#adventure – Allen Hall

264 Kilometers – www.allenhall.ca

I leave Vichy in bittersweet. The few days I spent couchsurfing at Mathildes flat where spent in enjoyable routine. We ate dinner and lunch together and laughed quite a bit. I got used to the routine there. I even took the time to cook dinner for Mathilde. While Mathilde was at work or dance class I did my own thing at her flat. This included writing, reading, cleaning a bit and cooking. I felt like I was at home. I felt that my routine there could be productive and worth getting used to. I had wondered about staying another night but the discussion never came up. My legs felt ok to ride. I had written in her guestbook. The morning was early and inviting. The time to leave had come.

Mathilde and I hugged and laughed some more while we said goodbye. She drove off in her sedan and I began to strap the luggage to the rear of my bicycle. I hit the road this time with some upgrades. A new smartphone case was attached to my bike so I could view google maps on demand. It also made the headphone cables less awkward. My new GPS watch was an unnecessary add-on. I convinced myself to buy it so I would have loads of data such as heart rate and record keeping for distances, elevations, and speed. It can also control my phone. I bought a towel to replace my chawell. I felt more prepared.

I made it to Roanne with relative ease. Having easy access to the maps on my phone made navigation a breeze. My legs felt stronger on this ride. I journeyed through more farmlands and forests as well as country roads and backcountry trucking lanes. Some of the journey was done on a French highway called the N7. I had room on the road but a few large trucks did pass me by quite closely. I felt pretty comfortable. I took a short break on the side of this highway before heading into Roanne.

Roanne was the largest place I saw since my brief visit in Marseille. The shops where bustling in the city center. People hurried from place to place shopping for clothes, handbags, shoes, and groceries. There were cafes, bakeries and bars. It was oddly comforting to me. The streets where narrow and free of cars and full of people. This was inviting to me. I liked it.

I walked my bike through the streets and found a cafe near the address to my next couchsurfing host. When I connected to wifi I told Georgio I was in town. He said he needed to finish up at work and would meet me in a half hour. At the cafe I ordered a coffee and took to some writing while I waited. Georgio met me punctually in thirty minutes like he had said. He is a tall fellow with a wide inviting smile. He has a warm aura. We walked to his flat just minutes away. I carried my bike up the stairs and parked it inside his flat. There were about five other bikes here, all Georgio’s. He is a cyclist and loves the craft. I am glad to be here.

Georgio offers me some food and I end up grilling avocados with eggs. It is a first for both of us. I gobble it up in a starved manner and Georgio decides to eat something else. We get to know each other a bit at his dinner table. He is an advent reader and teaches French and substitutes other subjects as well. We get along philosophically in general. He is a bit surprised by my military background. Later he folds out his couch bed for me. It looks to be around two hundred years old. The bed of his grandparents he says. It’s perfect. I fall asleep within minutes.

The next day I explore Roanne. Georgio had taken me out to show me around the day before. I saw some boats on the canal that had Quebec flags. I did not see the owners. Roanne is a small city. There are many boulangeries, cafes, and markets typical of France. The city is bright and vibrant during the day despite the abundance of dull grey buildings that frame the streets.

Georgio texts me during the day while he is at work and asks me to meet his friend Mureille. I am to meet her and drive to another city with her where we will meet Georgio and some others that are friends of his. I meet Mureille as instructed and together we drive to St. Etienne. St Etienne is about a one hour drive south of Roanne. Mureille and I have plenty of time to get to know each other. She speaks english well enough but I speak very little french. We are able to have good conversation though thanks to her english. I have to draw a diagram to explain one train of thought but other than that we laugh and get to know each other well.

When we arrive in St.Etienne Georgio greets us at a book fair. We depart there and take in the city from a few different vantage points. We talk about modern art a bit and make some jokes. Mureille is an art teacher. Georgio is an art critic. I am a comedian. The three of us laugh and discuss things until we reach the house of Guylaine.

Guylaine greets us in her home and another resident there also joins in. We are offered beers and sit around a coffee table. The home is occupied by a group of students. It is casual and laid back. Guylaine is probably the most laid back looking person I have ever seen. She does not seem to give any actual fuck at all. That isn’t meant to be a critic on her at all. She just looks so calm and less of a fuck giving than most people. She represents who she is and its very crisp and clean. I’m not sure exactly what I mean.

I talk to the other resident of the house a bit in slow english. He describes his desire to move to Quebec. This is a common theme here in France. A lot of people seem to want to move to Quebec. They call it the Hawaii of France.

When we finish our beers we take a walk through the now dark city of St. Etienne. The group talks mostly in French so I take this time to think about nothing. We arrive at a small school and enter inside. I am told we are going to see a “feminist acapella group”. Georgio tried to explain more but it was lost on me. I was interested so here we are. Inside the school gymnasium people are serving pizza and beers. A little girl probably around age seven serves me a beer. It is probably the best thing that’s happened to me in France.

On the walls of the gymnasium are drawings and stories by students who are Syrian refugees. Only one of them is written in English and this by coincidence turns out to be the one I find first. The story is harrowing details of the childs memories of how Syria once was before the dictatorship, the riots on the streets to its protest, and, the many deaths that followed. It explained from the understanding of this child a description of the Syrian populace’s want of peace and happiness. It explained the fleeing of his family from the murderous rule of a dictatorship that would not let peace happen.

When the feminist accapala group begins to prepare to start their show Georgio translates for me the words of the oranator. Before each song there is a brief description of the songs origin and meaning. Georgio translates this for me. Although I can not understand the words of the songs I am captivated by the emotion of them. I laugh and cry just as maybe I would if I did know what was going on. Some songs are funny, some are sad, some are angry, most seem to be about the need for freedom.

The women of the feminist accapala group represent a few ages and cultures. There are seven of them. Some are French but there is also a Turkish woman, an italian, and a spaniard. They are simply dressed and wearing white aprons with the between of their legs outlined. Some house a red dot in this area. One woman has nothing on her apron but a red dot. There is something about this single red dot and the strong stance the woman takes that captivates me. There are children in the audience. I think the use of not censoring art. The importance of not censoring education and especially expression. I think about how censorship is not something even possible to that little boy and the traumas he witnessed during his life and escape from the Syrian atrocities. I think about the countless others still witnessing the insane abuse of power and lack of humanities across the world and especially right now in Syria. I think about my own family. My cousins, nephews and nieces, and, how I want them to know just how special their lives are. I think that we can all do something indirectly or directly to make better this world. Just by being honest to one another. Not nice but honest.

After the show we return to Guylaines. At this point most of the discussion is in French and my brain is very tired from attempting to translate. There is however a new member of the group who teaches English. I have a very nice discussion with her about emotional intelligence and finding the center within our own consciousness. We eat a big bowl of baked cheese with ham and potatoes. More residents show up seemingly more intoxicated than us. They join in with the cheese and ham and potatoes. They greet me warmly and say what they can in English. Later people begin to go to bed. I play guitar for those of us who are awake. Murielle, and Marine. I sing Johnny Cash and a couple of old blues standards. I forget to play the French song I wrote.

Upstairs the beds are full. Four of us sleep in one room. I have to share a bed next to Georgio who proceedingly tells me. “Allen I have good news for you. There are two males and three females at this party.” He leaves a long pause and finishes with a cold “and you must sleep with me.”. After an hour of the four of his laughing and singing while laying in bed we decide it’s time for sleep. It reminds me of precious childhood sleepovers. I make some jokes about my new watch and wait for morning.

When morning arrives I am eager to leave. I am a bit uncomfortable and mostly inclined to be anti-social. That is something I want to change but it has proven difficult. Decades of habits are hard to change. No surprise there. Georgio, Murielle and I take a walk to the local baker. We buy croissants, cakes and donuts except the later two are named differently than I can remember. We return to the home of Guylaine to eat breakfast.

Breakfast is a fun affair. I get coffee and eat some of the croissants and cakes with locally made jams. This house is joyful to be in. It is dwelt by artists and open minded youngsters. The affairs are casual and open. Everyone seems to pitch in with the chores. I am sure though that there are conflicts from time to time. What seems typical of young people today is apparent in this house. It is kept clean but there are things everywhere. Myriads of forgotten and sometimes picked up again hobby items. There are makeshift fixes for uncommon problems such as mattresses used to cut light from windows, kitty boxes to gather dirt, and, general clutter everywhere. It seems though that most items are used often and have purposes.

I depart the house of Guylaine with Murielle and Georgio. We take Murielle’s car north back towards Roanne. On the way we stop at a castle and I take some photos.

Back in Roanne I say goodbye to Murielle. I wonder if I will see her again but I doubt it. I could have exchanged information but I decided to forego the formality. My journey is filled with meetings that never mature enough to properly negotiate friendship. They are left in the acquaintance of hopeful abundance and left with the feeling of something promising. A blessing and curse. Murielle waves goodbye a final time while Georgio and I carry his bicycle and punctured tire back to the apartment.

The next day Georgio and I depart on our bikes together. He has enthusiastically offered to accompany me halfway to Lyon. The 40 km I ride with Georgio are the best of my trip. Riding with a partner is nearly double as fun as riding alone. During this ride I make the longest and hardest climb of my trip. I do not have to dismount and walk though because having Georgio with me is motivation. At one point we play “Water bottle relay”. Georgio offers me his water bottle and when I grab it he pulls me along the way through this connection.

After what seems like a near enturnity of an estimated fifteen kilometer climb we finally reach the summit of the pass between Roanna and Lyon. The descent is unlike anything I have experienced before. I am able to ride at maximum speed for nearly twenty minutes as we make our way down the winding decline of the mountain we had previously climbed. Everything seems worth it when moments like these occur. Bicycling is its own method of freedom and best explored at coming down from high altitudes that were arduous to climb.

As the wind whips past me and I negotiate the turns along the descent my smile is from ear to ear. This is what I am awarded for going on a whim. For listening to my heart as it directed me to do something I did not fully understand. Complete freedom. Although I wish I had a bit of a faster bike and less weight. Well, I do not wish that actually. I just know that one day I will improve these experiences with faster bikes and less weight.

At the bottom of the mountain Georgio must depart back to Roane. He offers me an almond paste bar. We exchange hugs high fives and laughs and I watch him depart back up the mountain. I get lost in the neighboring town while looking for wifi. I find a restaurant that is open on a Monday and order a massive kebab that is stuffed with french fries. After about an hour of being lost I find a wifi signal at Mcdonalds and continue my journey for the next thirty seven kilometers to Lyon.

Georgio found a place for me to stay at in Lyon. A friend of his who is also a teacher. She greets me into her home and offers me complete generosity. She gives me her room and she sleeps on an air mattress. The generosity of people is quite a thing to recognize. It is a highlight of my trip to get to know people in this intimate way. I rely on them and they are more than happy to share themselves with me. It is a beautiful thing.

This is the first 264 km of my trip. I am 2.64 percent closer to my goal of 10000 km to arrive in Thailand. Already the gifts seem abundant. I think back to the tale that helped me make the decision to take on this crazy trip “The Alchemist” and remember some advice the King of Salem gave the boy. “At first the journey will be easy. It is called beginners luck. The universe will do all it can to encourage you to follow your personal legend. After these initial successes things will become exceedingly difficult until they seem almost impossible.”. I wonder with this advice what lies ahead of me on this long road.

264 km down

GPS Signal Lost – Allenhall.ca

I get ready to depart La Malatre holding back tears as we eat our last breakfast together. The emotional wounds endured by this family are opened again. This is a repeated outcome at La Malantre. While we eat breakfast I witness the tears and sadness well up in Evelyn as almost ready to burst. A dam is filling inside her, as it fills in us all – waiting for the inevitable moment when I say goodbye, our dam breaks, and, we all cry.

The family of La Malantre open their doors to volunteers who want to work on the farm and enjoy some hospitality in the quiet countryside of Auvergne France. The volunteers arrive to a family rather than an employer. They are taken into the family and treated like a favorite daughter or son. It is love that is shared here. The method of its transfer is so genuine that one can do all they can to not feel at home and as though they have been family all their lives. If not by acquaintance with the family then as a long estranged child who had returned home and was now engorged by the comforting method of reassimilation into the family unit. The celebrated return of the prodigal child.

Before I depart we give our final hugs and goodbye kisses. Megan the new workawayer set to replace me is filming the whole exchange. I nearly forget to hug Megan goodbye, she reminds me, we hug. Waving goodbye and pushing off my bicycle my mind becomes full of wonder and excitement. It is hard to believe that I am actually doing this. Shoving off on a bicycle with the intent to take it all across France, than Europe, the Middle East and all the way to Thailand. This is not something I imagined myself doing – ever. It was only a week ago that I decided to do this at all. Plans were sparse as was preparation. I have no idea where I’ll be sleeping and eating beyond the next few days. I will have to plan and prepare and adjust along the way.

My first stop is not far from the house that I stayed at in the Malantre. I must return some tools to the local mechanic. I had borrowed some sockets and a wrench to assemble my bicycle two days ago. The mechanic greets me with a smile and handshake. We communicate in broken french and hand gestures. I explain that I am about to depart for my tout le monde (tour of the world). I thank him “Merci Beaucoup” for his lending me the tools. He wishes me luck. I depart.

There is a thick fog in the air. I make mental notes of the importance of adding bright lights to my setup. The road is downhill all the way to commentary. I arrive there within six minutes. On Monday many shops are closed. The streets are empty. I go to the town square because I need to use the free local wifi. I had to update my map and sync my GPS. I had planned to do this at the Malntree but the departure proceedings where confused by heavy emotion.

My plan was to leave my phone tucked into my backpack on the rear tire rack. I could listen to google voice directions while I drove my bicycle. As I departed Commentry at the village roundabout was the first time I heard Google say “GPS Signal Lost”.

My bike is loaded so heavy that it cannot stand on its own on most surfaces. With my headphone cable attached to my pack behind me it makes it complicated to get off the bike without yanking the earbuds out of my ears. Since my GPS signal is so weak I am forced to ride a little down each roundabout exit and stop and awkwardly brace my bicycle then retrieve my phone from the sack and reload the GPS. Did I mention I have no pockets? This is what lack of planning involves. To think I did not buy a handlebar phone mount for my bicycle because I thought it seemed corny! It is definitely on my shopping list now.

I take a few twists and turns repeating the same awkward procedure mentioned above. I do this multiple times for about twenty minutes. The obstacles of this journey are already becoming apparent. They do not seem to bother me however. I can only laugh at my own ridiculousness at this point. I have become more familiar with how foolish I am. I am accepting it. I am embracing it.

Eventually I acquire a strong GPS signal and google begins to guide me through my attached earbuds. Google leads me through town alleys that give way to town roads that give way to passageways and eventually turn into dirt roads. The stoney house structures of France become less and less bunched together. They begin to spread out and become separated by large fields. Once again I am overlooking mass stretches of rolling farmland. The color of the fields and hedges that border them remind me of giant stuffed teddy bears with odd colored patch work stitching them together. The large fields of brown, green, and dark yellow, make up the fur and the trapezoid shaped hedges bordering them make up the patchy seamstress work.

I begin to doubt the path suggested to me by google as it becomes more and more narrow. It’s taking me through a forest now on bumpy grass pathways between the houses and fields and farmland.

After a final strange turn Google insists I turn right but I can not. My path is blocked by a gated fence that encloses a train track on both sides. “Does Google want me to ride the rails?” I wonder. There is a deadbolt that locks the gate. I begin to wonder if I should lift my bike over the gate or turn back and find another way. I wonder if Google is as lost as I am. I begin to wonder if this track is even in use. Just as this thought crosses my mind I begin to hear the rumble and horn of an oncoming train car.

I turn my head to the left and see a single yellow train car with two operators aboard. It is a funny shaped car. It’s awkward appearance matches the feeling of helpless uncertainty of my own mission. The two operators honk and smile and cheer at me as they pass by. I watch them disappear around a bend. I decide that since I am on an adventure that will call for many unorthodox decisions I can not let a simple fence obstruct me. I begin to push my bicycle into the gate and lift it over.

It is a heavy bike. It has over fifty pounds strapped to the back. I have to lift its awkward weight over my head to get the rear wheel over. As the bike falls to the other side my backpack strapped to the carry rack detaches and falls to the ground. I hop the gate thinking it is good that my backpack detached. Since my bag is easily detachable I can use this feature to throw my bike over future gates that attempt to block my way. Simply disconnect bag, toss bag, toss bike, toss self and continue. No problem. Lets go Google.

I throw my bike and bag over the second fence. I reload the baggage and fix my dress. I hop back on the bike. There is a path on this side that follows the train tracks. I ride the path to find a street that has multiple exits and hear that faithful sound from google “GPS signal lost”.

Much of my ride plays out like this. I find myself re-adjusting google quite often. There are long stretches of open road though that make up for all the confusion. When I am out in the open and sure of my way it is the most genuine feeling of freedom I have ever known. “This is the best day of my life” I hear my consciousness say. I find myself pushing the bike up many hills. I get lost in forests. I take lunch in the middle of a farmers field. I nap here a bit and listen to “The Alchemist” on audible book. It is the second time for me to read this book. The first time was one week ago when I was deciding whether or not I should attempt this crazy bike ride. It was impossible to say no to such a thing while listening to the alchemist. I must follow my personal legend. I simply must. One day I will teach you to do the same if you want.

After hours of up hills, down hills, lost in small towns, knee scrapes and running out of water I find myself in Vichy France. This is my first destination. My couchsurfing host Mathilde is not off work yet. I take two hours to lay on a bench in the centre of town and listen to my audiobooks. Tonight my legs burn like when I was a child. I attach medical patches to them and sleep on Mathildes couch. She greets me into her home with warmth. All over her flat is decorated with positive sayings and mantras “Follow your dreams!” “Life is beautiful” “Take care and be well!” things like that. A kindred spirit. A traveller. A lover of life. I shower and fall to sleep quickly waking up through the night to nurse my legs. The next day I sleep nearly completely through. Mathilde and I get to know each other. She cooks me a specialty of france. Bread, cheese, meat, and butter. I scarf it down like a hungry animal.

In the next few days I prepare for the second leg of my journey. I am .87 percent closer to my goal of the estimated 10000 km to Thailand. I am still messaging people for places to stay. Not everything has become obvious yet. I have faith it well. Until next time, Take care!

GPS Signal Lost

Allen

Walking in Memphis

After a weekend in Nashville’s nightlife I feel pretty taxed. The clouds never did let up and I use this an excuse as to why I do not explore the city much during the day. I do find a guitar shop. Mostly because I sort of lost interest in it. I visit the Johnny Cash museum but do not go inside due to price. It turns out that Monday is a holiday. Most of the shops are closed. I take a long walk out of the core area of broadway. I find myself crossing large bridges over railway yards that sprawl on and on. The vastness of American cities is hard for me to comprehend. I know the country is filled with so many of these mega cities. It’s a quiet day and everything is grey. The clouds sit on the sky encompassing the city in every direction way beyond what my eye can see. The buildings, grey as well, seem to blend in with the clouds. The streets are grey and the puddles that fill them reflect the grey of their surroundings. A cold breeze breathes around me. The temperature is both warm and cold. My brisk walk suggests I take my jacket off and put it back on again in about five minutes, then take it off again for another seven minutes. I pass a man holding roses on the bridge. He is dressed well and has focused eyes looking beyond me. I turn to watch him out of curiosity to his image. He stops at the middle part of the bridge to look over the train yard for a moment then tosses a rose off one by one until they are all gone.

I find a whole new town a few minutes after the bridge. Buildings stretch out far into the sky again and I think I am in what is called Nashville’s west end. It is filled with coffee shops, hotels, commercial appliance repair shops, bookstores, and many other medium to large size buildings of businesses or dwellings. I am lost a bit so naturally I start following people around. They lead me to a open coffee shop which I thought was a bicycle repair shop. Curiously you have to walk through a small sort of alley way to get to it and once you are there walk through a large car garage door to enter the actual coffee shop. The counter takes up the middle square of the place. Table and chairs, made up of thick log cut picnic tables and stools, take up the space around the center counter and barista area. There is a women in line before me but she suggests I go first. I watch her later as she hovers around the counter a bit, laughing as she gets close, then backing away, and doing it again.

When I head back towards my hostel I get lost. I find myself under the bridge I walked across before. I search around but I can’t find the roses. I do find a large metal staircase that brings me up another perpendicular bridge. I get a good view of Nashville in every direction from here. Grey and stretched out and quiet after its pulsating weekend. Its Monday, a holiday, everyone is sleeping. I head back to the hostel and take and join them.

My destination is New Orleans but along the highway I notice memorials named after blues legends like Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, and John Lee Hooker. At a rest station I read a sign that says “Memphis, home of the blues and rock and roll.”. That’s pretty tempting. I decide to take a detour and about another hour down the highway I come to the crossroads. One exit leads to Memphis while the other leads on to New Orleans. Indecision kicks in. Should I continue as planned or listen to whimsy? The car noticeably shifts from left to right as my mind jumbles reasoning. Proudly I take the exit to Memphis and feel like a new person. Like someone who can do whatever they want because I am free to do so.

The exit leads me to the connecting highway towards Memphis. It takes a lot longer than I thought. Once I get to the city limits I am once again surprised by the shear size of it. Before I know it I am at the edge of the Mississippi River. This is a great feeling for me. I picture Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, and Joe, riding down the Mississippi on their raft free from concern and lost in wonder. I get a warm feeling in my stomach proud to be on an adventure of my own. The mississippi is wide here but no where near its widest. I am told later that it can stretch to be over a mile wide. It looks brown and flowing. There is a wind blowing just over the description of gentle that is uneasy and sharp with little cold talons. An old steam boat restaurant tour ride sits perched at a dock. It is quiet and sleeping. I see no one walking about.

I’ve entered the city on the edge of what I guess is its commercial district core. There is a large glass pyramid building that seems rather interesting until I read the sign “Bass Pro Shop”. Next to that, on the river bank, is another large glass building that is the Memphis welcome building. I’ve had great luck with these so far. The people inside have always been friendly. I park the car and enter from the main doors. A towering bronze statue of Elvis Presley greets me. A few people take pictures next to it. I feel like I’m home. Or atleast, I want to be home here. Inside there is another statue, this one of B.B. King. The statues look to be about twenty feet tall and remind me that this really is the birthplace of rock and roll. Quite the claim, undisputed.

As usual the ladies at the front desk are wonderful. I tell them that signs of rock and roll led me here on a detour from Nashville to New Orleans. One of them says “Oh, You decided to kick it with us for a few days instead!”. I smile because her description was very accurate. I did want to kick it here for a few days. I get directions to a hostel and some other points of interest. The obvious nightlife street here is called “Beale Street”. It is much like Nashville’s broadway street but stretches on a bit longer and seems much more “dirty”. I guess it is a bit older, maybe, that it seems that way. I never end up spending a lot of time in Beale Street. I am a bit worn out from Nashville and interested in taking a break from loud bars.

As usual I get lost looking for the hostel. I drive through the towering building side of Memphis by taking the opposite turn suggested to me by the rad welcome center ladies. I shoot alongside the Mississippi river which I am sort of fine with until the road forces me back. Finally I get on the right path and drive about ten minutes. The landscape changes from large buildings to old houses. I am in a quiet neighborhood now and I imagine to everyone else that it must be easy to spot I am a foreigner. I do multiple roundabouts, cut people off and drive down some streets that feel like only locals ever drive down.

I find the hostel eventually and learn later the street it is on is definitely a busy one.The hostel is an old church connected to an old school. The sidewalks around are dilapidated and the brick walls are colored like a rusty sponge. Weather faded and uncared for. The building is quite large but only a portion of it is part of the hostel. A sign in front reads “We accept everybody”. It’s written in multi colored letters and accentuated by various colored faces on painted with it. That’s a good sign I think. In the back there is a parking lot, bonus.

I call the number listed on the locked door at the back entrance. A tiny person opens the back door. The smile is wide surrounding ivory white teeth with cheeks that crinkle around the basin of large deep welled eyes. The eyes are brown and a short cut bob of dark hair surrounds the face in a purposeful frame. Alexi introduces herself and leads me up two flights of stairs. We go through another locked door and enter the hostel. To my right there is a room filled with books and couches and old carpets. Dimly lit lamps give the aura of comfort and I imagine myself spending most of my time here. On the left of the hallway is the common area and reception desk. There is a standard kitchen with a few tables and chairs, two fridges, coffee makers, toasters and the reception desk. Nothing matches, everything is borrowed, and, seems found. The hardwood floor is old and dilapidated, my favorite, because it squeaks just right.

After check in I set my bags down in my bedroom which has eight bunks. Everyone is gone except Albert who had also just checked in. I decide to be social and introduce myself. Albert is a big person with a half moon crescent beard from ear to ear. His chest is thick and wide and he is very friendly. “I’m here for the MLK fifty year.” he says. “The what?”. “The Doctor Martin Luther King Junior fifty year anniversary.” he says. “Oh! – When is that?” I feel stupid but also accept that I am. He tells me the event is on Wednesday but he will be attending classes all week. Outside I find a paper with Dr Martin Luther King Junior on the cover. I read it from front to back to get educated.

Outside there is still daylight left. I search google for barbecue and find a place close by called “Central Barbecue”. All along the drive I had psyched myself up for southern style BBQ and I had a feeling this place would deliver. Memphis had a strange air about it this day. It was warm with an accompanying wind. No one was on the streets. Every once and a while all the sounds of the area would sort of disappear. I could watch signs moving in the wind but heard nothing coming from them. It reminded me of ominous weather warnings. That eerie calm before a tornado strikes.

A few blocks from the hostel and I ran into some interesting shops. Memphis Drum Shop was one of them and had a display kit in the window which was a Ludwig kit from 1947. I took photos of it and sent it to my drummer friend to tease him. Not to my surprise he asked me to buy it. Later when the shop was open I asked about it and not to my surprise again the shopkeeper told me it was not for sale. Further down the street I saw a rainbow flag hanging from another shop with a sign that said “We love everybody” and “Care Aid Available”. It comforted me to see something like this in a place so unfamiliar. I walked a few more blocks down and saw another music store called Xanadu Music & Books. I made a note of this place because it had a sing on top that said “Guitars and Stuff” and that’s pretty much two things that I like.

Taking a turn right off cooper on to central and a few blocks walk I enter into Central Barbecue. Immediately I know I have come to the right place. It is a packed old brick building enlarged by two added extensions which are also packed. Everyone is munching cue, smiling and enjoying themselves. Old blues music plays on the speakers. Most of it i do not even recognize. Should I cry? No. I must order the cue.

At the counter I am asked for ID so I give up my passport. “Oh you from Canada? Thats cool!”. I laugh and order a full rack of ribs. “A full rack?” I almost regret it and feel like I have no idea what I am getting into but I push on and insist the give me the full rack with a side of beans, slaw and a biscuit. I take a seat and feel like this is where everyone comes after preaching and singing in a gospel. I get the ribs and pretty much pummel the first ten bones without much thought. After that though, about two thirds in I begin to sweat and lose vision. I try the coleslaw but it’s a foolish effort. I go back to the barbecue ribs with some newly mustered zeal and almost finish them off.

I can’t say enough about Central Barbecue so I won’t say more except that it may have been my favorite place in Memphis. It was everything I had hoped it would be. Quick dirty barbecue with no mess and no fuss. I pick up my gut with what was left of my strength and take it back to the hostel where I sleep as my poor body manages what I’ve done to it. “I’m going to sleep, body, clean up this mess while I’m gone!”.

The next morning during breakfast I meet a few other hostel dwellers. Guy, who I wrote a bit about here, introduces himself to me and I give him a few boiled eggs. Another traveller, Ivan, talks about his european adventures, casual philosophy, and current travel plans. Maxi finds his way through the kitchen by feel. He is a resident here and I like the way he talks. Maxi takes a short breath before saying anything and he always talks with conviction. When someone says something to Maxi I think I can see what was said to him sink in. He seems to listen very well and not only hears the words spoken to him but also absorbs them. There’s a new caretaker behind the desk who has beautiful braided hair. The braids are a long thick slick of dark cords. The music playing is sweet soft rhythm and blues.

After breakfast I make my way to Xanadu Guitars and Stuff Bookstore. I have in mind to find an american song book. An american song book will teach me all the contemporary hits so I can play top 40s for anyone, campfire magic. The building is old, as most things seem to be in Memphis. A porch leads to the side of the building where the entrance is. I open the screen door which sits on broken hinges. Inside everything is brown. The walls are stale wood and chipped and covered with what appear to be home made cigar box guitars. Their are guitar bodies shaped like cats heads, dogs heads, strange shapes I do not recognize and a few have no body at all. Just a stick with a string on it and a tiny pickup at the bottom. There are books everywhere. Shelves from floor to ceiling are covered in books, mostly old, some new. Books sit on stools, pillows, some of the floor. The display counter is full of books as well, piles of them. To my left the store goes on into another room. To my right I see a small office and a man, who had his back to me, stands and turns to face me in a fluid sort of motion, like he had peeled his piercing blue eyes off the floor to do it. His eyes are active, wide, bright eggs that look through me and past me. His gaze seems distracted yet focused. White hair shoots out from his head in all directions. We greet each other as common weirdos but the comfort seems foreign and new. He asks me to drop my bag in the back. I do.

I talk for a moment but Johnny takes over pretty quickly. I don’t blame him for it because I egg him on. His speech a passionate one about why he will not start an amazon store. He talks at lengths about the need for new ‘shit’ in music. I learn a great deal in a short amount of time from Johnny Low Bow. Johnny has been around. He is travelled and is well read. He says owning a bookstore in America is kind of a joke. Johnny Low Bow is a one man band. He builds strange guitars. I never really get a word in about what I came for. He tries to let me look around but his speech continues to grasp me away from the shelves and into his blue eyes. After a while he plugs one of his creations in. It is a two stringed homemade bow guitar. One string is a bass string, the other a guitar string, each with their own pickup. We plug each pickup into their respective amps and with a brass slide to change the intonation he strums out loud powerful sounds in the tiny room tucked away behind the main display area.

In here there are amps everywhere. Johnny sits behind a bass drum, snare drum, and high hat which he plays with his feet. With a drumstick in one hand and a brass slide in the other he beats the snare and strums the guitar while kicking the bass drum and hi hat. Every once in a while he performs an interlude on and old Rhode Organ that sounds like it is out of the seventies because it is. After a bit of serenation I am allowed to play. I am surprised by the great sound this custom made stick guitar makes. I am told various ways to change its tone including a moveable neck nut as well as simply twisting the neck itself. Tempting as it was I had to choke up on my budget and not buy one of these neat and very unique instruments. Hopefully I go back someday to get one. I buy a record from Johnny Low Bow himself called “Im a one man band”. He tells me he will be touring in Finland soon and signs my record.

The next day Guy and I catch an early morning bus to head downtown. It’s a cold morning still fresh with the chilly night air. During the bus ride I see that Memphis’ suburbs sprawl out in many directions. There are little towns within towns all with housing, businesses, and activity. After about a fifteen minute ride we come to a bus terminal where we can ride a connecting bus to the downtown core. It is a trolley that will take us there and is constructed of a style from an era when people hung out at soda pop shops and drank milkshakes. The Trolley, made from wood and iron has park benches inside for seating. It is quite uncomfortable but charming enough to make up for it. Within another fifteen minutes the driver pulls the bus over to make up for gained time. Guy asks where the best place to get off is to get to the National Civil Rights Museum and the driver tells us he will let us off at the best spot. We wait for another five minutes until the driver starts the bus which he then drives forward about ten feet and says, “Alright! This is the spot. Just walk that way.” and points down a street. Guy and I laugh about this and head on our way.

It is April 4th, 2018 and most every shop downtown Memphis is closed this morning. Guy and I follow the crowds to a back street that leads us past a reception area that is still setting up. We come to the street between the Lorraine Hotel and the buildings that the shooter aimed from. Through the crowd Guy points on the exact location where Dr Martin Luther King Jr was assassinated. There is stage set up today. We arrived early and the crowd is pouring in quickly filling up the street. Guy and I watch a couple of speakers together until Guy decides to part ways and find a different vantage point. I learn about King’s mission and that he was doing work for lower class employees of American cities. That his beliefs wrought a man of pure conviction and servitude until he was martyred here on this day. The theme is “Where do we go from here?” and the stage shows are a constant flow of reminders of plights of the common day that are entrenched in the past with hopes of an uplifting future. I hear from people who knew Dr Martin Luther King Junior personally as they recount tales of this bright figure of social justice. They recount the history of a person who did everything they could for what they believed in. There is singing, praying dancing and music.

After the initial congregation I break away and take walk through downtown Memphis. It is a cold windy day and seems very much uncharacteristic. I find Beale Street which easily fits the description of a district filled with bars and cheap drinks. Piano sounds and loud music come from every which way although mostly every where is barren empty today. I find a trolley station and take the wood iron park bench bus mobile back to the bus terminal. After a long wait our bus arrives and many of us crowd out to catch it. I guess this is a common route. I wonder if I will be able to get on because there are so many of us waiting.

Many people come off the bus as it parks but the line of people in front of me trying to get on is prevented from doing so. “Out of Service” is displayed on the bus’ sign. After some investigation by one of the would be passengers we are told there is a woman on the bus who refuses to get off. “Fuck you, Fuck off, I don’t give a fuck!” she repeats the words of the refusing passenger for all of us to hear as she smokes and laughs about it. Eventually a service van parks close by and the driver of that vehicle goes in the bus to see what is going on. I see police cars nearby but they are not needed and do nothing. Eventually she does get off. She has an obvious scowl on her face as is led to the van. I think she just got a free ride home.

The bus stops halfway through the route so everyone can get off and have a smoke. A gentleman passenger on the bus asks if he can run to the store and the driver says “Only if you make it lickity split!.”. The man runs off the bus in a tear. Eventually I get back to the hostel tired from the wind and sun. I wonder if I should have stayed out there longer. I feel like I got what I came for, tired and learned after walking in Memphis.

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Married In Nashville Tennessee

Gordie and I take a few walks and runs during the late hours of the night. We do a few laps at a grocery store parking lot. I try to explain to her that she may need to calm down when meeting new people and that her excitement might cause new friends to not trust her. She doesn’t seem to notice I am talking to her. Her eyes dart about the parking lot with every subtle movement she picks up. I pick up her poop and we go back to Chris’ hotel. I will sleep here in Greenville South Carolina before heading back to Nashville Tennessee.

In the morning I do not notice Chris leaving. Gordie and I go outside to run and poop. I take Gordie back to the room and try to formulate a plan. There happens to be a TD bank in Greenville so I head there to get some cash. I’m not sure why but I only end up taking half as much as I had planned to. This causes problems for me later because I end up charging everything to card and paying for it with exchange fees. The teller at the bank tells me to call the number on the card to complete the cross border banking process. I nod at her and leave the bank to head to Walmart. At Walmart I spend five percent of my budget on SIM cards. They don’t work in my phone though so I stuff them in with my dirty laundry.

Back at the hotel Gordie’s pleading eyes convince me to go for another walk and run. She poops, I pick it up and then we say our goodbyes. I kiss her skull and she looks up at me kind of sad like. Since the SIM cards do not work in my phone I assume I have no GPS. I use my memory about how to get on the highway towards Nashville but feel kind of hopeless. I have become frustrated with not moving though so I pack the car and hit the road.

Somehow my notoriously bad sense of direction gets me back on the highway. It was not that difficult. I head west assuming I can find my way back to Nashville based on signs and intuition. The freeway soothes me. My anxious mood feels like something is being accomplished, I guess, while driving down the highway, and this notion calms it. An hour into my drive I stop for gas.

The change in lifestyle recently has put me in a bad mood for a couple of weeks now. Growing pains I guess. Sometimes I remember that bad moods are brought on by choice. At least that’s a theory I have picked up. I choose to feel bad or good or however and that is how I get in the mood I am currently in. I have conversations about this with a few different friends recently. A new theme came up that was shared amongst them in one way or another. The shared idea is that we do not have any control over our lives, really, that we are just along for the ride. I have mixed feelings about this. The idea is that there is no free will, just experience.

When I am in a bad mood I tend to avoid people, even gas station attendants, which I have no way around since my card does not work at the pump in the United States of America. It doesn’t work because I choose to not call my bank to finish cross border banking. Which I choose to do because I’ve been choosing to be in a bad mood. The result is I have to go inside each station to pay at the teller. The woman inside is bright eyed and cheerful. She is in such a good mood that it is infectious. I remind myself to be in a better mood. I remind myself that things are awesome. That I am on the road in America on a solo adventure of a lifetime. That I completed a long list of remarkable things to afford myself this great trip. I remind myself that life is awesome when we smile and choose to enjoy ourselves. I choose to be grateful at the fact that I am very fortunate to be living this lifestyle. Oh, the things that human interaction can accomplish.

Eventually I am lost on the highway. I took a few random turns on bases of my intuition while driving through the Nantahala National forest. I end up in a sort of rolling hills country town and the unfamiliarity weighs down on me. I explore a bit for some reason and get further and further away from the interstate. Through a few twists and turns, bumps, roundabouts and dirt driveways I find a McDonalds. They are everywhere as far as I can tell. They offer free wifi and to me that is a GPS update. I pull in and connect and this is when I learn that google maps can download directions that can be used offline. Looking back I overused google maps and probably should have got lost more. Lessons learned. I plot a course to Nashville, find the interstate, and engage to lightspeed.

With a newly adopted positive mood and GPS directions I enter the big city of Nashville. I become excited to explore the music scene again, this time on my own, and, to try to meet new people. I let my concerns go and tell myself that no matter what I will have a good time. I think about searching for guitar stores so I can get some equipment to beef up Chris’ fender stratocaster. I think about dancing to blues music and with that comes the idea that maybe I can have a beer while I do it. I turn it over in my head and the freedom of choice ignites. It’s been over two years since I’ve had one and I do not feel bad about the decision. “I am going to find a blues bar, drink, and have a good time.”

I check into the downtown music city hostel in good spirits. As I have often found in southern USA the staff at the front desk are very friendly. They go on and on with information about the hostel and the city. I barely listen because I am wound up from the drive and eager to go explore. The common area of the hostel is massive. It is a large hall filled with couches, chairs, a lounge area and a big restaurant style kitchen. There are guitars and ukuleles hanging from the beams of the room and a piano sits in the far corner of the room. “Our piano is tuned!” says the counter attendant while I stare at it. “Are you a musician?” I turn to face two women who are also checking in. “Not really.” I say. “I can play guitar a bit.” I learn one of their names is Robyn who says “Cool!”. Her counterpart, Mary-Ann, tells me that Robyn is an amazing singer and that we should all jam later. “Sure.”.

Robyn and Marry-Ann are bright eyed and vibrant. Marry-Ann is an art teacher and Robyn does multiple jobs as far as I can tell but primarily does music with children. We make loose plans to meet at a diner. We are all very anxious to get to our rooms and so we depart for now. To get to my room I go through multiple locked doors and an elevator. This is comforting. I did not know at all what to expect here and it has proven to be safe, clean and secure.

I do not care much to ‘get ready’ to go out so I drop my bag and make my way outside. I am not quite sure what part of town I am in. I know that I am close to broadway street, Nashville’s tourist nightlife core, but I am not sure what direction it is in. My hope is that one day I will start asking people for directions. I head off in a random way and quickly get lost. Earlier while eavesdropping on Marry-Ann and Robyn questioning the hostel attendants about where to go I gathered enough information to find my way to “Puckett’s”. Puckett’s is where we all sort of planned to meet. It is packed though so I turn around and start peering down alleyways.

Darkness has completely set in now. I see a large banner stretching across the street that reads “Printers Alley”. I make my way past a few bars and find myself on Broadway Street. It is characteristically busy so I turn away and lead myself down a less populated street. I see a sign that reads “B.B. Kings Blues Club” and I tell myself that this will do.

Inside there are three hosts behind the podium and a party of two between me and them. They seem to be negotiating the cover charge of ten dollars. The delay in line gets them nowhere and they end up paying the charge. A host leads the party inside as I approach the remaining two matradee. I talk a bit quietly and they don’t understand, I don’t understand their responses, eyes shift around a bit, they charge me five dollars and I am led in and sit at the bar.

As I’m led inside I hope to myself that this is not a gimmick bar. The lights radiate off the decor in a red hue. There is also somehow a trace of a blue in the air. It feels like people are smoking but no one is. There seems to be some sort of perpetual haze here. The whole scene is romantic, classy and raw. It’s saturated in things I find cool. There are paintings of famous musicians covering the walls. Leading from the welcome area there is an elevated seating area. This area holds twelve tables and overlooks a stack of guitar amps next to the guitar and keyboard player, stage right. Beyond this leads to the main dining area which is in front of the stage separated by a dance floor. There are about forty tables here between the dance floor and the bar. The place is much bigger than I thought. It does not seem gimmicky at all.

There were not many bar stools left but I was happy with mine. Servers pick up drink orders here, which is where the tender makes them. I did not have to vie for attention and that suits me. Everyone in here is dressed up. Suits, ties, fancy shoes, gowns, fedora’s, flower hats and swing dresses are all common place. I notice one man at a table in front of me who has his eyes clothes, his fingers snapping and a grin dominates most of his face. I get it man. The band was really good. Every band I’ve seen so far in Nashville was really good but this band was top notch. A lot of people were dancing and everyone seemed to know what they were doing. I think I saw Billy Jean on the dance floor. Many partners came and went to and fro her. I don’t think any of them was the one.

I really dig the style the jazz brings it out. It evokes words like ‘dig’ and demands class yet it can be as dirty as music gets. The band was full of class and had the obvious swing of decades in experience. The songs were mostly standards but sounded fresh and alive. Myself and a few others I observed had a common look on our faces that are often described as ‘shit eating grins’.

After a few songs and beverages to go along when the mood had been set high I listened to the front man of the band invite someone to the stage. I try to see but my view is blocked by the scene. It seems pretty routine at first but soon a new height of electric energy lights up the air. Five women dressed in long blue gowns enter the room from the entrance way right side of stage. They are all holding up large signs above their heads each donning a word to the message, one with a question mark “Will you marry me?”.

The crowd is gasping and cheering as my own heart jumps to my throat. I peer around to see everyone’s widest and brightest smile. Men and women are cheering, some of them holding their mouths, others hugging and many crying. All of our eyes sparkle with tears. I hear the bride to be let out an ecstatic yelp and the band moves into a heartfelt slow ballad. The sax player carries the tune and romances us all in only the way that a saxophone can. Through a sea of guests wiping their tears and the thick gloss of my own wetted eyes I watch the bride and groom to be hold each other like only lovers can. They dance slowly to the number played just for them. The openness of their hearts bathes the room and I thank my lucky stars that I am here to see this couple married in Nashville.

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Pizza In New Orleans

Pizza In New Orleans

Guy’s monologue breaks momentarily as we both notice another hitchhiker with their thumb out. I ask Guy what his opinion on the situation is “Should I pick him up?”. Guy seems to evaluate for a brief moment before saying “Oh yea! This guy is old, pick him up!”. I slow down the car and get over the shoulder of the highway. Once i get to a full stop I am a bit further away than would have been ideal. In the rear viewer I see the name trying his best to run to catch up to us. I’m too scared to back up so I just sit in awkward anticipation as guy moves his seat to the back. The man approaches the door and he appears to be in his mid seventies maybe. His face is long and drawn out as he gasps for air but his blue eyes remain fixed on me and I see his grateful. I apologize for making him run which he explains is’t a problem, except his doctor told him not to since he just had open heart surgery. “Get in!” I say.

About a mile up the highway we pull off an into a gas station. Tom, our brief new in car resident goes inside with the hopes they also sell gerry cans here. I take a stretch and Guy explains it usually isn’t wise to pick up people who don’t have a backpack, but since this feller was old we made an exception. I thank guy for his expertise on the matter. Guy has been hitchhiking around America for over two years. Tom comes back with two empty milk containers and as he fills those I look for other containers. “No need” Tom says, “This will get me back here.” One of the containers doesn’t have a lid so Tom covers it with his hand while balancing the other between his legs as we turn back onto the highway in the opposite direction.

As I am saying my farewells to Tom he throws me a twenty which I try to refuse but he insists. This is the first time I actually made money on the road. Nice. We let Tom go at the roundabout on the highway. Guy gets back in the front and we continue on south. I wonder if Tom’s truck was actually out of gas. Tom said the gauge did not read empty and I wonder if it was something else. I think about going back but instead we go onward.

After a seven hour monologue from Guy I’m surprised I don’t know everything about him. When I first offered him a ride I had to suppress my regret. I had an ill opinion of Guy at first but most of that was filtered through the bad mood I’ve been having. I offered him the ride two days before we decided to depart. I thought things like “He talks too much, he smells, he talks too much.”. The point is after all to meet people and Guy seemed very friendly so I decided not to let my mood get the upper hand in this situation.

I wondered in those first two days that Guy knew each other at the hostel if he noticed how much of a jerk I was being. Other than offering him a ride I was pretty dismissive to any other attempt at friendship. He probably did notice but for a twenty one year old Guy had a very noticeable “I’m not going to let this bother me” attitude. Guy talks a lot. He will talk to anyone in his path and it will be relentless. He listens well enough to which is impressive but mostly he talks. Guy tells stories well and accurately and hopefully someday he puts them down. Guy had been living on and off the road for just over two years. His torn clothes speak directly to the lifestyle he lives and served the purpose of utility before anything else. His cargo pants where faded green and he had not one but two utility belts attached by clasping buckles. One hung around his waist and the other was attached to his leg like a gun holster. He always had on a black t-shirt and over that was a fisherman style cargo vest. The vest was also faded green and had a few holes of wear and tear about it. I was with Guy four nearly four days and never saw him wear anything else. Guy carried everything he owned with him in a large hiking pack which looked like it was definitely from the seventies. Inside the pack is mostly foodstuffs and camping gear. Outside there hangs some cooking pots, spare shoes, and, a stuffed teddy bear. The day before we leave for New Orleans Guy decides to sleep outside in an alleyway. It was the coldest windiest night of our stay at the hostel.

By the time we reach New Orleans I feel confident that I know Guy pretty well. Guy is just a month away from the coveted age of twenty one which is a minor gripe of his. He talked about it kind of sucking that he is living his dream travelling through all the great party cities of american but not being old enough to partake. It’s not so much about not being able to drink, it’s that he can not get into any of the bars to take in the music scenes. I think he will really enjoy the bar scenes once he can get it. He is one of the most impressive speakers I ever met.

On the highway coming into New Orleans we see tropical lush greenery encased in swamp lands as far as the eye can see. There are houses floating on docks and there is no way into the except by river boat. I find my hostel easily enough once we get into the city thanks to the offline GPS.

The man behind the desk is drinking a screwdriver and occasionally remarks about how happy is to be able to do something like that in this awesome city. Between my attempt to pay for the room and get some information Guy proceeds to talk to the manager about anything and everything. I knew he shouldn’t have had the coffee at the rest stop. Guy’s interjections and ensuring rants slow my check in time down immensely. I look for patience but my brain has begun to throb with fatigue, dehydration, and annoyance. Guy gets direction to a part of town where we can find “dirty kids”. “Dirty kids” is a global term of endearment for street dwelling travelers. I take guy to that part of town just as the sun is setting. I cut him loose and wish him the best right after we hug and exchange contact information. I follow the GPS backwards because luckily it did not erase itself after reaching this destination.

Back at the hostel I ask the manager where to eat. He tells me about a place that has a special on today for five dollar pizza. I am sold. The manager goes to a place of euphoric recall as he talks about his days studying at eating five dollar pizza. At this point I no longer want to drive. It is dark and I’m not used to the roads plus I am pretty tired. I attempt to set up a lyft account but can not because I do not have a valid phone number. For some reason I am totally against calling a cab or asking anyone for directions so I decide to go for the twenty minute walk that the GPS suggest.

I take up a quick stride. It is dark and the houses here look like really good places to shoot horror movies. Don’t get me wrong the houses are beautiful. They are also very old, vaguely dilapidated and immensely unfamiliar. I am in a suburban outskirt neighborhood. I feel like I am definitely a visible tourist and probably a decent target for a scam. My assumption of everything comes from a place of fear and mostly since then I’ve been learning that the fear is in my head. I later find out this town is considered very safe. I see strange looking places for car washes along the way. They are made up between residential houses and locked up by chain linked fences. The houses here are somewhere up to one hundred years old or more. They are large and full of color and with their porches and pillars look quite inviting. None of them have basements and some are standing on formidable stilts. Colorful neck beads are hanging from everything. They hang from house gates, street signs, tree branches and even power lines. I keep my stride quick and pass two bars along the way to my destination of Wit’s Inn. I check my GPS to track my progress but it had erased the map so I fall back on my guy instinct to find my way.

I find a large busy street and hang a left. The style of houses continues to be the same down this way but some have become business. Beads still everywhere. I see two yoga studios, a lot of lawyer offices, and a few bread and breakfasts. In the direction I am going I see many lights coming into view as I reach a commercial part of town. This area is called midtown and here I notice tram lines going down all the middle parts of the road. There are people walking about this part of town going from restaurants to little shops. I do not see the bar I am looking for in the haze of other establishments. All the usual franchises are here and also many other local shops. I want the pizza I was described so I walk all the way down the road until it goes back to a residential zone. I cross the street and come back up and finally find the pizza shop / bar. It’s very empty inside which I consider an added bonus.

I sit at the bar when asked. Lately I have been trying to sit at the bar in an attempt to be more sociable. Inside Whit’s Inn is dimly lit and decorated with crawfish traps. Strange twisted pieces of iron also decorate the walls and hang from some of the traps. I start a tab with the bartender and begin looking over the menu. I try to order a pizza selection and the bartender reminds me it’s five dollar night. “Oh yea! That’s why I came here.”. With the deal you get to choose one topping so I go with Genoa salami.

I try not to look around much while I wait. Once in a while I look at a piece of iron or stare at the old cathode ray tube television that is playing sports highlights. You can change the jukebox song on this bar from an app on your phone. There’s a myriad of timelines here juxtaposed and standing on itself. The bartender doesn’t like the decor much he says. Once the pizza arrives the tender tells me they can redo it if it is too overdone. I am all about crispy pizza so I shoo him away with a joke and smile. He leaves and my hands prepare the slice for my gaping maw.

They burnt it just right. The sauce squeezes between the cheese and crust to meet my tongue in a merriment sting of hot flavor. I can taste the sweet seduction of ripe roasted tomato and selected fine herbs. The sauce is finely balanced between zest and sweetness. It is a joyous tart river base for the cheese, salami, and baked crust to mulch into while my jaws do the dirty work of pre digestion. The grease is the greatest indicator of savored flavor. As I suck the grease in my mouth the story of its incubation make itself known to me. I visualize each ingredient saturating in their own flavor producing a unique moisture and all joining together to mold over and over again into themselves forging the dense liquid that now sends signals of satisfaction all over my brain through the vessel of dopamine.

In my mouth the mozzarella cheese is the great combiner. During the revolutions the cheese uniforms the crust, salami, and coveted grease, into small balls easy enough to swallow. I can feel my stomach plugged already and this alone is oddly satisfying. I thank the bartender and give what I think is a fair tip. I take a brisk walk back to the sci fi themed hostel and enjoy a comfortable sleep in my own room. I had been lucky enough to score a private room due to the fact that everything else was as completely full as my stomach was. That’s how I had pizza in New Orleans.

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