Jay, Heather, and I decided to see what the deal was with the deep south, anyway. We definitely learned. Here’s the the map for the entire route.

Read from the beginning below, or jump to each day:

• 3/28: Pre-trip in Minneapolis
• 3/29: Minneapolis to Nashville, Tennessee
• 3/30: Nashville
• 3/31: Nashville to Memphis (Jack Daniels Distillery in Lynchburg)
• 4/1: Memphis
• 4/2: Memphis to Tunica, Mississippi
• 4/3: Tunica to New Orleans, Louisiana (fear and loathing)
• 4/4: New Orleans (Gulf Coast and Mobile, Alabama)
• 4/5: New Orleans
• 4/6: New Orleans to Minneapolis

This trip began unofficially Thursday night when Jay stepped off a plane from San Francisco. The weather had been beautiful for two weeks, but winter decided to make an appearance again especially for him. We spent Friday exploring the sights of Minneapolis, which, excluding the Mall of America, took about an hour total.

I enjoyed getting to do things I wouldn’t ordinarily do as a normal resident of the Twin Cities, such as driving through Frogtown, shopping at the Mexican cowboy store, and riding the rollercoaster at the mall. And why haven’t we been to Cafe Brenda before? It was great.

We were on the road at 7:30, ready to conquer the 900-mile drive to Nashville. If the scenery in Wisconsin is less than inspiring, Illinois is ten times worse, alternating regularly between vast expanses of nothing and vast expanses of nothing with snow.

Things were looking bleak until we stopped in Metropolis. We paid homage to Superman, had dinner, and stopped at BP just long enough to get gas, determine that southern Illinois is in actuality part of Kentucky, and play ‘take-a-tract, leave-a-tract‘ in the religious flyer box at the front.

Revived and back on the road, we officially arrived in the (New) South. Heather celebrated by taking a nap in the back seat, while Jay and I convinced ourselves that, hell yes, we can make that 1300-mile drive back home from New Orleans all in one day. We’re idiots.

We dropped Jay off at his friend’s house, and headed to our hotel, which was within sight of both a Waffle House and a Cracker Barrel. Surrounded by down-home cookin’ in the country music capitol of the universe, Nashville, Tennessee. Perfect.

If you are one of those self-righteous northerners who doesn’t think the South rocks, you suck. Because you are so wrong.

We started the day at Bongo Java, the coffeehouse that was blessed a few years back with the Nun Bun, a cinnamon roll that looks miraculously like the Mother Theresa. It’s displayed proudly at their front counter.

The coffee was awesome. The guy making it was awesome. The group meditation on the third floor was pretty awesome, too. I bought the first of many t-shirts, and we hung out, leaving many tracts behind.

We saw the Parthenon, then went into downtown Nashville to ‘the District’. It’s teeming with BBQ restaurants, country bars, and tacky souvenir shops. I demanded we begin our tour here:

Words cannot describe the glory that is the Charlie Daniels museum, so you’ll have to go see it yourself. I left with not one but two copies of the Dukes of Hazzard 1982 18-Month Action Calendar. Score!!

We shopped for western wear and dumb postcards, then went to the Wildhorse Saloon for lunch. It was there that I had my first initiation into being a Southerner: I learned to line-dance. Not just any line-dance, either, the ‘Oh Baby’. Don’t pretend you’re not jealous.

After I stopped laughing long enough to be able to drive, we headed over to Katy K’s Ranch Dressing. This was probably the hardest part of the trip for me, as Katy was selling pretty much everything I’ve ever wanted to buy. It was so very hard to choose between the coolest country getups in the world and having to declare personal bankruptcy. I walked out with a cowgirl shirt and black cat sneakers, along with a ton of souvenirs for the people unfortunate enough to not be on the roadtrip with us. She was out of the black leather creepers with red mudflap girls embroidered on the tops, but she’ll email when they’re back in stock. Whew. Katy gave us the name of a good restaurant for lunch; we gave her a road trip tract.

In the evening, we went to Jay’s friend Erin’s for awesome vegan food. We hung out, ate a lot, then headed back to the hotel in the country wonderland. I admit that maybe I had a little trouble sleeping, knowing that the next day would be our trip to the Jack Daniels Distillery, and my fateful meeting with Goose.

Goose.

We arrived in Lynchburg, Tennessee at 10am for a date with destiny. The place was the Jack Daniels’ Distillery, and Randy ‘Goose’ Baxter was to be our guide. We’ve only been talking about him for more than six months, so there were a lot of expectations to be fulfilled. I’m happy to report that Goose met and exceeded them all.

Post-distillery, we raced back to Nashville for lunch, then got on the road to Memphis. It’s a 200-mile drive, but the lack of tacky roadside scenery, and the fact that we had driven 75 miles to Lynchburg and back, made it seem like a lot more. Luckily, Jay isn’t afraid to share his opinion about Tennessee drivers (“What would Jesus do? He’d signal!!”), and this kept us amused along the way.

We checked into the Heartbreak Hotel, right next door to Graceland. The hotel wasn’t too different than any other, except that it featured photos of Elvis over the beds, in place of the usual pastel garden scenes. We headed downtown to Beale Street, and Elvis’ very own restaurant. Lest Jay try to deny it later, here is photodocumentary evidence that he did, in fact, eat a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich:

Memphis is a little unclear on the tourism thing, though. Beale Street was almost completely deserted by 10pm. The stores were closed, and the bars featured live blues and jazz bands playing to empty rooms. It was kind of depressing. We headed back to the hotel bar, the Jungle Room, and hung out until scared away by the crazy locals.

Stay tuned. ‘Scared away by crazy locals’ may be a theme here.

Day four of the roadtrip began with Jay running (healthy) while Heather and I circled Memphis in search of espresso (unhealthy). No one should be that happy to find a Starbucks, but there it is. We were thrilled.

We walked next door to Graceland and bought tickets for the Platinum Tour, which entitled us to see not only the estate, but also Elvis’ cars and airplanes and some other rooms full of tacky bedazzled crap (as if Graceland itself didn’t have enough of that already). I mean, so much Elvis we wanted to puke (except for Heather, who couldn’t get enough). Graceland sort of reminded me of the House on the Rock, only about ten times bigger. And it’s by no means palatial, it’s basically just your average larger suburban home with its own graveyard. Not only that, it’s in a shitty neighborhood full of pawn shops and those places that cash your paycheck in advance. What does that say about Elvis’ effect on property values? I don’t want to think about it.

Right before reached the gravesite, our audio tour herded us into a large room where all the glory that is/was Elvis culminated. The walls were covered in gold records, and mannequins sported the most glorious of his Liberace-esque jumpsuits. A huge monitor played his final concert, ‘Aloha from Hawaii’. At this point, I realized that I had already seen that concert no less than ten times since I had arrived in Memphis, not even 24 hours before. How was that possible? Everywhere we went, Fat Elvis was sweating and crooning at us in much-larger-than-lifesize. It was enough to give me nightmares.

Then we saw the gravesite. It’s not exactly proof that Elvis is dead, but it’s good enough for me.

We went to lunch, then to Sun Studios. The rockabilly hipsters running the place thought they were way too cool for the rest of us, so the lack of enthusiasm on the tour was kind of a drag. However, I did hold the microphone Elvis used, and I stood in a room where Johnny Cash once stood. Did you ever notice how un-Elvis the Man in Black is? It’s comforting in a way.

Funny thing is, there’s not that much to do in Memphis. As I already mentioned, Beale Street isn’t great. There’s only so much BBQ that a human being can consume, especially when you’re not that into BBQ. So we took the logical next step, which was to visit the world’s largest putt-putt. It was there that we met Jeff Manager.

That night around 10pm, while waiting for our food at Isaac Hayes’ restaurant (uh-huh, you know it) and watching old Prince videos on overhead monitors, Jay and Heather convinced me to go call Jeff Manager and ask him to find us a real bar in Memphis. So I did. Jeff said he’d meet us after work at 1am at this place called Metro, across the street from an abandoned Sears building. So, fine. We went back to the hotel for a while, at which point Jay decided to stay while we went out. Heather and I found the bar easily, tried to park safely away from the homeless people peeing on the Sears building, and went inside. The moment I stepped in the door, a big shirtless guy grabbed me and yelled, “dance with me!!” And that moment, Heather and I found ourselves at gay karaoke in Memphis.

We stayed until 3am, and had an awesome time. Jeff sang two songs, high-kicked, pranced, and did the splits while we sat with his friend and friend’s boyfriend and laughed and cheered him on. We heard stories of putt-putt drama and life in Memphis. I admit that I had a hometown moment singing along with Purple Rain. Afterwards, we drove back to the hotel and I climbed into bed while Heather showered. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was Jay asking, “You’re not going to sleep in your clothes, are you?”

Well, yes.

I woke up feeling the pain of too much time spent in the car, and way too much of Elvis’ home-cooked goodness. I wanted to get out and stretch, so I decided to go for a walk down Elvis Presley Boulevard. It was a beautiful day outside, and I was having a moment. I spent a lot of time lingering at the front gates of Graceland, reading the graffiti and peering over the wall at the distant gravesite, until Heather called and asked where the hell I was. They were packed and ready to go.

We went downtown and stopped at A. Schwab. It’s basically an ancient five-and-dime that happens to have a decent supply of voodoo essentials. We stocked up on oils, mojo bags, enchanted powders, bizarre candles, and my favorite, St. Jude room deodorizing spray. Then we headed over to the Peabody Hotel for a spectacle that was not to be missed: the Peabody Ducks.

The Peabody Ducks lead a charmed life. They inhabit a penthouse at a swanky hotel, and twice a day, the Duckmaster herds them into the elevator. They descend to the lobby and parade down a red carpet through throngs of starstruck, camera-wielding tourists to a set of mini duck-stairs, which they regally ascend in order to pile into the overdone Italian marble fountain. They swim laps, trying to avoid the grasp of the many children who would have just a moment of their glory. They swim. They swim some more. Presumably, at some point, the Duckmaster herds them back up to their mysterious castle in the sky, but we didn’t stick around long enough to see it. Even though they are the most glamorous ducks in the universe, they’re still just ducks. And they swim in a fountain.

After a lunch infested with yuppie businesspeople talking too loudly, we decided it was high time to get the hell out of Memphis. So we did the next logical thing: we headed to Mississippi. In case you haven’t been, here’s what it looks like:

Anyway, we drove all of 30 miles to Tunica, a city built entirely of casinos and casino-related properties. In the grand tradition of riverboat gambling, the only rule about the casinos is that they have to float. So they’re on these giant barges, which have pits excavated underneath. And they float.

On the way to Tunica, sandwiched between the bland anonymity of I-55 and the gaming wonderland on the river, we passed through the town of Hernando. Obviously untouched by the wealth of the casinos, it was a good reminder that poor in the Deep South and poor in the North are two unimaginably different things.

Grand Casino has a sprawling campus consisting of a floating casino done up in five different (supposedly distinct) styles, two large hotels, an arcade, a golf course, The Willows, and acres and acres of engineered ponds and dead grass. We splurged on the nicer of the two hotels, which set us back an alarming $50. I did the dance of joy upon discovering an espresso shop in the lobby. After about 15 minutes in the room, we decided it was time to go shoot things.

The Grand Casino website describes skeet-shooting at The Willows as ‘golf with a gun’. I don’t know why this made it such a draw, since I don’t like golf, but it suggests exactly the right amount of crazy to be appealing. So Jay and I hopped our own private shuttle, got ourselves some bigass shotguns and a ‘trapper’ named Ray, and went and shot stuff.

Jay beat me by a point, but I think I did pretty well. The first time out, I hit 7 out of 8, and Ray called me Annie Oakley. That’s good enough for me. Oh, and we learned we weren’t really skeet shooting, we were shooting sporting clays. Ray explained the difference. I didn’t understand, or maybe it was the earplugs. Ray also pointed out the tallest building in the entire state of Mississippi. It’s a 13-story casino hotel.

Now, study the picture on the right closely, and remember. That’s the exact moment that Jay Patrikios became a certified Gun Nut®. After that incident, at least 30% of our conversations surrounded why he thought he should own a gun (“to shoot stuff!”), why I thought he shouldn’t, with Heather playing devil’s advocate, as usual. It wasn’t pretty.

After shootin’ stuff, we took another shuttle to the casino and had dinner. Then we watched Jay play and explain blackjack long enough that I started to figure out what was going on, and timidly joined in the game. I had four $5 chips, which I figured would be gone within minutes, and I was dreading the inevitable ridicule from the other players at the table that would drive me from the casino in tears, with a crowd of people chasing and hurling rocks. Instead, I played for at least half an hour, asking him what to do with almost every single hand, and ended up almost doubling my money. Beginner’s luck. I liked it a lot. So much that I’ll be avoiding the casino in the future, or there’ll be trouble.

We left the casino early in the morning and began the long haul through the state of Mississippi. Not wanting to miss out, I had chosen the Great River Route along Highway 61. If we were visiting the Deep South, we were really going to experience it. And how often do you get back to Mississippi? Hopefully never.

We were visiting the sites listed in Road Trip USA, our travel bible. We were in Delta Blues country, but didn’t see much evidence of musical history, apart from the crossroads where Robert Johnson is supposed to have sold his soul to the devil. In Leland, the birthplace of Jim Henson, we found a Muppets museum.

In Onward, Mississippi, the book led us to a country store on the side of the road, which bills itself as the place where the teddy bear was born. We decided to stop in and take the obligatory photo. It ended up being a good introduction to rednecks and their deep, burning hostility towards northerners. I stepped into the store, watched the two hicks at the front table turn slowly to glare at Jay, and I thought, this is the part where they say, “Y’all ain’t from around here, is you?” as the first few notes of Dueling Banjos play in the background.

We got out of there quick.

That was just a precursor to Vicksburg, however. This pretty much sums up the town:

Vicksburg is home to one beautiful, surreal attraction, however. It’s called Margaret’s Grocery. The South is full of shrines and personal tributes to Jesus, but this one beats them all.

The book told me that the grocery was run by an old preacher and his wife, and that the preacher was known to come barreling out of the store to testify to unsuspecting passers-by just like us. Jay and Heather were unaware of this, so I was hoping that he would make a showing especially for them. I was meandering slowly around the yard, photographing everything and gaping in amazement, while Heather stood nearby, asking repeatedly if we had had our tetanus shots. I was gawking at a display featuring charts about Jesus’ life with hand-scribbled notes and broken mirrors, when I heard yelling. I thought, “Awesome, it’s the preacher.” And I was so wrong. Here’s a photo I took of the crazy hick as the car went peeling away down a rural highway:

There’s not much else to be said about Mississippi except that maybe they need to move past the whole ‘War of Northern Aggression’ thing, and they’ll all be a lot happier. I know that we were happier to leave the state that afternoon, although backwater Louisiana wasn’t much better. The drive through the bayou used to be one of the most beautiful in the country, and now it’s known as the chemical corridor. It’s great. We suffered through traffic in Baton Rouge, and were relieved to finally reach our hotel in New Orleans.

Well, maybe I was a little nervous about the hotel. During my last extended phone conversation with the proprietor, he had virtually assured me that I would be killed by rednecks in Mississippi. He went into graphic detail, something about being tied to a tree, raped, etc. I laughed, and he yelled, “Why are you laughing? That’s what those people do!” So, needless to say, I was feeling a little weird about running into this guy at the hotel. Luckily, he was occupied when we arrived.

Jay and I took a walk around the Garden District that night. It was beautiful. We discovered that we were around the corner from an old cemetery and the Real World House, and right on the trolley line on St. Charles Avenue. Perfect.

Friday morning, I got up and decided to walk down to Rite-Aid to buy a hairdrier, since the Castle Inn was unequipped. It was the perfect day outside, if a little too humid for someone coming from a state where it was still technically winter. I walked down St. Charles Avenue, smiling at the goofy tourists on the passing streetcars and gawking at the mansions built by people who thought slavery was a really good idea. On the way back, I bought fresh strawberries from an old Cajun man selling produce out of the back of his pickup truck. It was another perfect moment.

I took Heather over to see the Real World house. It’s kind of trashed. I’m not sure what happened there, but it must’ve been a good party. It’s undergoing renovations at the moment. The second picture is taken from the window at our hotel, the one where you see the creepy lit-up suit of armor at night.

While we were walking around, Heather pointed out that the trees along St. Charles are draped not only with spanish moss, but with Mardi Gras beads. Tons of them, hanging everywhere, and on the walkways, ground into the dirt. Also, on the big suit of armor in the doorway of our hotel.

There’s a lot to be said about our hotel, by the way. First of all, it’s supposed to be haunted. The night we arrived, they told us that some people had recently brought a Ouija board, and determined that one of the ghosts (there are five) is a kid named Emily. The ghosts mostly hang out in the Bordello Room, which was next door to our room on the third floor. We stayed in the Voodoo Room, at the end of a long, blood-red hallway with lighting that never worked. The room was all gothed out in a really tacky way. It was awesome.

We went around the corner to explore the cemetery. The above-ground tombs are pretty incredible. I later discovered that this cemetery was one of the most historic in New Orleans. It was kind of surreal seeing the Goodyear Blimp hovering overhead for the NCAA tournament, though.

We ate monstrous burritos for lunch, got back in the car, and headed to Alabama. Why? Ask Jay. Anyway, the Gulf Coast was way nicer than expected. We were dreading spending more time in Mississippi, but it actually had more to offer than casinos and rednecks: it had beaches.

I wanted to lay around longer, but my Minnesotan was showing, and I was turning pink. We drove through more tacky casino country, watched for alligators in the swamps, and bought boiled peanuts from an old woman on the side of the road. Mobile was, you know, a small city in Alabama, and that’s about it. We turned around and headed back to New Orleans.

I got up even earlier than usual on Saturday, got dressed, and wandered downstairs with the intention of going around the corner to hang out at the coffee shop until Heather and Jay were ready to go. However, it was raining, and after a long chat with one of the owners about her profound lack of interest in the resident spirits, I decided to lurk around the Castle Inn and have breakfast. I started poking around the buffet, which consisted of mostly prepackaged food in a less-than-appetizing presentation: sliced cinnamon and raisin bread next to an old toaster, crusty glazed donuts, packets of grits and cold cereal, pop-tarts removed from their wrappers and arranged on a plate, anemic-looking fruit. I was about to fill my coffee mug (which I had already designated as my ‘usual’ after two days: it’s the orange one with the pumpkin face on it, in case you’re ever visiting), when the man I had been trying to avoid came barrelling out of the kitchen to admonish me. Breakfast didn’t start until 8am.

Chastized by a crazy man, I went out to the sunporch and read a book that was titled something like “Ghost-hunting for Dummies”. Then I paged through a book about psychic phenomena that was published in the 50s, and found it highly informative in a this-is-a-giant-load-of-crap sort of way. I went into the office and checked my email, verifying that my company was indeed still in business even though I was out of town. Once it was safely past 8am, I went back for my coffee, and sat down on a couch in the main room, clutching my pumpkin mug and a brown banana.

I was paging through a fascinating book about the history of the Garden District when a guy walked in, got coffee, and took a seat across the room, facing me. He sat there silently for ten or fifteen minutes, during which time I was convinced he was fixing me with his serial-killer gaze, so I was afraid to look up. I clung to the pumpkin for support. Finally, he asked me how late I had been ‘down there’ the night before. I told him we didn’t go near Bourbon Street, on account of the NCAA tournament and the hoardes of reckless fratboys. He described their night, spent pushing through drunk guys on the street, and their return to the hotel at around 3am. He said he was an amateur ghost-hunter, so he had taken out his digital camera and started snapping pictures randomly, hoping to catch some haunting activity. And he had.

Ron went upstairs for his camera, and sat and showed me all his photos. They were interesting, definitely. A lot of it could have been explained away as tricks of light and the flash, but some of it was pretty intriguing. He pointed out outlines of ghosts, even the little girl known as Emily. He was convinced. I was skeptical. I gave him my email address, hoping he’d send the photos.

After half an hour or so, I gracefully extricated myself and went upstairs. Heather and I decided to take the streetcar into the French Quarter (or the ‘Freedom Quarter’, for you dumbass patriots). Jay would drive over and meet us for tofu rancheros at the awesome vegetarian place we had discovered. It was in the mid-80s that morning, but the humidity made it stifling. Heather and I walked from one side of the French Quarter to the other, stopping in the tacky souvenir shops to pick up voodoo dolls and the like. We were a little early for brunch, so we stopped for coffee at a cafe on Decatur (not Cafe Du Monde, which was overrun with hung-over fratboys), and sat there listening to the jazz band and people-watching.

We had brunch, then headed back to the other side of the French Quarter to the Aquarium. I saw what I had come to see: jellyfish. I even witnessed jellyfish sex, even though Heather swore that they didn’t reproduce that way. But I know what I saw: dirty, raunchy jellyfish lovin’. It was hot.

We left the aquarium and once again headed back across the French Quarter. It’s only something like 13 blocks wide, but it seemed like a lot, having walked it a couple times already in the drenching humidity. We stopped at the French Market to buy fresh fruit for the trip back the next day, then walked back to the car. A huge storm was rolling in from the Gulf, and it started to pour a few minutes after we reached the car. At that point, I announced that I was officially tired. It had been a long trip.

We went back to the hotel and rested while it stormed. Later, we drove up to the fair suburb of Metairie, to the International Market, and dinner at an indian restaurant. The Taj Mahal was no less than the happiest restaurant on earth, and it was the perfect way to spend some of our last few hours in the south.

The 1,200-mile, twenty-hour drive back to Minneapolis is all kind of a blur. From the interstate, the country looks pretty much the same no matter where you are. At one point or another, we spent time in Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee, Arkansas, Missouri, Illinois, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. The main differences between each region are in the number of signs informing you about God’s thoughts on abortion, and the names of the crappy roadside restaurants. In the south, it’s Shoney’s; in the north, Country Kitchen.

We had a stockpile of greasy Indian snack food, some huge mutant apples from the French Market, and we stopped regularly at truck stops to pee and buy beverages. I offered Jay a dollar to eat a packet of dill pickle Twang I bought from a gas station in Mississippi. He did. I didn’t pay up. Sucker.

Heather ended up as the driving hero, taking the last shift shortly before midnight in Madison, Wisconsin. One of us was supposed to stay awake to make sure the driver didn’t doze off, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open for more than five minutes at a time. I think Jay was passed out most of the time in the back. But Heather came through and got us home safe. We stumbled into the house after 3am and headed straight to bed. It took me forever to get to sleep. All I could feel was the road.