Author Archives: S.A.H.

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About S.A.H.

Cycling. Espresso. Photography. Words. Travel. Aimlessness.

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01-02-19

Fair Grinds Coffeehouse, Mid-City, New Orleans

On the back patio. Birds chirping. A fine, wet day. Wet, but no rain. At least not now.

Voices from over the fence. Through the gate people whooshing to and fro, and waiters in white linen aprons carrying boxes to the cafe across the street; children’s toys, and bicycles and tricycles interspersed with the potted plants and the dog bowls filled with water which the birds drink from. From inside the cafe comes the muffled noise of conversation and people jabbing away at their laptops. And I’m out here sopping this all up like a sponge, sipping my okay coffee, nibbling my decent muffin, and feeling strongly nostalgic for my early days of cafe culture back in Annapolis before I, and much of the world, discovered that coffee could be as good as an excellent bottle of wine or a great cocktail, that with care the most extraordinary flavors could be coaxed out of that little seed. Those days for me weren’t so care-free—I was broke and in debt at the time, working jobs that barely paid me enough to live on and pay the minimum amount necessary on my credit card statements to keep from getting charged those absurd fees that do so well to keep people in financial manacles (as if being poor and in debt isn’t enough)—but it introduced me to a life, a culture that has shaped my life and acts now as a key on a map advising where to go. And I’m eternally grateful for that.

I like this little cafe with its mediocre coffee and pretty-tasty baked goods. There’s not much care that goes into the technique of the making of the drinks and food here, but in the right place where exists the right atmosphere that doesn’t matter. This is a coffeeshop for the everyman. People of all stripes, all lifestyles, all walks of life are of course welcome here, and do come here, but it’s the common, average Joe who is most familiar to this place, as well as the many varied inhabitants of the neighborhood and any visitors passing through. It is like a great river which winding, winding, winding back on itself becomes a great pool that all the plants and the animals may water themselves at. It is a home, a destination, and a stopover point during migration. It draws all to its fecundating nexus with its mystical energies. Some stay for hours, some drift in for only a moment, but when they all leave they are better off than when they arrived. And now they know on their next migration, when the next chapter of their life is set to commence, they may stop here and begin the long process, or continue that process, of mutation, evolution, growth (caterpillar to butterfly.)

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12-30-18

Sitting at Breads on Oak, a vegan bakery and cafe in the Leonidas neighborhood of New Orleans. Thinking I’d love to work here. Been wanting to learn how to bake bread, as well as other baked goods, for years, especially after my stint in Berkeley and my introduction to ACME. The fact that everything here is vegan is inspiring on a whole other level though.

I’m reading Tropic of Cancer while munching, and intermittently glancing out the window to watch the sparrows flit and flutter about from tree to chair to sidewalk to table…. and the fog is thick today; thicker than yesterday, as though it wants terribly to cover all the blighted parts of the city, like makeup laid over a blemish. It rather softens the brightest parts of the city too, as if to bring everything to the same meridian, because, after all, we are the same people walking the same streets, so let us walk them together eye to eye, hand in hand. I wonder if a disaster, such as Hurricane Katrina, that swamps and levels a whole city brings all classes together in a shared humanness and in appreciation of the place they all call home.

It must!
Right!?

And so Im thinking about how great this city is, and this bakery, and I’m watching the sparrows, and the people who are so like the sparrows, but I’m also reading Tropic of Cancer, and there is this great conflict inside me between the man who wishes to settle down somewhere in order to learn to paint, to sculpt, to collage, to garden, to bake bread, to make pottery etc., and the one who wishes to travel the world in order that he might see and know himself more clearly because it is only in our relationships to other people, cultures, environments that we can come to understand and see with clarity ourselves. Because as we wander through foreign places—worlds unknown to us, a stranger—those places are absorbed through our senses and sifted through the filing cabinet of our prejudices and preconceived notions in our mind, and so seeing them as they truly are we can abandon our false ideas and our faulty notions because it is only in experience that we may find knowledge.

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12-29-18, NOLA

First espresso of the day. First COFFEE of the day. Still no sustenance in the form of solid food. Wondering what to do about that. Had planned to get beignets at Cafe Du Monde but I refuse to wait in that line even if it “moves fast” as I’ve been told; it’s a good thirty or forty yards long.

The espresso was okay. Long creamy body, balanced sweetness, but still just meh. That’s my experience with Nicaraguan coffees though, even if it’s not a very longstanding experience. Anyway, the coffee shop is Spitfire. A hole in the wall with four stools to sit on in front of two planks of wood anchored to a wall. Two women on staff currently. Espresso, pour-over, cold-brew, and some specialty drinks make up the menu. It gets crowded in here quick. Simple L-shaped counter with an espresso machine and POS, wood laminate floors, and a stucco like wall finish.

I leave Spitfire with either Mammoth or Stumptown as my next destination. Strolling down Royal St.—a tiny one lane lined with antique shops, jewelry stores, and bad art galleries, I come to an intersection where opposite me looms a Walgreens. It seems so anachronistic, so foreign to this place that I am strolling through (which itself is a bit anachronistic to the current century) that I am for a moment quite taken aback. Like while wandering through this living theater I somehow stumbled backstage, to the real world as it were. I stand here staring at this anomaly for a short while until I am accosted by a crazy African-American guy looking for money for McDonald’s. I offer to buy him a sub at Subway in exchange for a photograph. He agrees but won’t stop moving around, creeping here and there, turning his head this way and that so that getting a portrait is like trying to pin down with a needle a squirming worm. I get one though. Quite magnificent too. A portrait of the maniac in the midst of his mania. Something is wrong with his foot or leg so that he has to limp alongside me, all the while he’s talking about things I don’t even remember. Certainly nothing important. Likely nothing at all. Just talking to talk. Like he has all this verbal puss building up inside of him that this continuous chatter is a squeezing of the pimple which then just reseals and builds up again immediately. If he doesn’t talk, no matter what it’s about, all this puss just backs up and becomes an even greater abscess, and then God only knows what he might do. We arrive at the Subway and all he wants is a six inch tuna salad on wheat, plain. Then asks me to get him a beer across the street, something he very plainly does not need, to which I decline. He’s rather unpleasant to the Subway staff, but clearly he suffers from a mental condition. He seems quite irritated with everybody, and has an acerbic, vitriolic temper. He starts talking to someone else and I take that as an opportunity to escape.

At Stumptown on the ground floor of the ACE Hotel. I remember reading in a coffee publication when this place opened to much fanfare and interest. Now, looking around, it just seems old and outdated. A bit abused. Worn out. It’s lost its sheen. Lost its luster. There is a door inside the cafe that opens onto the hotel lounge. Everyone in there sitting on the couches and chairs looks bored, like a bunch of monkeys sitting in trees waiting for something to happen. It’s a strange sort of motionlessness in there, like at any moment a bomb could go off, and that’s almost like the most likely thing to happen. It’s a period of subdued pandemonium, like this moment’s just been wrapped up in a straight jacket that a nut in a madhouse might wear, before the dinner bell goes ring-a-ding-ding, and once that’s done its drunks either at the table or at the bar or at a different bar, and the riots and the whoopee!, and the dynamite and the sex and the headache the next morning, and some more sleeping in soft beds with soft pillows and the room service bringing up breakfast and coffee and lastly the question of are any of us happy? because if we really were what reason would we have for carrying on in this way.

I’m going out for a drink.

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12-28-18

New Orleans at last! Currently at a little, ramshackle cafe, Fair Grinds Coffeehouse, with colorful tables and chairs; and walls of painted wood boards, the paint worn completely away in places so that the bare, old wood showed through, and faded nearly colorless everywhere else; horses and their jockeys in mid-race form painted across the top, and a couple of old ceiling fans connected via a belt to a pulley on each. It is a decidedly second-wave shop. One of those fair trade joints serving coffee that “tastes like coffee”. It’s comfortable, warming, welcoming, and they serve day-old baked goods for a dollar. There is a strong community vibe here. I actually like it a lot. It’s sort of my ideal coffee space, and is reminiscent of the feel of an old cafe I frequented when I made my first forays into coffee shop culture. I just wish the coffee was better. That said, like the ubiquitous American diner with it’s $1.50 unlimited refills, the coffee quality or lack of, is part of the experience.

Across the street at Cafe Degas, a woman is picking glass out of her car from a smashed rear window. Crimes of opportunity are pretty common in the area according to my friend. She doesn’t seem upset, merely resigned. I wonder what, if anything, was stolen.

Back at the laundromat. Lost track of time at the cafe. I haven’t been to a laundromat in years. Forgot how I missed it—the people coming and going; the noises of all the machines, some rather surprising so that you think they might explode, or maybe just breakdown and stop mid-cycle. Walking tentatively, and slightly bemusedly, into a laundromat after having been away for years is an awkward experience. Where are prices for the machines? Where is signage with directions? Where is the change machine? Is there an ATM? Where are the detergents because I don’t have any of my own? You’re like a blind man clacking around with his cane. But once you get everything sorted—once you withdraw your money from the ATM, once you exchange it for quarters, once you figure out how to get the detergent you want from the dispenser, and once you’re tossing your clothes into the wash, it feels like home again, then you walk over to the cafe and read a book or write about your experiences entering a laundromat again for the first time in years, or you walk home, or you just stay at the laundromat and read or write there.

I particularly like, at the laundromat, the notes stuck to the machines proclaiming them “out of order.” Some of these are just sticky notes applied to the drier window perhaps, or a scrap of paper taped over the quarter slot on a washer. There are other reminders too; reminders to remove things from pockets, or to check for gum and other sticky substances because we, the laundromat, are not responsible; and notices that your clothing will be removed from the drier and you will be charged if they sit for too long. And many of the signs appear to have been designed in the 90’s. A combination of hand-written lettering and MS Windows clip-art. It must be a sort of laundromatist’s unwritten code because I’ve never been to one thats signs were designed any differently.

It’s 7:30 and I’ve found a bar I like: Bar Tonique. Ordered a Veux Carre. Never had one before but it has things that I like: brandy, whiskey, vermouth, etc. Should be interesting. You know, new drinks, new experiences and all. I feel like I should be paying $16 and not $9, though, so I’m skeptical about the ingredients’ quality. It’s a nice place, regardless. All warm brick; warm, worn wooden bar; warm, low lighting; weird sort of teal ceiling that isn’t really teal; and a chandelier of sorts that looks like it was made from the same part of various of the same model lamp; a bit disjointed and lopsided. Like they had eleven of a thing and cut each thing off at the same point and took those cutoff parts and stuck them together, all radiating from a sort of central rod. It’s one parts Beetlejuice to one parts Alice Through the Looking Glass to one parts Frankenstein. The menus are written in big letters, colorfully, on chalkboards mounted on opposing walls. There are two ceiling fans turning slowly, as if they know they’re supposed to be working but also know there’s no damn point in it so they’re just going to give the least possible effort. And just like the motivation of these fans, there’s a guy on the opposite side of the bar from me with a blank look on his face, and he’s sitting in front of a basket of citrus and his face is brilliant red so that he looks just like a juicy piece of fruit himself, and I can just imagine the bartender picking him up thinking he was a piece of fruit and placing him on her cutting board and slicing a piece out of his cheek or lips or nose to garnish a cocktail.

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12-26-18

What a day! What a day!

Well, no, actually. It wasn’t that interesting at all. Not at all so interesting as “what a day” would imply, nor was it so interesting that an exclamation point be required at the end of that phrase. It was pretty easy and basic which, sometimes, isn’t a bad thing. It was a sentence ended with a period. No more and no less.

Happily I am writing in my journal rather than dictating into a microphone. I found the pen I thought I had lost while breaking my tent down this morning. Still don’t know where it was hiding.

I cycled from Dauphin Island to Ocean Springs today. Ocean Springs is in Mississippi. My Alabama photo section for this trip is going to be a bit thin. But I’m renting a car and driving to New Orleans thanks to the weather which has largely been frustrating my attempt to enjoy this bicycle journey and seems to want to make my life miserable (with a good deal of success), so I suspect, based on renting a car, that the Mississippi section will be even smaller still.

I’m camped at a grounds that is part of the National Seashore, therefore it is under federal jurisdiction, but because the government is shutdown there is no one working here, meaning there is no one to charge me the fee to camp, but also coincidentally not anyone here to tell me I can’t camp (because it’s closed to the public). It’s a very nice circumstance to find myself in, especially considering I’m not availing myself of any of their amenities and will only be here maybe sixteen hours. The downside to this, the camping, is that the rain forecasted for the next week begins tonight. I’m under a tree, so afforded some protection, but even still I don’t know that I will sleep well (rain on a tent is noisy). And I’ll have to break camp then bike to the car rental in the rain tomorrow. A sad affair not worth dwelling on.

The one point of interest for the day was running into another cycle-tourist headed in the opposite direction. He had a deep tan and deep creases in his tanned face from spending loads of time outside beneath the sun, and a longish pepper-grey braided beard. I thought he might be more at home in black leather chaps riding a Harley than a bicycle. His name was Joseph, John, James… something with a “J”, and he was stupendously loaded down with luggage, AND pulling a trailer, within which, seated like a queen, was his dog. I can’t imagine the speeds he must average. One’s speed is meaningless of course to the person whose speed holds no meaning, but me, I don’t think I could travel like that (though, to be fair, I’ve looked at a couple bikes with the capacity to hold some extreme amounts of food and water for potentially slower and more remote bike trips). Anyway, we had a short chat while simultaneously shooing away a male dog who seemed very curious and perhaps quite taken by the lady in the trailer. I eventually got him to run off by tossing a rock in his direction, no doubt a common tactic used before judging by his reaction. Was better than listening to J. shout at him every time he wandered too close, while also threatening to pepper spray him. We parted ways after a short bit of where-ya-goin’, where-ya-come-from, etc. He’s very nearly finished his third trip on the Southern Tier. I can’t for the life of me imagine why anyone would want to travel the same route across the same country three times, but good on him I guess. Sure beats sitting on one’s ass watching the world spin by.

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December, 23 2018

I’m leaving Pensacola today, and having my last coffee and breakfast at Polonza, a bistro that serves some of the best coffee in north Florida (and to my knowledge the only town or city serving great coffee until one gets to Jacksonville (it can be found in Tallahassee but it’s a bit of a secret)) as well as an excellent breakfast and lunch. Spent the morning down at Palafox Pier overlooking Pensacola Bay trying to photograph reflections in the lens of a distance viewer, as well as gulls, pigeons, and the occasional pelican gliding on the sea breeze. Difficult, difficult birds are to catch, most especially if one is trying to place them in a specific area of a landscape, or even just wishing to have a horizontal horizon in the picture.

Like trying to nab a fly with chopsticks.

Just had a long chat with Taylor, the head barista here. Turns out he used to work for Perc in Savannah, Georgia, and we met briefly some years back during my last bike tour. Absolutely crazy that. “It’s a small world” is such a cliche phrase, and some might say it’s overuse, but if it fits it fits, right? The specialty coffee world is even smaller still, and that makes it easy to meet and make lasting friendships and acquaintanceships. Here’s to another.

Being on this bike trip I’ve begun to realize ever more concretely what it is I want out of travel, and mainly that is to find a good place to stay for a while and explore, and to explore from, and NOT to be constantly on the move. Yet bicycle travel is often about being on the move. Too, it may be difficult to stay in one place for long if one’s desire is also to be frugal, particularly in my case as I love cities so much. Yes, there exist Warmshowers hosts, but one can only stay for so long without being a burden. So, find another! Not always as easy as it would seem! Well then what about the natural world that I profess to love so much? As long as one has food and water for days, and doesn’t mind being dirty and smelly for extended periods this is great! Of course if you happen to be near a river cleanliness and drinking water is less of an issue, assuming the water source hasn’t been polluted or fouled in some way. I guess all this is really just to say that I’m happy to spend my Christmas, and perhaps some days more, on Dauphin Island at a host’s while he is away, which, while not allowing access to the inner keep, does have the desirable amenities (latrine, power, wifi, water, shower) out of doors. I’ll likely be in no hurry to hop back on my bike again.

Something else I’ve discovered that I want when I travel is flexibility. What that means to me is the ability to get where I want when I want in a relatively short span of time (within reason of course). The bicycle can be an excellent tool for this, at least in comparison to a slower means of travel such as running or walking, but it’s still rather slow, methodical, and, being human-powered, requires a fair bit of effort and energy, so that even something like a “short” five mile detour (which becomes a ten mile roundtrip) to visit some place or thing of interest can take a lot of daylight, as well as energy. This may be all fine and good for some, especially if planned for, but may prove to be impossible as a spontaneous side quest to one’s main objective for the day. So I’m beginning to think I’d like a motorcycle. And maybe one with a sidecar in which I could securely fit my bicycle because I’d still like to get in miles recreationally. As well, the bicycle could be used as a means of transport for various so-called side quests while leaving the motorcycle at headquarters (campsite, motel, whatever it is). The benefit of traveling by motorcycle is increased flexibility because higher speeds, and being able to pack one’s saddle bags a bit more full without suffering the great inconvenience of pedaling a bicycle with additional weight. Granted, there are drawbacks as well: insurance, cost, repairs, fuel…. But this is all just speculation for now….

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I arrived in Pensacola earlier today.

WINDY AS FUCK.

A steady-ish fifteen miles per hour headwind accompanied on occasion by gusts that were much higher than that. This got me to thinking about, and I mean really properly thinking about, why wind from any direction (excepting that from behind) on a bicycle is the bane, the adversary, the nemesis that it is. And I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not so much just the obvious one, that it slows you down, but that it’s impact, that is the actual physical force of the wind, is of a feeling akin to getting punched by a gloved fist in the gut, like getting smashed in the face with a dense, heavy pillow, like having a bed sheet thrown over you while cycling in a wind tunnel. It hits you, it pulls at you, it pushes you with fiendish delight, and as a cyclist you have no defense. So, it is the physical force of the wind that is so demoralizing, not merely the fact that one moves at slower speed. And when it comes to crossing bridges that realization can become terrifying, particularly those with limited shoulders, because the wind can and does move you. Assuredly one of the last ways I would like to die is by being pushed by a gust of wind into a speeding semi. Naturally then my last real obstacle was a bridge, with little shoulder, from Gulf Breeze (funny name that) to Pensacola. This was a nightmarish death tunnel what with the wind and the cars and the semis barreling along the highway beside me. At the end of all this though, I was greeted by Jeb, the Creative Director at First United Methodist Church, where I would be staying, and who himself had done some bicycle touring in the past, and has plans for touring in the future, and organized and setup the WarmShowers account. It was a greeting I was only too happy to receive.

I’ve managed to find at least one great place for food in town: End of the Line Cafe, a vegan joint serving coffee, beer, assorted other drinks, and great food. I’m heading to a whiskey bar later for a drink. Need to find a proper pen instead of this silver marker I’m writing with. I’m not at all certain what possessed me to bring it, but it’s coming in handy right now.

Cities, though! They’re always undermining my resolve to be frugal. You only live once, most people say. And in this case it’s highly unlikely I’ll be back to the places I’m passing through, excellent food or not. Excellent food can be found nearly anywhere, especially if one knows how to cook. And that’s one thing I miss a lot—having a stove, a little good cooking oil, a frying pan, and some vegetables to go with the rice I cook on nights that I camp. But anyway, I guess my excuse is that I’m traveling through these cities so I should be enjoying them.

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Today I unexpectedly covered over 90 miles from Eastpoint to Seacrest. I rolled into Central Standard Time some point west of Apalachicola and so I kinda gained an hour. I say sort of because the sun goes down when the sun goes down. It’s just earlier or later depending on what side of the line you’re on. However, there is a psychological effect that this has upon you when you realize that suddenly the time is two o’clock when you thought it was three. I still ended up cycling into darkness but arrived an hour earlier than I would have had I still been on Eastern Standard Time.

I felt really down last night and early this morning. Wanted to be away from the visitor’s center before nine o’clock, which is when they opened, and I was at quarter of. I was a bit surprised to see the employee not show up until exactly nine, but it saved me the trouble of having to explain myself to someone. Had a cold breakfast of muesli, banana, yogurt and peanut butter overlooking the Gulf, which was beautiful, unlike my mental state. However, no coffee because I couldn’t find the handle for my grinder after digging around a bunch for it, so I looked for coffee in Apalachicola and found some at The Apalachicola Chocolate and Coffee Company. It’s a cute little place. Coffee was terrible, but the baked goods were great. Had a delicious brownie covered in frosting, only some of which I ate while at the cafe; the rest I saved as much needed additional calories for the bike ride.

While at the cafe I sent out some WarmShowers requests because at the time I wasn’t sure where the hell I was going to be ending my day, much less where I might sleep. Called a guy who was okay with me staying the night to let him know I wouldn’t be in Seacrest because it’s 95 miles and I was pretty certain I wasn’t capable of putting in that distance today (of course here I am), or that I just didn’t want to. But this makes a perfect segue. Even though I did put in those 95 miles, that’s not something I want to do regularly (or again), especially having spent two weeks in Tally; my legs aren’t there. But at the same time despite the fact that being in Tally was awesome, I ought to be in New Orleans, or past New Orleans, right now, but I’m not. So I want to make up time, but after yesterday, feeling rough about two-thirds of the way through it and sleeping so poorly, it doesn’t make much sense. What is the point of the trip? It’s certainly not doing long days for the sake of doing long days. It’s to photograph the United States, and to write about my thoughts, feelings, and experiences. That is all. But there being a deadline for the start of this Australia trip of Doug’s is driving me up a wall. I hate deadlines, most especially when they interfere with my personal plans and projects. It’d be cool if I could get across the country, but at this point I don’t even know if I’ll make it to Houston or Austin. Probably Houston at least, but definitely not Big Bend National Park which is a place I dearly want to visit, and the thought of not getting there is disappointing, so I’m trying to knock out long days, but that’s not going to work for me. So I’m just going to pedal my bike, take it day by day from here on out. I’ll get to where I get to and there is no changing that. As Henry Miller says, “the main thing is food. Trust to Providence for the rest.” I keep that in the back of my mind all the time. Some of the time…

Anyway, while I was at the cafe I struck up conversation with a guy who had kayaked the Apalachicola river over the course of six or seven days and had just finished earlier that morning. He was meeting his wife in town and spending the day there. He showed me some photos of the river, how high it was and how fast it was running (FAST). Normally, he said, he likes to camp on sandbars, but there weren’t any the river was so high. He sleeps in a hammock though, so finding a place to hang it up wasn’t much of a problem for him. Brings an enormous solar panel with him too that is like the size of a twin bed sheet almost, but it folds up pretty small, though I’m skeptical how small something like that can fold up. He was a cool dude. Curious about my bike. I wish him and his wife the best.

I actually would have liked to have spent more time in Apalachicola. Seems a quaint tourist town now, but has a deep maritime history as the Apalachicola River, miles across at its mouth, is an enormous river that empties into the Gulf of Mexico. And there is still a community of working watermen there such as there are on some rivers that make up the watershed of the Chesapeake Bay, as well as the Bay itself. There is a photographer who has a studio in downtown Apalachicola, Richard Bickel, who’s done a lot of documentary work in that area amongst the communities of watermen. It’s beautiful stuff, printed in pretty large format some of them. A lot of posed works, which I don’t fault him for, but numerous candid photos of the men working and the boys playing, and some gorgeous atmospheric landscape pieces.

After leaving town I was surprised at how good I felt and how well I was moving along. In fact I felt great for almost the entirety of the ride, which was a remarkable change from yesterday. To the right of me and the left along Highway 98 were pine plantations only a few miles outside of town. Two enormous pine plantations. At least I think they’re plantations because they’re all growing in rows and that’s not really a thing nature does herself, like one doesn’t see clouds in regiments like one sees at a Navy football game with the marching on of midshipmen. The ocean waves roll onto shore as they roll into the shore, which is in some ways regular, but not exacting like a metronome in its regularity, and plants don’t drop their seeds in a straight line, and the wind and the animals don’t plant them in neat rows. This is a distinctly human characteristic, this type of organizational neurosis. But these pines some of them, I guess from the hurricane, are bending gracefully across rows, touching others gently as if to say “we’re still alive!” That is unless these bent ones are truly snapped somewhere, not bent, and then they’re grabbing onto the living in a sort of desperation, a fearful begging, terrified of what might come next.

It wasn’t until I got to Port St. Joe that I slowed down, and that was only because there, and further along in Mexico Beach, these towns were a demolition. Basically the closer you got to Panama City and Calloway, where the eye passed so i was told, the more calamitous everything looked and the worse the devastation was. I don’t even know how to explain the appearance of these places, to verbalize it, to paint a picture. It is a thing which has to be seen. One has to walk through the demolished neighborhoods, along the streets that were once impassable, completely washed away in places. Trees down, roofs ripped from houses, windows shattered, trash in the trees, refrigerators, washing machines, dishwashers strewn about the streets, houses piles of rubble. Along a section of the coastal road in Mexico Beach there were regular mounds of concrete debris, almost like ant mounds, as though there was some care given in cleaning up and setting aside for removal what once was certain persons’ homes. I clearly remember passing one row of apartments or small homes that were built up on stilts, and one at an end had fallen into the one next to it, and that had collapsed into the next one, and that into the next, and it was this sort of weird dilapidated embrace of wood and vinyl and metal and concrete leaning to. One could imagine the slightest wind pushing the whole thing, all six or seven of these buildings, over into a heap. There were homes without windows, without anything. With new windows where there weren’t windows before: that is gaping holes in their walls. And people are still there trying to put their lives back together. There are a lot of contractors from all over rebuilding for people, repairing damaged buildings, building new buildings. Well, rebuilding for money of course, but the people who have money are those who are paying them. These contractors according to Marty my Warmshowers host come from all over—Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana… It’s sort of disgusting when you think of it. They smell blood, just like a pack of hyenas. And then these people who I guess want to move back once their house is rebuilt, I wonder if they’re a bit mad.

Speaking of Port St. Joe, as I was stopping here and there taking pictures on my way out of town I passed a couple of ladies who had some tents setup, and a sign for free food. Curiosity got the better of me and I turned around to see what the meaning of all this was. A man driving past actually shouted out his window to me to “get some free food!” So I got some free food. Free food for anybody! Burgers, hotdogs, baked beans, sodas, chips. It worked out for me, and all the while I’m sitting there eating these ladies are telling me I should come up and get some more, but I wanted to be able to ride my bike afterward. Still had a long way to go, and by this point I was pretty confident I could make it to Seacrest. While sitting there on a parking block I asked them what they were all about. In short, they’re from Pensacola but the lady has a small church in town—just a tiny, concrete structure. They were actually set up on the front lawn of it. The lady tells me that she prayed to God that if the building itself was spared, that is the walls were still standing, that regardless of whatever else was damaged she would repair and reopen it. And so she is. There was actually a man working inside while I was eating my lunch. I’m not sure who she’s aligned with out there—a church group, I suppose—but she tells them what she needs and they get it for her. Then the ladies set up here, give away food all day, go home, and come back the next day, on and on and on. Port St. Joe currently has no restaurants open, nor is there much in the way of markets for food; I recall only seeing a Dollar General Market on my way through. So they’ve been doing this for several days or weeks now. The generosity nearly brings me to tears. I’ve never seen anything like it before (the generosity nor the kind of destruction a hurricane brings), and this was two months ago. I imagine this will not be a most enjoyable Christmas for some people. But just the same, simply having a Christmas is something to give thanks for.

After Mexico Beach there is this insanely long stretch of straight road, that is actually kind of nice, that passes by, or bisects Tyndall Air Force Base. The base was a total demolition. Marty told me they aren’t running much of anything right now. I saw and heard three or four jets on the ride today so I guess they’re just running at low capacity. The place got steamrolled. Hangars and buildings ripped to shreds, because it’s all like basic, simple construction for that stuff, just sheetmetal and concrete. The air force lost some planes that were grounded to have work done to them, so they couldn’t get them out with the others that were evacuated. The hurricane just tore them up, sort of picked them up and tossed them around like a small child playing with his toys. That was a crazy stretch though. Super flat, and straight as an arrow for I don’t know how many miles. At least ten with maybe a slight curve. Then I crossed a pretty awful bridge with no shoulder into Parker and Callaway, and if I thought that Mexico Beach and Port St. Joe were bad, these two towns on the edges of Panama City were far worse. Mexico Beach and Port St. Joe are like gulf resort towns. There’s money, and so there was rebuilding going on. There was life there. There was a sunniness, a sense of hope. But these other places, Parker and Callaway, and a bunch of Panama City too, are like cities of the dead. They’re basically ghettos (using that term loosely as I was only cycling through), and it was pretty clear the money doesn’t exist to be able to clean up something like that. It all looked like a war zone, like an army marched through and annihilated everything, or plunked itself down on the perimeter and shelled the places with their artillery, everybody in town walking about shell-shocked, zombie like, half dead inside, hopelessly fouled up. I saw a sign in someone’s yard stating “You loot, I shoot.” However, once I passed through Panama City things cleaned up a bunch, and the rest of the twenty miles or so was just pretty easy pedaling.

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Camped out at Forgotten Coast Visitor’s Center on the “Big Bend Scenic Byway Coastal Trail.” I always wait too long to start looking for a suitable place to pitch a tent. Sometimes the thing materializes quickly and easily, though. Of course at other times, like this one, it’s a struggle and takes some doing to discover.

Wanted to camp on the beach tonight, but the beach is only yards off the highway and so was extremely noisy. Too, because it wasn’t terribly broad either, I was concerned about the tide coming in. Continuing on I swung into a huge K-12 school complex but I was seen scouting things out and grew nervous and didn’t want to have to explain myself. I was surprised because it was 6:30 and damn well dark enough that people were driving with lights on. Did not expect to see cars and a bus driving up the long, winding drive from the highway. The place was enclosed by a fence too. That played into the idea of outsiders not belonging. Like sneaking into a gated community where all the fancy-pants live away from the dirt and deprivation of the world of regular folks. I probably should not have let it bother me, but if I had got halfway into setting up camp or making dinner then run off the property I would have been none too pleased

It’s impossible to wildcamp because Florida is a jungle, and all the vegetation seems to have thorns or sharp edges or woody stems or grows so thickly that a machete would be required to clear a space for a tent. The forests beneath the canopy are just a tangle of vines, shrubs and other plants; and fields leave one extremely visible, and are the homes of stiff, tall-growing grasses and sharp viny plants. Lucky I am to have stumbled upon this place then. I remember my first night in Arkansas crossing the Mississippi river in the dark, sadly missing what was a stunning sunset. The first building I came to, if memory serves, was the welcome center, and so I camped there around back on the manicured lawn. It was already closed, as this one is, and I didn’t think I needed to fear discovery. It was of course quite a bit larger as it was a state welcome center and not just a regional one. So, my personal opinion is that visitors centers make pretty good places to camp. I tend to not bother with being too inconspicuous because I tend to think being upfront and honest about what you’re doing, especially as a bicycle traveller is a good way of going about things, and most people don’t seem to care if you tell them you’re just camping overnight and moving on the next morning. The place was closed well before I arrived anyway, and they reopen at nine tomorrow morning, so the risk of discovery, if there is a risk, is slim, and if they want to kick me out in the morning, if I’m not already gone, well, I’ll be in the process of leaving anyway.

Today has been a long, excruciating day. Eighty miles of cycling, the first forty of which went by quite smoothly, the latter forty not so much. Legs are feeling pretty wrecked.

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I just met Yoda. The incident occurred after I had finished my lunch on the covered patio at Greenwise, a supermarket. I’m currently reading again Orwell’s great book, Down and Out in Paris and London, and just finished up a chapter of the book that takes place in London where Orwell is on the bum, forced to march endlessly with the many thousands of other tramps who did this daily as, thanks to certain English laws in the ’30s (and likely the decades before, and perhaps after), they were compelled.

He had, through the agency of another tramp he was marching with at the time, been introduced to a type of character called a ‘screever,’ a pavement artist, or more specifically, a person who literally draws or sketches portraits or scenes on a sidewalk in order to gain charity from passersby, who went by the name of Bozo. This fellow, Bozo, was one of the more peculiar characters Orwell met on his forced rambles around London because unlike the rest of the homeless and destitute, he had a level of intellect beyond that of the tramps whose main focus, perhaps unsurprisingly, was on the standard ‘tea and two slices,’ the next lodging house he might be sleeping in (if he could rustle up the needed payment), and scrounging cigarette butts for tobacco. Bozo had a small knowledge of astronomy, and developed a philosophy that essentially stated that just because he was poor and destitute with a mangled leg (BECAUSE OF the mangled leg) that didn’t mean that he couldn’t admire and take pleasure in the stars and their constellations. (“The stars and their constellations” may be taken as a metaphor for anything one might take interest in.) The key, in my opinion, to his intellectual acuity is that prior to destroying his leg he was well-traveled and educated. Yet, even taking this into account it’s remarkable that he was able to develop a manner of thinking which preserved his intelligence, interest in the world, and pride too, thus preventing him from going down the road that most in the tramping world found themselves on. He didn’t think much of this ability, and in fact looked down on the rest of the tramping world because no others had managed to develop this particular faculty.

So I had just finished reading this chapter, had just finished my lunch, and put my book away, readying myself to leave when up pulls this African-American fellow on a bicycle trying to sell me a bottle of water. I told him I had no cash to give him but I’d buy him something to eat if he liked, so we went into the supermarket, all the while chatting, and I paid for a roast chicken for him. He seemed to have a philosophy similar to that of Bozo, and I was surprised (life is so ever full of these!) and delighted by such a timely and coincidental meeting. I remember one phrase of his that he repeated to me a couple of times, and which he would tell others, that being: “it’s never as bad as you make it out to be in your mind.”

And, yes, he introduced himself as Yoda. It’s the name he goes by, and in our brief talk I could see that it’s for good reason.