’t spread to the outlying countryside of the state I’m not sure that it ever did.

New Orleans was lots of fun and it definitely made me appreciate my friends new and old. They are certainly a group of people who know how to have a good time and to make sure I have one too. While most of those friends will be waiting for us in the golden state, we hope that the lost bear will find himself California dreamin – or at least on a motorcycle trip in Scotland with us in the years to come.

Mont and Mobe

As we left Hotlanta we knew that we were heading into Deliverance country. Well, not exactly the backwoods of the south with its inbred brethren, but rather just deeper into Dixie. Deeper into Klan country and deeper into the short lived confederacy.

Montgomery was our first stop. Montgomery is a storied place. A history that encircles and comes back onto itself. A history that spans from the early days of “King Cotton,” to the civil war, to the civil rights movement.

Today, Montgomery seems like one of those southern towns that just never really got out of the 1950s. Of course Starbucks has planted itself on plenty of street corners and there are too many Wal-Marts to count, but something about the feel of the place never changed. The traffic moves slower, as if there was no reason in the world to move faster. The people speak with a slow drawl that reminds me of molasses rolling downhill.

We had spent most of that day in Atlanta so we got into Montgomery late and headed straight to the RV Park – the only camping in a 50 mile radius. By that time we had been used to freezing cold nights (where do those hobos go for the winter?) and we were expecting another one.

I walked into the office and asked about getting a camping spot. The lady behind the counter looked up at me, and in her thick molasses drawl explained, “we ain’t set up for no tents.” As I strained to comprehend the slow words oozing from her mouth, I let her know that we have camped at many RV parks before and that any place to put our tent, including an RV site, would be fine. “You know it’s gonna freeze tonight, ya’ll aren’t gonna freeze to death on my property, are ya?” She said, almost sounding more concerned with the negative publicity two human popsicles being hauled off to the city morgue might create. I assured her that I knew the weather report and that while it was expected to be 33 degrees that night, that we had camped in and survived much colder weather. She gave me a skeptical look, but gave me a spot anyway. As I walked out she quipped, “I hope ya’ll got cozy sleeping bags.” I laughed.

The night was cold, but still not our coldest. We boiled some water for noodles and made one of my specialties – a sliced apple grilled cheese sandwich. No freezing weather could stop me from enjoying such a delicious meal. Just as we were done eating a man and his son started walking toward us. I put my hand on the knife in my pocket and said hello. He started to explain “you’sa checked in with my wife earlier tonight.” “Yes sir, I did” I said. “Well, we’re pretty worried about you freezing to death out here. I got some fire wood out back. That’d keep you pretty warm I reckon.” Mylinh and I look at each other. “Thanks so much, but I think we’ll be heading to bed soon so the fire won’t be necessary.” “Well, it’s there if ya’ll start to freeze.” “Thanks again.” He walked away clearly still worried about the dead bodies he’d have to pull out in the morning.

On the below freezing morning we scurried to put in some laundry (much to the relief of our friends we’d be seeing in a few days.) Our first stop was the F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald Museum. This was a last minute addition to our itinerary, but as we are both fans of F. Scott it was well worth the stop. The museum is housed in the author’s old home located in a suburban district of the downtown area.

Amid other small mansions sits the unassuming house that contained the museum. The yard and house were noticeably empty and we figured correctly that the museum didn’t exactly attract swaths of visitors. In fact, the museum receives no government funding so in order to finance the place they had to subdivide the house into apartments and rent them out. Kind of sad, but after seeing the museum it was clear they didn’t have enough stuff to fill the house anyway.
Inside, it felt a little more like a Zelda museum than F. Scott. As for F. Scott’s memorabilia they had a collection of first editions, his old typewriter and some letters he wrote including one to Ernest Hemingway. Otherwise the museum had over 15 original Zelda paintings (2nd largest collection in the world) and a significant amount of Zelda’s random possessions including her paper dolls, books and letters. The museum was worth a stop if you are already in Montgomery, but I don’t think I’d make a separate trip there.

More noteworthy might be the Southern Literary Tour. An informal route that traverses all the “hotspots” of southern authors. One stop includes a trip to the courthouse in Harper Lee’s and Truman Capote’s hometown. The courthouse was replicated for the Gregory Peck film, To Kill A Mocking Bird. Every year the courthouse puts on a reenactment of the court scene from the book and movie.

On the advice of the man who ran the museum we headed to a fried chicken spot for lunch. He told us that local politicians frequent this place and to get there early. We only half believed him, but without much else to do headed there early nonetheless. The place was packed. Businessmen with suits, old ladies with blue hair, and blue collar workers with sleeveless flannels and camouflage hats filled the place. We were seated shortly after arriving and clearly needed no time pouring over the menu because all they served was fried chicken and a few sides. The fried chicken was godly. The white meat was succulent and moist. The skin crispy and tasty. The sides were over-salted and left something to be desired, but at least they did one thing right.

Next we headed on to Mobile. Mobile was a place that it seemed the modern economy had left behind. We were only spending an afternoon in the area so we decided that we’d stroll down the main boulevard to get a feel for the city. The only things along this boulevard were restaurants, bars and thrift stores. However, what was most notable was the dilapidated condition of this so-called main street. Every third business was boarded up and more than a few empty lots lined the streets.

It was as if this once bustling center of the gulf coast was merely a ghost town. While it was a Wednesday afternoon the streets were inexplicably empty and as we walked down to the gulf port at the end of the street an eerie silence hung in the air. On the brighter side, I had a delicious coconut fudge gelato milkshake.

We regretted not being able to spend more time in these historic southern cities, but our time was little and our ambitions great. We headed on into Mississippi to camp the night in Big Biloxi State Park. We got there after dark, but the morning revealed a beautiful forest surrounding us and the Big Biloxi river a mere 50 yards from our camp site. The south, for all its faults and small town feel, has many hidden treasures and beauties. While we had discovered but a fraction of them it was just comforting knowing that no matter where in America you might find yourself, it is always amazing and it will always feel like home

Montgomery Pictures

Hotlanta

After leaving Kentucky we had quite the drive to Atlanta. We decided that it’d be best if we got as close as we could to the capital of the south and head in the next morning. We ended up spending the night in the Red Top Mountain State Park. This is one of the hidden gems off the freeway. It had one of those dense and fragrant pine forests that made you want to take deep breaths through your nose. While it was cold the night we dropped by, I bet this place goes off in the summer as it lines a huge river with enough room for swimming and jet skis.

We packed up quickly in the morning and headed down to the Big City. First, we were in dire need of an internet café (in order to upload the lovely prose of this here blog). We stumbled upon a hipster mecca. Tight jean clad indie rockers clicked away on their apple computers and drank cups of French pressed coffee (every cup they serve is individually French pressed). They even had a zombie-art exhibit on the walls. It was pretty awesome.

Next we headed off for Fat Matt’s BBQ. This place was hands down the best BBQ we’ve had in the south. Succulent pork ribs with meat that melted in my mouth and spicy bbq sauce that was perfectly smothered. This was all complemented by rum baked beans and cinnamon laden sweet potato soufflé. It was heavenly.

Finally, we made it downtown. Downtown Atlanta has been the most urban of the places we’ve been in the south. It has both CNN’s corporate offices and the Coca-Cola museum. We didn’t want to pay for the museum so we contented ourselves with just wandering the coke store, which was museum-like in itself. It had all sorts of replica coke artifacts for sale and every t-shirt, glass or hat you would ever want with a coke design on it. The store must’ve been designed pretty well because it made me want to spend my few remaining dollars on all sorts of needless crap. We got out of there without buying anything, but I found myself trying on a Mr. Pibb hat and telling myself it would be a great purchase. It was a low point in my life.
Next we strolled through the Centennial Olympic Park that was constructed for the 1996 Atlanta Olympics. The park was pretty boring, but it was nice to have that nostalgic feeling reminding me when America used to actually be home to the games. Now, it’s just China and Canada and Britain, damn.
We finished off our abridged tour of the city with a stop at the CNN building. There was a tour available through the studios where they produce the shows, but we skipped it because it got too many negative reviews. The building itself was pretty cool and they had the hummer they used in Iraq War reporting on display and we got to see the world’s highest and longest escalator – woohoo!

That was it for Atlanta. We probably could’ve spent another few days there, but New Orleans was calling our name and we had too many places to visit before our Halloween date with the Big Easy.

Atlanta Pictures

The Sun Shines Bright On My Old Kentucky Home

Kentucky, as a stop, was a late addition to our trip. At first we thought we had no need for a state that was divided during the civil war (40,000 confederate troops; 90,000 union), we were in search of the “real” south, those states who took a shoot first, ask questions later approach to succession. Then we remembered that 95% of the world’s bourbon is made in Kentucky. So off we went.

As we crossed over from Tennessee into KY something had noticeably changed. While the South as a whole has been aesthetically pleasing, Kentucky is gorgeous. Colorful forests lined the highway and small farms were tucked within the woods. The sky was Cookie Monster-blue and the sunset Bert and Ernie-orange. We headed to Bardstown, unofficially known as the bourbon capital of the world. Luckily for us My Old Kentucky Home state park was right in town. We pulled into the park and despite being surrounded by a golf course it was perfect - piles of free wood for burning, hot showers, wooded forests separating us from the club swinging good‘ol boys. We spent the evening leisurely cooking hot dogs, drinking beer and enjoying god’s gift to man, s’mores.

The next morning we headed off toward destiny. Jim Beam was our first stop. Jim Beam and their collection of small batch bourbons (knob creek etc) is where my experience is most confined in the realm of bourbon. A bourbon distillery looked a little different than I expected.
Smoke stacks (spewing steam – maybe steamstacks) towered above big metal wearhouses. It looked more like a factory that a distillery. However, as we toured the place we soon realized that the steam just came from heating up the corn used for distillation and the warehouses were filled with charred oak barrels of aging bourbon. The tour was self-guided, which ultimately meant that we breezed through it in order to get to the tasting at the end. We got to taste all of their small batch bourbons and they were all great – some smoky, some oaky, some sweet.

After a few drinks we were feeling pretty high class (usually the more I drink the classier I feel, but the less classy I get – quite the paradox) and so we headed over to Maker’s Mark, a gentlemen’s bourbon. They had clearly put some time and money into their tour operations. It was like being at Disneyland. Their visitor’s center was housed in the 1800s era house of the original distiller and it was set up with memorabilia from the family that originated Maker’s Mark. They even had digital pictures on the wall of the family that spoke, yes, they used digital rendering to have the framed pictures say humorous things. It was quite the show.
What makes Maker’s Mark special is that instead of using rye in its distilling, it uses red wheat grain. Supposedly, this makes for a smoother, cleaner taste. In fact, about 18 times during the guided tour, our tour guide would bug-out her cartoonish eyes and flutter her jazz hands back and forth all while saying “ssmmooottthhh bourbon whiskey.” This was Disneyland for adults and she was the ultimate caricature. She had well rehearsed jokes and smiled wide. Despite being a little condescending, the tour was actually pretty good and apparently they won first place in 2007 for having the best tour of any alcohol facility in the world.

As far as I’m concerned, Maker’s Mark is just okay, but I’d rather have one of Jim Beam’s small batch bourbons any day. That was it for our bourbon tour. Sadly, most of the other distilleries were closed on Mondays. Oh well, another time.

As for Kentucky, I think it was possibly the most beautiful place we’ve visited outside of Zion. If I were to move to the rural south it would definitely be on one of the picture-esq farms dotting the hillsides of the back roads. Maybe someday I’ll come out here, write a book and open a bourbon distillery. Thor’s Straight Bourbon Whiskey has a nice ring to it.
As we raced down the country roads toward the freeway we snapped a couple pictures of Lincoln’s birthplace (i.e. log cabin), but time was a-wastin’ so we couldn’t trouble ourselves with spending any real time with Honest Abe.

Kentucky Pictures

Whiskey Bent and Hellbound

We got to Nashville just as the sun was setting. What was it setting on you ask? It was setting on our campground for the night. What is the name of that campground? The wonderfully chosen name is “Jellystone Park” – as in Yogi Bear’s stomping ground. It made me happy.

Nashville itself is a hick’s wet dream. Country everywhere. The radio stations blasted twang and the sole museum of note was the Country Music Museum that housed Elvis’ gold Cadillac. We headed downtown and were immediately swept into a world of would-be, trying-to-be and never-will-be country music singers. Like in Memphis, we roamed the streets checking out the scene.

We listened as best we could to the blaring country sounds spilling out of each bar and tried to make our pick. Finally, we stumbled into a bar with rockabilly blasting. The main attraction was that it had no cover charge and $1 PBRs. What the band lacked in talent they made up for in enthusiasm. The singer, with his fur-lined jean jacket and cowboy boots pounded on his keyboard and jumped around like a Mexican bean (the jumping kind of course). He tried his best to get the crowd going with a montage of playing while standing on the bench, kicking his legs back in the air and taking a playing hiatus to climb along the rafters over the band. This all made for great entertainment, but somehow, unsurprisingly, the music suffered.

The playlist included such hits as I Walk the Line, Whisky Bent and Hellbound and what sounded like a few original numbers. We finished up our beers and decided to head to Tootsie’s – a country music bar that claimed world fame. According to some sources this is the bar where Willie Nelson got his start and where numerous up and coming country stars yearn to play. Well, the night we strolled in must’ve been an anomaly. The John-Mayer-esq douchebag standing behind the microphone was lackluster at best and condescending at worst. He was clearly some New England prep school sissy who had headed down to Vandy to make dad proud and score himself some airheaded Georgia Peach.

The music was obviously geared towards high schoolers and it was clear from his songwriting that he thought a country song’s inclusion of lyrics about whiskey, women and partying meant that the song had no need for complex emotion or folk-based storytelling – he was wrong. Shallow lyrics that include words like “beer” and “drunk” and “dog” don’t make a good country song. Needless to say we didn’t stay long. When his girlfriend came around with his tip jar she was astonished to see that I declined. I believe her exact words were “psshhaww.”

After that we headed back to our campsite and braved the cold weather once again. The next morning we headed to a farmer’s market which would’ve put many Cali markets to shame (but not Haymarket, of course). All the fruits and vegetables were locally grown and down here in the South that means melons, 15 types of apples and every vegetable you can name. The had tables with 40 different types of jelly including such concoctions as watermelon rind jelly, moonshine jelly, sweet-potato jelly and cantaloupe jelly – I’ll have to get my dad working at recreating these inspired spreads. Finally, after realizing that the three different lunch spots we looked into were closed – it was the lord’s day and little was open – we got on that great highway and headed north to Lincoln’s Home, Kentucky.

"Walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale "

Understandably, our one and only night in a bed until New Orleans required us to sleep in. This, however, was not the best plan because we had a 6+ hour drive through OK, AR and into Memphis. We got out the door about 10am and left behind the Sooner State as quick as possible. Finally, the moment had come, we were entered the Deep South. The home of confederate ancestors, the birthplace of the mullet, the land where all pigs come to die (gotta love those pork ribs).

Arkansas was noticeably more attractive than OK. The hills rolled green and thin forests lined the highway. Lunch was approaching and since we weren’t going to stay the night in AR we decided that we should at least grab some food. After some extensive Yelping we determined that in Fort Smith, AR there just might possibly be some amazing Viet food. It seemed an odd choice in the land of BBQ and fried chicken, but we figured that we’d have enough of that in the days to come.
We stopped at Pho Vietnam, which was housed in an old gas station that still had the disconnected pumps in the concrete out front. The restaurant was an odd amalgamation of Viet and Dixie. They had a fish tank with no fish in it, but rather dolls and a confederate flag. Additionally, they had both a singing deer head and fish nailed to the wall. I asked Mylinh if the owners were really Viet (often these places are run by Chinese people) and she said they were, but that they spoke viet with, get this, a southern twang. The food was pretty good, but the pho broth was quite sweet.

We continued on through AR and got into Memphis just as night fell. We were staying in a state park that was located in the southwest corner of the city. It was a nice change because usually state parks with camping are located far from major cities. We set up camp and headed out for the night.

We weren’t sure what to expect. It was clear that we had crossed over into a different world. The billboards showed fetuses and asked for mercy, the people spoke with a slow twang that was like another language, the liquor stores had drive-thrus, but refused to sell on Sundays.
When we got to downtown Memphis our eyes lit up and our hearts began to beat rapidly. It was everything we had hoped for. Beale Street, the main boulevard of Memphis, was blocked off from cars and filled with blues bars, beer, and It. The “it” that Dean Moriarty spoke of in On the Road. The “it” that encompasses cool, amazing, magnificent, soul, - a feeling of seeing the physical manifestation of an idea whose time had come.

We strolled onto the street and instantly blues riffs poured out of bars and into our hearts. Our ears lifted up and we roamed the land looking for drinks and Leadbelly’s twelve bars. Within minutes we had beers in our hands and blues on the mind. Every bar had a band or at least a guitarist showing off his chops.
We chose to be as touristy as possible and decided that since we were in Memphis only once, we’d better head into BB King’s Blues Club. It was actually a pretty cool place, filled with both tourists and locals. The house band was good, with a female singer blowin’ the roof off, but the main attraction was great. Ronnie Barker Brooks is a blue guitarist who definitely knew his way up and down the frets. He plucked and played and worked the crowd to a height. The solos were great and we left with smiles on our faces.

The next morning we were still talking about the amazing coolness and the “It” that Memphis’ Beale Street contained. The feel of the street was contagious and we were sad that we were leaving town later that day. We headed off for the National Civil Rights Museum realizing that we were about to see another much sadder part of the south.

The National Civil Rights Museum was possibly one of the best historical museums I have ever visited. It is housed in the Lorraine Hotel in which Martin Luther King was assassinated in 1968. Deceivingly small looking from the outside, we ended up spending almost 3 hours looking at the exhibit. It took viewers from the slave riots of the 1700s all the way up through modern day struggles, with the climax and majority of the presentation devoted to the civil rights movement of the 1950s and 60s.
It was extremely inspiring and informative and left me in awe of the struggle that was taken on by African Americans. Nothing was particularly new for me as I had learned much of this history in high school and college classes, but to have it brought all together in one place was particularly revealing of the long and turbulent history of this battle for human rights. I was a little worried that it would be a glib look at this history, but it was thoughtful and deep and was a place that I think everyone should visit.

Actually getting to walk into the room that MLK stayed in the day he was shot was eerie. They had preserved the room as it had been on that day with its scattered coffee cups and cigarette butts. The exhibit also contained a fascinating look at the different conspiracy theories that surrounded MLK’s assassination. There was no idea left uncovered and they even had each piece of evidence presented at James Earl Ray’s trial.

Before we left we also made a quick stop by Sun Studios. This is the studio that introduced the world to Elvis, Johnny Cash and many other famous rockabilly stars of the '50s and '60s. They had records lining the wall and too much music memorabilia to list. Among this was one of Johnny Cash's guitars and Elvis's shoes. A pretty cool stop, but a small place.

We finished off our trip to Memphis with a stop at Interstate BBQ. We fed our faces with pork ribs, BBQ chicken, BBQ spaghetti (yes, spaghetti), and, unbelievably, a BBQ baloney sandwich. Mylinh, being a spam lover, requested this concoction and it wasn’t half bad. It kind of tasted like a hot dog, shaped like a hamburger and layered with BBQ sauce. Overall, I left with one thought: I will never tire of BBQ.

Memphis Pictures

I've got the blues so bad...

Not really, but I am currently at BB King's Blues Club in Memphis on Beale Street. It's kind of like Bourbon St., but without the smell of urine (and blues music instead of jazz).

Mine's Bigger Than Your's

We rolled out of Taos, not on the main interstate that would’ve taken us to the I-40 and into Texas, but through the mountainous backroads of New Mexico. The drive was beautiful, with fall colors that rival New England and an empty road that can be greatly appreciated after spending too much time on crowded freeways. On more than a few occasions that day we found ourselves asking each other, “Where the fuck are we?”

We were making our way across the panhandle of Texas, often referred to as the “armpit” of Texas (I didn’t know there was a non-armpit part) and as far into Oklahoma as possible. You see, we were anxious to get to the “real” south, the South were Church’s Chicken is on every street corner, where illiteracy is the norm and where people would be surprised to see an Asian and excited to ask her if she was sorry for attacking Pearl Harbor.

As we crossed the Texas border from NM you could tell something was different. First off, a sign indicated that there is a separate speed limit for those trucks hauling horse trailers – not trailers in general, but specifically horse trailers. Also, the lanes were definitely Texas-sized, that is to say, they are big. We could’ve fit two Hondas or three Minis side by side in one of them. As we pulled onto to one of those spectacularly dangerous roadways that are two lanes with cars driving 80 MPH towards the oncoming traffic as close as they can to the center, I realized that thing are different here in TX.

Deciding to drive into the night and not stop until we had reached the middle of OK we decided that we’d better get some dinner in El Paso. El Paso is one of those towns that seems to be based around the truckers coming through on the I-40. While there are undoubtedly parts we didn’t see, it appeared as if half the city was surrounding this freeway and most of the places were budget motels and eateries. We figured that since we were in Texas we’d better hit up a down-home Texas BBQ.

We chose the Country Barn BBQ, which was conveniently located just off the interstate and also had good reviews on Yelp. Let me tell you, there is nothing more stereotypically Texan than the Country Barn BBQ. We rolled up into the parking lot and found ourselves staring at a 40 foot tall cowboy statue. The building itself is designed to look like a giant red barn. The inside is cavernous – 30 foot ceilings, multiple rooms to eat in, even a jail cell with a table in it. The bathrooms had Texas shaped sinks and, in an effort to be on the forefront of urine temperature control, the urinals were filled to the brim with crushed ice. It was fun to pee into, but I guess the practicality of it was lost on me. The walls were lined with all sorts of flare – John Wayne posters, fake cowboy memorabilia, taxidermied animals – pretty much everything I’d ever want in a Texas BBQ. Oh yeah, the food, it was good, but nothing to write home about – so I won’t.

The panhandle of texas really is an ugly place. It is flat as the eye can see and is usually filled with some sort of wheat-esq farm, oil fields, budget motels or nothing at all. I wouldn’t say I was much happier when we crossed into Oklahoma. A state that is not unfamiliar to me, but one in which I would be just fine avoiding for the rest of my life. The vast improvement at this point was not that we were in OK, but that it was night and I didn’t have to stare at the obnoxiously void landscape. Instead we turned on the radio. At 9pm on a weekday night in OK there are limited things on the radio. Mostly country music and Jesus – not the actual Jesus mind you, but usually a fat guy reading from the bible or making callers feel bad about them or their family member’s sins.

In recent years, I have grown fond of some country music, so that is what we put on. The commercials on a country music station in OK are the best – they include such things as where to take your freshly shot deer for processing into deer sausage or steaks; how to use instructional tapes to help god help your family members get off drugs; and when the next ho-down will take place (I made that last one up).

Driving at night on the I-40 is kind of a lonely experience. Pretty much it’s just you and the truckers. Given our below freezing night in Taos we decided that we would just get to the South as quick as possible. Our strategy was to drive as far into the night as we could across America’s heartland, stop in a motel and then make our way to Dixie. Around 11pm I decided that I had had enough and pulled into one of the many ubiquitous towns that line major interstates. These places are where cross country travelers and truckers stop for cheap, greasy food, chain motels and gas. We pulled the car over and quickly called about 8 different motels to compare prices. Well, just because you compare, doesn’t mean you save. They were all about the same price, so we pulled into the closest one and went to sleep.

I love camping and this trip has been no exception, but something about a bed and four walls feels amazing. Well, that night we slept, but bright and early the next morn we were on our way to God’s Country – the South will rise again.

Texas Pictures

Taos-ism

New Mexico is cold. Not the San Francisco type of cold that I actually look forward to, but the Boston cold that makes my hate life and my surroundings. That being said, Taos, NM is actually a pretty cool place. It is generally considered to be an aging hippy/artsy/tourist trap sort of place and Taos seemed to live up to all of these stereotypes. There were plenty of silver haired, tye dye clad septegenarians walking on streets that were filled with art galleries, which contained art that only a tourist would buy.

When we got into town we went straight for a lunch spot called Orlando's that sources had informed us served the best New Mexican cuisine. NM cuisine is like mexican food, but a little less interesting and not very spicy. Regardless, we each had tasty burritos, mylinh shrimp (b/c she's short) and me chicken (b/c I lack courage), both were covered with green and red sauce, oh so cleverly named "Christmas" style. We then set off to find a place to stay for the night.
We had originally planned on camping in the Cimarron Canyon State Park, but since it was almost an hour away this would have prevented us from seeing Taos before we had to go claim our tent spot and cook dinner over a fire. We tried pricing hotels in the area, which are reasonably priced for an average tourist, but for us cheapos the $50 they were charging was far too much.

We ended up compromising and staying at an RV and Tent Park in town that is actually really nice (read: much needed hot showers). While it was below freezing out we were happy to be surrounded by fences and not subject to the wind. In fact, it was so cold that both our car and tent frosted over and we later saw snow on the side of the road. Before we left on our road trip I promised Mylinh that the weather would be nice, specifically I said, "all the bums go south for the winter, so the weather must be warm." Clearly we weren't south enough.

To round out our day we headed off to a hot spring spa that my parent's suggested. It was just what we needed. There is nothing like dipping into a hot bath of spring water on a freezing cold evening. The baths included such oddities as an arsenic bath, iron bath and soda bath. They were each supposed to have some magical properties like making you invincible Wolverine style. Most importantly we were able to take a shower - something we hadn't been afforded in a couple of days. It was well worth the drive out there.

We woke up after our freezing cold night, warmed up our car, got the oil changed and headed off through the backroads of the New Mexican mountians into Texas.

Taos Pictures

Gas prices

We just saw gas off the freeway for $2.75 entering New Mexico.

On a road trip, and generally in life, gas prices matter - a lot. Currently they are about 48% of our daily budget if it is a heavy driving day. I remember when I first got a car, at 16 years old, gas prices were $1.10 and even then my dad would reminisce about when prices were at $0.35 a gallon.

Since first starting this post, which was done blogging while driving via the iphone, we have seen prices as low as $2.52/gallon. What is most annoying is that oil prices have fallen over 50% since their summer highs of $147 per barrel. While gas reached its peak at $4.11 a gallon at that time, we have certainly not seen gas prices fall by 50%. OPEC's actions as a cartel are both frustrating (because they collaborate to artificially maintain high oil prices) and would be considered illegal if they were US based companies.

Given that even at current oil prices of $75 a barrel, oil is still almost quadruple what it was 6 years ago. Let's hope that gas prices reflect the drop in oil and that oil prices continue to drop - especially considering that both oil demand and consumption is down!!

Big Hole in the Earth

As we entered Grand Canyon National Park Mylinh started to wonder what all the fuss was about. At the top of the canyon (usually referred to as "the rim") there was ugly high desert plateaus filled with pine trees. Then, moments later, I pulled into one of the many viewing areas. Her eyes lit up and the only words she could utter were "wow" and "oh my god." She is surely not the first person to be in awe of the magnificence of the Grand Canyon.

Teddy Roosevelt, the father of the national park system, once said that every American should see the Grand Canyon at least once in their lifetime. The multi-colored layers of rock are mesmerizing and the sheer size of the canyon is daunting.

We set up camp and decided to check out the many viewing areas along the south rim. Although each view was similar to the next, they each allowed you to see different parts of the canyon that are all equally beautiful. We made big plans to wake up at 445am the next morning and hike down 2 miles into the canyon to watch the sunrise.

As you might have predicted, the alarm went off at 445am and when I looked at Mylinh to see if she was ready to get up, she looked back at me like I was crazy. You see, the Grand Canyon region had recently experienced a cold front and on that morning it was 33 degrees out. We made up for our laziness by jumping in the car and driving out to one of the better view points before the 645am sunrise. We then made an hour hike down Bright Angel trail to get a view of the canyon's interior. We had to make it to New Mexico that day so packed up quick, forewent breakfast, and got on the road.

While the GC was spectacular and lovely I don't think it would ever rank as one of my top national parks. It was far too developed and touristy (a great place to see Japanese tourists flashing the peace sign for the camera) and is kind of a one-hit-wonder. However, that doesn't mean I wouldn't love to make a 3-4 day backpacking trip down the canyon to the Colorado River....any takers?

Utah, Not Just for Mormons

We didn't exactly roar out of Vegas, it was more of a meow. We crisscrossed the many ugly streets of surburban Las Vegas trying to find Costco and other establishments to get supplies for our upcoming days of camping. After finding that the main Costco was closed and seaching all around for another, it took us almost 2 hours to leave sin city.

We traversed our way across the corner of Arizona and into Utah to get to Zion National Park. It took a little longer than expected, but it was worth it. As a kid, my parents took my sister and I on a camping trip around the western US and, based on that trip, I remember Zion as my favorite national park. I was worried that I would destroy this memory by re-visiting it in my much more discerning and critical adulthood.

Nothing was ruined. I can easily say that Zion is still an amazing and beautitful place. The red rock cliffs, the warm weather, the river that runs down through the park and right next to our campsite made this a wonderful place to visit. The perfectly delicious swirls of color in the rock cliffs looked like ribbons of Jamocha Almond Fudge ice cream (pretty specific, aren't I). My dad, an original Dharma Bum, recommended that we hike up to Angel's Landing. We took his advice and got up early to make the ascent. The first part of the hike had amazing scenery, like everywhere in Zion, but was boring as far as hikes go (especially since we had just come back from Everest Base Camp). However, the second half of the hike was everything I look for while hiking - unique, gorgeous and dangerous.

This section of the hike starts out by walking along a part of the mountain that jets out away from the rest. This means that on each side of you there are shear cliffs. You continue by jumping rock to rock as you ascend up this piece of the mountain. This would likely be life threatening, but the park service has kindly attached chains to the rock that allow you to grab hold of something as you climb up the near vertical faces with 600 foot drops beneath you. It was quite exhilarating and once we got to the top the views were amazing.

Just to have some fun I decided to not bother grabbing any of the chains on the way down and just rely on the rocks for support. I think it made things easier because you just had to focus on not dying, so the actual trudgery of descending wasn't even noticed. Mylinh did great as she passed up most of the guys on the trail who were astonished by this little asian ninja speed walking and climbing past them.

After the hike we stumbled our way into the town just outside the park's gates. It was a quaint little place that mainly caters to tourists. One bright spot was the opportunity to try bumbleberry pie. Just the thought of eating a bumbleberry made my mouth water and my mind fill with thoughts of plump purple berries that taste like treats from God. As we later learned, Bumbleberries are fictional. Generally, bumbleberry dishes as just made from a mix of seasonal berries. So, the "berry" pie we had was good, but the the lack of a true bumbleberry made us a little sad. Click here for a funny tale of a search for the "real" bumbleberry.

We finished off the day with a dip in the river and a dinner of port, hot dogs and s'mores. The night was warm and we sat by the fire watching the stars and planning our life.

Zion Pictures

Sin City

As we roared down hwy 15 and crossed the border into Nevada the first thing we passed was a set of rundown outlet stores and 5th tier casinos. The most intriguing thing among them was a billboard that read: “Fully Automatic Weapons; Try Before You Buy.” I almost pulled the car off the freeway in order to fill one of my testosterone driven dreams and blow the fuck out of something with an M-16. The allure of Vegas and Mylinh rolling her eyes at me when I tried to convince her to join the fun kept me on the road and off towards Sin City.

We got to Vegas and, in a rare move to spend an extra dollar, we actually booked a hotel as opposed to camping in the desert for free. The hotel, mind you, was the Wild Wild West – no, not a hotel owned by Will Smith – but rather a clean, but extremely cheap hotel located about a ½ mile off the strip. We didn’t mind the walk because we honestly needed to burn off the weight we gained eating with my parents and at the Vegas buffets.

We set down our bags and headed off for the strip. Mylinh looked up at a sign for Zumanity and said “hey, I really want to see that.” Then, minutes later, a serendipitous moment occurred and a guy hustlin’ for New York, New York offered us cheap tickets to that very show. Of course there was a catch. We had to sit through a 2 hour presentation for a time share. We had heard of my parents doing this for free tickets and our theme for this trip is “cheap or free,” so we signed up.

We got to the timeshare sales location and were shuffled into a room with all sorts of other couples looking to get free gifts. Then we were paired up with a sales person and they began their pitch. I obviously, having no money nor interest, was not going to buy a timeshare, but I did my best to be kind to the salesperson nonetheless. However, as far as I’m concerned being kind and being honest go together. When the salesman began asking about our travel habits I kindly explained that we almost never pay more than $!0 a night and regard hostels as our favorite places to stay. Immediately he gave me a look of dread and disappointment - clearly when it came to clients his dice came up snake eyes.

After he questioned us a little about the cleanliness and hospitality offered at hostels the salesman looked at me and said “So you really think you’ll stay in hostels the rest of your life?” I quipped, “Well that or camping.” He smartly replied, “I guess you really like those squat toilets.” The sales meeting wasn’t going as he had planned. Finally half way through, he defeatedly said “well, this probably isn’t for you, but I’ve got to do my job anyway and show you the rooms.” The meeting ended well before the two hour requirement and we received $80 tickets to Zumanity for a lovely $10.

Before the show we decided to resume our original plan and hit up the Bellagio buffet. It was pricey and beyond our budget, but with at least 6 days of camping in front of us we figured it was worth it.


After shoving our faces full of beef Wellington, kobe beef, rack of lamb, sushi, Chilean sea bass and many other tasty treats Mylinh rushed off from the Bellagio buffet to get back to the hotel so we could change and nap before more drinking and Zumanity. I waddled behind her and upon finally catching up explained that she needed to slow down because I had a whole cow floating around in my stomach.

Zumanity was interesting. It was 2 parts cirque du soleil, 1 part burlesque show, 1 part strip show and worth about the $10 and 1.5hrs we spent getting the tickets. I’ll leave any boring descriptions out and just say that there were plenty of topless dancers whose parents are ruing the day they ever sent their child to dance and gymnastics lessons.

Hemorrhaging money is a favorite pastime in Vegas and we were certainly not immune to it. Now, 6 margaritas, 5 beers, 3 tequila shots, a few slot machines and one giant buffet later we have spent almost half our weekly budget. Oh well, hot dogs and s’mores the rest of the week.

Mylinh managed to lose her camera, but not her dignity.

No camera = no pictures. Sorry!

Birthday in the Desert

“Did you bring a gun with you?” My mom asked with a concerned look on her face. “What?” I replied not quite sure what the hell she was talking about. “There are all sorts of rapists and murderers out in the backcountry, I always make your dad bring a gun.” She retorted with a smug smirk on her face. I look over to my dad and ask “do you really bring a gun?” He silently shakes his head out of my mom’s view. And this is how we left San Diego and headed out to the Mojave Desert.
As we turned off hwy 40 and into the Mojave National Preserve we felt a sudden sense of awe. The sun was blaring down on this beautiful high desert oasis and we were excited for our first night of camping. I should also mention that it was Mylinh’s 27th birthday and my dad had sent along a bottle of tequila for us to have in celebration.

We got in, set up camp, and pulled out our equipment. It had been quite some time since I’ve been camping and I wasn’t exactly confident that I remembered how to use the stove and other slightly complicated items like the can opener. So, as to save my manhood, I waited until Mylinh went off to the bathroom in order to fuss and fiddle with the stove and make the many mistakes that would inevitably happen as I figured out how to get it lit. This plan worked and by the time she got back the stove was flaming away and she told me how impressed she was – I nodded back at her confirming my impressiveness.
As darkness fell we sat by the moonlight (not to be romantic, but because we forgot the lantern) and sipped tequila. The moon lit up the entire valley with its surreal neon orange glow and it was almost light enough to read. Unlike many other high desert nights I’ve experienced this one stayed warm and so did we. The next morning we roared out of town down a road that splits the Mojave in two and takes us up to the Vegas Freeway – I-15.

Mojave Pictures

Home of my Forefathers

San Diego, the land of my ancestors, holds a special place in my heart. While driving around SD with my grandfather’s hand-drawn, and not very precise map, I found out that my Great Grandfather once owned a significant amount of commercial property in the area prior to the Great Depression.

Before the depression hit, he actually sold 5 acres for a measly $55,000 to my favorite big box retailer, K-Mart. It looks like K-Mart lost the store in their 2002 bankruptcy because it’s no longer on those 5 acres, but they will still be receiving a letter from me demanding free pressboard furniture and ankle high white socks for my GG’s generosity (I know, I know, $55k is a lot of depression-era dollars, don’t try to curb my arguments with logic).

This stop on our trip was special because we got to stay at a hotel with my parents (who were also coincidentally vacationing there) and my parent’s credit cards. This “coincidence” had the benefit of ensuring that all our food was free (i.e. paid for by mom and dad) and tasted all that much better because of it. I felt we earned our keep by washing dishes in our hotel suite and finding delicious places via Yelp.

Outside of San Diego’s always-sunny weather, warm beaches and beautiful women, the food was a welcome surprise in the region. On a quest for free wi-fi, we stopped by Blue Mug, which is a specialty coffee bar that would curb stomp starbucks (American History X style) any day of the week. First, they offer 25 different coffee beans, anywhere from a simple French roast to the rare and delectable Tanzanian Peaberry. Second, they make each cup of coffee individually in a drip coffee bar. Finally, they offer free (listen-up starbucks) and powerful wi-fi. If you end up in the Escondido area definitely stop by.

Next, before an afternoon at the beach, we went by Hodad’s, a magical burger joint with burgers as big as your face and milkshakes that bring all the boys to the yard. Read: big, tasty burgers and milkshakes with a giant scoop of ice cream on top. This is all complemented by the hilarious license plates they have on the wall and the punk rock they play in the background. Check ‘em out.

Finally, we hit up Bahia Don Bravo, a place I heard about many years ago when my friend Jenna came back to Santa Rosa bragging about SD’s special burrito. This burrito, creatively named the “California” burrito, contains carne asada, guacamole, salsa and, drumroll please, FRENCH FRIES!! Alright, it wasn’t as magnificent as I had envisioned it in my mind, but it was still damn good. Down here in SoCal they don’t serve rice and beans in the burritos, so the French fries were a good substitute and there is nothing quite as satisfying as mixing the side dish of an American hamburger meal with my favorite Mexican concoction, the burrito. In all, I’d roll down here and give one a try, but I don’t know if I’d bother with anything else on the menu.

Thank’s again Jenna for letting us stay at your place when we got expelled from our LA spot (funny story, not our fault, but probably not right for the pages of this blog).

Best License Plates Ever!!

Found at Hodad's, Ocean Beach, San Diego

Doin' It Animal Style

People have always told me, and popular opinion suggests, that the San Diego Zoo is the best in the world. This sounded like hyperbole to me. How can one zoo be any better than the others? Sure, they could have some “special” animals that other zoos don’t have, but outside of, I don’t really care if some zoo has a rare albino bearcat or a two-headed snake. Essentially, all zoos have the same selection of lions and tigers and bears – oh my!!

That being said, the San Diego Zoo is the best zoo in the world. This is based on my ever so expansive travels to zoos around the world including the Barcelona Zoo (with an albino gorilla), the Bangkok Zoo (mainly full of prostitutes) and the exotic SF Zoo. What made the zoo different was not necessarily the animals it contained – although it does have one of the few Giant Pandas in captivity and a wild pig that is technically extinct except for the two living at the San Diego Zoo.
The best part of the zoo, something that complemented the animals living there, was the botanical forest that was landscaped around the exhibits. This garden contained tropical plants from almost every continent on earth (obviously not Antarctica) and included a plant from the Jurassic era that is the oldest living plant on earth. In fact, Dr. Suess used to come to the zoo on a regular basis to sketch the wide array of plants for his books.

While we didn’t get the excitement of a tiger attack (see SF zoo mayhem here), but we had a fun time nonetheless. The pictures speak for themselves as for the beauty and variety of animals. Enjoy!

San Diego Zoo Pictures

Where All My Dreams Came True

Disneyland, like Jesus, is many things to many people. A theme park, the most magical place on earth, a crowded, annoying, overpriced area with little kids running around and obese moms walking slower than turtles. To me, it was all of these things combined.

Our friend Brendan,who works at corporate Disney, hooked us up with free tickets (usually $94). While I don't know if I'd pay full price, I ended up having lots of fun.

In my life, I have shifted from being a Disney-hater to being indifferent about the entertainment behemoth. This left me with the worry that I’d be disappointed by Disneyland. As a child I remember being excited and enthralled by the place. This is despite the fact that when I was four I tried to mimic my sister and stand on top of the railing bars in line, ultimately falling and requiring five stitches in my chin.
The best thing about Disneyland, something that is lost on most children, is the detailing. The ambiance of main street with its faux old-fashioned shops and impeccably clean streets gave the park a sharp contrast to ghetto places like Six Flags. Every line for each ride had its own unique design such as steel spikes with impaled skeletons for Indiana Jones or the life-size animatronic C3PO for Star Tours. It’s hard to explain, but something really did feel different (maybe not quite “magical”) about Disneyland. Even as we walked 100 yards across the way and entered California Adventure some indescribable feeling was lost.

Throughout the day we planned, strategized and executed efficiently (is there any other way to live life?) to go on the most rides in the shortest period of time. We utilized the FastPass system, which helped us to jump from ride to ride never waiting for more than a few moments. Our hit list includes such favorites as: Pirates of the Caribbean, Space Mountain, Indiana Jones, Matterhorn, Splash Mountain, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, Buzz Lightyear (surprisingly fun), and Big Thunder Railroad. In California Adventure Park we were much less successful and only made it on Tower of Terror (pretty good) and Maliboomer (like an inverted Drop Zone).

While we probably wouldn’t have paid the outrageous prices to get into the park, it was certainly a great day and I will hold my criticism of those overgrown kids (Terra, I’m looking at you) who claim it is the most magical place on earth.

Thanks again Brendan!!

Disneyland Pictures

Delusions of Grandeur on Highway 1

A novel idea it was to traverse down Highway 1, the PCH, the asphalt snake that twists and turns and slithers down the edge of the continent where you can smell the salt and feel the pacific’s water spray on your face. We drove by pumpkin patches and corn mazes bordering sand dunes. After hundreds of miles of zigging and zagging the redwoods of Big Sur towered over us.

What we didn’t realize is that riding down hwy 1 from SF to LA almost doubles the trip. In all, without hitting a lick of traffic or getting pulled over once (despite our expired registration – only technically, it’s in the mail) it took us over 10 hours to get to LA. Usually time on Interstate 5 = five hours.

Leaving the Half Moon Bay area just a couple hours into our trip I looked down and saw that we had a half tank of gas. In our Honda civic I figured this would take us about infinite miles; I was wrong. Just getting into Big Sur I checked the fuel gauge again and realized it was on “E.” I pulled over at the only gas station in town and was about to fill up when I realized they were charging $4.99/gallon. I, being the smart man I am, was not about to be cheated out of my precious dollars. I drove off in search of better gas prices.

A few minutes later the gas warning light came on; I started to worry. I assumed we had about 1 gallon to go based on my experiences with past Hondas and that this gallon would take us about 30 miles. Well, we twisted and turned and sweated and worried our way along the pacific keeping our eyes peeled for any gas station. I shifted into neutral and drifted down hills trying to save every last drop of gas. I even had Mylinh pull out the car manual to see how many miles we could go after the light came on – it wasn’t helpful at all except to tell us that we shouldn’t run the car to the last drop because it would damage the catalytic converter.

Long story short, we made to a gas station outside of Big Sur in the town of Gorda. The car made it about 26 miles after the light came on. The bad news was that the fuel cost $6.19 a gallon. That sure teaches me to be a cheap bastard.

The PCH is a gorgeous drive. While I wish I had done it on my motorcycle (amazing twists and turns, but that trip will have to wait for my good buddy Chris), it was almost as good getting to break in our new car (new to us) and start off our roadtrip. Driving out of Santa Barbara the wind picked up and sand surrounded our car like a downpour of sweet brown sugar.

Disneyland tomorrow, but for now we get to lay our heads in a posh LA neighborhood – thanks Kristen!!!

Highway 1 Pictures

Great American Road Trip

We struggled with our next travel plans. South Asia was coming to a close and our minds were swirling with visions of Indo beaches, Angor Wat day trips and a jaunt along the great wall. We jumped around the earth and decided that the ruins of Machu Picchu were more our style and a trek in the Andes was what we needed (more trekking - wtf?).

I sat there reading Kerouac's On the Road. We were at 12,000ft and climbing along the Himalayas. Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise were roaring out of Denver and sliding down below the Mason-Dixon line to New Orleans. I turned to Mylinh and said, "no more foreign countries, let's go see America." More specifically, let's go down to New Orleans.

The idea grew in our minds like a virus. Indonesia, Cambodia, China, Peru, Chile all fell out of style like flare jeans. The road trip plans grew and grew.

Look for us traveling from Cali all the way to Georgia and back, all while hitting up such hot spots as LA, San Diego, Mojave, Vegas, Los Alamos (birthplace of the Atom Bomb), Roswell, Austin, Benton, AR (original Walmart), Memphis, Nashville, Kentucky (for bourbon distilleries), Atlanta, New Orleans and numerous other random national and state parks.

The itinerary will undoubtedly change, but our blueprint is the starting point for another adventure and another opportunity to avoid the real world.

If anybody has a place for us to stay along this route we would love a free place to rest our head. Let us know and we promise to be polite and bring lots of beer.