Why hi there friends!

Having now done a bit of washing etc, I’m settling down with a cuppa (the nearest supermarket has a British section that includes YORKSHIRE BREW!) to report on the latest Southern shenanigans. And there have been many of them this past week or so, let me tell you. Chan bagged herself a week off work, and we promptly threw some stuff in bags and blasted off down the highway out of Georgia and into states yet further south…

BACK TO ‘BAMA. First port of call was Alabama, where we spent a day pootling around checking a few more items off of our ‘Bama bucket list. This included lunch at Cracker Barrel – a southern institution set inside a barn-like building with walls covered with country memorabilia and a menu of biscuits (like scones but with gravy), country-fried chicken, chicken-fried chicken (I too was bewildered, dear reader, and will require a whole -nother post to explain the difference. Stay tuned.), and every kind of fried vegetable you can think of. Full of batter (and chicken, in Chan’s case), we continued on to a winery outside of Anniston which, true to southern form, makes deliciously sweet Muscadine that might pass for dessert wine in other places. The owner plied us with many samples, which did indeed work well as post-Cracker Barrel pudding. Immensely enjoyable.

After a mooch around Fort McClellan, a deserted old army base with hints of former charm and lost potential, we headed back to Weaver to check in with Mama Chan, as well as aunt, brother, sister-in-law and the adorable baby Tucker. Chan’s nephew, a now ebullient toddler who is indefatigable in his efforts to climb, smash into and manipulate the furniture, is every bit the modern American kid. His wide, dark eyes blaze with confidence and curiosity as he charges about his little world, and his limited vocabulary already includes ‘Hey google!’ which he yells happily at his mum’s Smart Speaker device at regular intervals. Apparently this is the future, people!

We rounded off the day by catching a drive-in movie (Mission: Impossible 6 – Tom Cruise once again proving that he does Intense Face to perfection, and that he is also debris/bullet/corruption-proof at all times). Cruise’s acting skills notwithstanding, I loved the experience of watching the film from the comfort of our car seats, surrounded by other vehicles containing people doing the same, both a private and communal experience.

CHEAHA. The next day was given over to a gorgeous 6-mile hike through Cheaha state park, arguably the jewel in Alabama’s crown that earns it its official ‘Alabama the Beautiful’ tagline. After scrambling up some pretty steep sections above a glistening lake, we discovered outcrops affording us views across the entire state which, despite the summer heat, is intensely green. The trail continued through woodland for quite some time, after which we found ourselves at the very highest point in the state. On the descent, there was time to shimmy over to the staggeringly beautiful Bald Rock point for more breathtaking panoramas before flopping down into our car seats and taking the road once more.

Suitably sweaty and starving, we arrived back at the family ranch where Mama Chan was bustling around fretting about the best way to cook up some portobello mushrooms she’d picked out for me as a steak alternative for dinner. As vegetarianism is at best unusual and at worst downright unacceptable in these parts, the gesture was especially touching. “Ahhh’m sorry hun! Ah thought ’bout gettin’ you some o’ that tofu but ah just couldn’ face it. That stuff freaks me out!” she told me apologetically, wrinkling her nose and grimacing. “What all do they put in it anyway??” Mama Chan needn’t have worried; the mushrooms were delicious. No tofu necessary.

We hit the road fairly early on Monday morning, our bellies full of Mama Chan’s spectacular sugar-cinnamon-eggy-baked bread breakfast special (her doubtfulness about tofu is more than evened out by her faith in all things sweet). Indeed, the Southern stereotype of subsisting on a predominantly sugar-based diet is quite accurate; we were sent off loaded up with bottles of pink lemonade, grape gummies and the rest of a colossal, juicy watermelon (which Chan likes to carve into with a spoon rather than wasting time chopping it into chunks; I find this both inspired and adorable). The I-20 led us right across Alabama, past countless fast food joints and billboards promising Creationist revelations (“Dial 1-800-TRUTH today!”) or the justice-fuelled, personalised services of white-toothed, sleek-haired accident and injury lawyers (“Don’t call a lawyer; call your lawyer!”), until we crossed the state line into Mississippi and, after another few hours of fairly unremarkable scenery, into our destination state: Louisiana.

NAWLINS. I’m struggling to know how to start describing New Orleans, the city I have been craving to get my teeth into for years now. It is the ultimate lesson in eclecticism, mishing and mashing features and flavours of so many diverse cultures with such apparent ease that it lazily arrives at becoming several times the sum of its parts. The sultry, heavy air and groves of palm and banana trees recall Central America and the Caribbean, while the intricate verandahs, Grecian columns and awnings dripping with delicate flowers and cascading vines speak of an affluent, European past. The music oozing from almost every doorway on the busier streets of the French Quarter is irresistably nostalgic and alluring, beckoning listeners into dimly-lit bars full of swaying punters and musicians with glistening foreheads and ardent eyes.

And just before you begin to take the place too seriously, the hazy sun sets and a forest of blaring neon signs announces the sale of ‘Hurricanes’, ‘Hand-grenades’ and ‘Horny Gators’ in comically-shaped cocktail glasses, and myriad tat shops overflow with multicoloured mardi gras beads, some bearing novelty genitals, some simply garish and non-specifically celebratory. Said shops also provide clues about the city’s unique relationship with the occult; voodoo is an established practice in these parts, its modern form a curious fusion of ancient African beliefs brought over in times of slavery and Catholicism inherited from the Spanish conquistadors and others. Accordingly, voodoo dolls, talismans, gem-encrusted crucifixes and shrunken heads are all widely available, although most are gimmicky and seem to be largely for the benefit of scare-hungry tourists. That said, Nawlins does seem to crackle with an ineffable energy, a certain (not just alcohol-fueled) mystical blurriness or other-worldliness, hinted at by the flickering gas lamps that dangle eerily outside many houses and the many whispers of hauntings and other supernatural happenings… There is undoubtedly no city quite like New Orleans anywhere in the world. It is utterly bonkers, and utterly sublime.

We spent the first evening pleasantly inebriated after a single cocktail (an aforementioned Hurricane turned out to pack a punch worthy of its blackly-humoured name). We (mostly me) swayed down Bourbon St and out to Jackson Square, burbling away and stopping briefly to cheer on a brass band that had swung into action in front of us, before meandering down to sit beside the Mississippi, where we were greeted by a reverberating honk from the Natchez steamboat as it glided past, the honey notes of an on-board saxophone trickling through the air towards us. We then made our (slightly unsteady) way over to Coop’s Place for an unceremoniously served but exquisite bowl of dark, risotto-like seafood soup known as gumbo (for me) and rabbit and sausage jambalaya (for Chan).

The rest of the evening featured another couple of drinks (FYI ‘Horny Gators’ ain’t got nothin’ on Hurricanes apart from vast quantities of sugar) and some of the best live music I’ve heard in many a moon. We squeezed into the dimly-lit Preservation Hall and were carried back in time in a swell of sax meeting trombone, trumpet, double-bass, piano, drums and oaky vocals. I’ve never appreciated jazz as much as I did that evening, drenched in so much sweat and nostalgia. More music followed later on when we found ourselves parked up at an unassuming blues bar, swaying along to a few old classics brought to us by yet another troop of excellent musicians. What really struck and impressed me throughout this evening of musical heaven was just how easy it is to see top-notch live performances in New Orleans – we simply wandered down a few main streets and drifted towards whichever doors seemed to be emitting the most pleasant sounds. I absolutely adored it.

The following few days were jam-packed with more gastronomic sensations including beignets for brekkie, fire-cracker shrimp Po Boys and crawfish étouffée, plus an unplanned but superb bowl of pho in a nearby Vietnamese neighbourhood (another group with an established presence in New Orleans – who knew!) where Chan also struck gold by ordering an AMAZING avocado bubble tea on the waitress’ recommendation. We spent a good deal of time roaming around different city districts, examining many a bizarre artefact in the tat shops of French Quarter, poking around in one of NOLA’s many cemeteries, craning our necks to take in the majestic mansions of Garden District (one of which was the house used in American Horror Story) and marvelling at the rambling, gnarled branches of great oaks adorned with Spanish moss and coloured beads left over from Mardi Gras. With every new street I became ever so slightly more besotted with the delapidated elegance of New Orleans, more and more charmed by every passerby who greeted us with a good-natured nod and a languid “howryalldoin'”. I might tentatively say that it has overtaken Portland as my new favourite US city…

SWAMP. I’ll finish up this post shortly, but I cannot sign off without mentioning our trip to Honey Island Swamp – a mystical, primordial paradise that has sealed itself a unique spot in my affections. A gruff but good-humoured guide with an ear-strainingly thick accent cranked up his motor boat and jetted us off down waterways flanked by giant, stooping trees dangling more wizard beards of Spanish Moss (which  apparently is neither Spanish nor a moss, but that’s another story). As the surrounding vegetation thickened, silence swelled around us, broken only by the gentle plop of disturbed water as several alligators slid malevolently through the water towards us. These creatures are both terrifying and bizarrely endearing, often lurking motionless in the murky water, their squat little legs jutting out awkwardly from their bodies, two calculating eyes and a snout just visible on the surface. The guide lowered a stick with a bit of sausage speared on the end into the water, at which point the nearest gator sprang into life, launching itself several feet out of the water to claim its prize in its powerful jaw. As we continued our journey through the swamp, other less terrifying wildlife graced us with its presence: a throng of raccoons bounded out of the undergrowth, a snake was spotted snoozing atop an overhanging branch, and a wild boar snuffled out rich pickings between waterlogged tree roots that protruded from the mud like stunted fingers. The place was enchanting and above all timeless; I imagined its inhabitants co-existing in the way I observed long before man’s arrival, and no doubt will continue to do so long after humans have messed up their own existence and buggered off out of it.

I shall definitely sling my hook now, lovely reader. Part 2 coming soon: will feature our jaunt down to the Gulf of Mexico, dolphin watching in Florida, a night in a tiny boat and the latest from back here in Hotlanta, of course! Peace out for now (and stay cool European people, weather sounds horribly hot still!)

Trina x x x x x x x x