At 8.30, a group of fourteen gathered at Vienna Airport and embarked on a nine-hour transatlantic crossing. The flight was smooth and uneventful, except that the plane was full to the last seat (in fact, the flight was frightfully overbooked, but luckily that created no problem). On landing in Chicago, we were greeted by a taste of Midwestern muggy heat, which was relieved by the air conditioning of the vans, our home on wheels for the next weeks. Tim Conley and Nathan MacCarthy piloted the vans safely to Peoria, where we were received with a warm welcome--this is not a reference to the weather but to the dinner and refreshments awaiting us at the Conleys' house, where twenty of the twenty-two participants first came together. [kam.]

********

nice flight. only drawback: for some reason the airline's abridged version of Almost Famous didn't contain the fifteen-minute sequence were the band almost dies on a flight back home. [m.y. (m.z. on european kezboards)]

[msg from m.k.: hallo mama]

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

Beginnings..

All of the itinerants met for orientation sessions in the morning and afternoon: the objective was, first, that the members of the group got to know each other and, second, to prepare for the trip as a project in cultural studies. Focusing on the issue of race in Mark Twain's *The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn*, the afternoon session turned into a lively and profound discussion (teacher's note, with a sigh: I wish it were always like that in U-Vienna classrooms).

For many of the Austrian participants, the biggest task was to come to terms with the weather, the heat and humidity outside, while indoors everything seems refrigerated, thus intensifying the heat shock every time one steps outside.

The evening barbeque at the Conleys was a treat and a great success: lots of people, including the head of Bradley's English Department, came by to bid us farewell and good luck; the food was so good that we could barely fend off the envy of the Conleys' dogs. [kam.]

Whoever it is that is in charge of the weather, seems to have heard our pleas and responded to them. It is noticably cooler than yesterday, the humidity gone, the sky intensely blue. [kam.]

**********

"The Food Committee" — What we found out about Super Walmart (as experienced in East Peoria)

1) 5 Billa x Spar²⁶ + vMerkur = 1 Walmart

    Shopping requires sports equipment!

    (That’s why they sell Powerade after the cashier’s desk!)

2) Wish A: You feel a desperate compulsion to eat lobster.

    Fact B: Only living lobster available at Walmart.

    Conclusion C: face the tragic consequences ...

3) Beware of psychedelic food (colors are more important than contents?!)

4) Philosophical advice:

    Life is like Walmart: Even if there are 1000 possibilities, most of the time it will be better to   decide for one...

5) The food committee is by definition infallible and cannot be held responsible for any of its decisions.

[a.g. & j.p. (1^st FC)]

****************

ad “The Food Committee”, by Julia and Ali; What I found out about Super Walmart.

1) If it doesn’t say Superstore above the entrance, don’t even bother to go in there. The plain Walmarts just won’t do for this group..

2) For those who just can’t decide what they really want, there’s lots of great bargains in the ammunition and fire-weapons section—how about some fowl or deer to spice up the daily roadkill-diet a little? (why buy it if you can shoot it yrself?)

3) Did you ever watch one of those movies where a few adolescents let themselves be locked up in a shopping mall overnight? (the title must be something with paradise in it) We’ve seen the set!

to be cont’d (maybe)

[m.z. (2^nd FC)]

IMAGES OF MARK TWAIN'S HUCKLEBERRY FINN VS. THE HANNIBAL 'REALITY'

Since we started this journey we've worked through our experiences and observations in more or less regular discussion groups. One of the first groups was coordinated by Doris Glatzl. 
She presented us with a couple of old Huckleberry Finn illustrations showing different characters of the book and let us do a two-minute brainstorming. We wrote down our impressions about the pictures.

In one way or another, the images all seemed like caricatures of the people portrayed in the book. During the discussion we agreed that the pictures showed the characters as the artist saw them. We further discussed Mark Twain's reaction to the pictures, differences between the story and the characters in other editions of the book and in movies, and the relevancy of all of the above in teaching.

The discussion was lively and took much longer than the estimated one hour. The topic was interesting, especially since we'd seen a video tape about racism in Huckleberry Finn before we left Peoria and because we had visited Hannibal the day before.

None of us were too happy with what we saw in the town. I will try to give a short personal account of my impressions there—please bear in mind that I can only speak for myself and not for the group, even though I had the feeling that many of the others felt the same way about Hannibal as I did.

So what can I tell you?

We didn't see much of Hannibal. In fact, what we saw was mostly one street—one street that seemed completely dedicated to Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher.

We went to the house where Sam Clemens had lived ... and it was all about Mark Twain and Tom Sawyer. We went into the house on the other side of the street ... and it was all about Becky Thatcher. We strolled along the street to the Mark Twain Museum, and on our way we saw gift shops and coffee shops, and most of them looked like they'd jumped right out of a Disney movie. The Mark Twain Museum was in a large building with exhibits on two floors in a rather spacious area ... and it was—largely—about Tom Sawyer.

There was a gallery with illustrations from Mark Twain's books on the second floor, but even though it included some paintings done for his other books (for example, one section was about Life on the Mississippi), most of it dealt with Tom Sawyer.

We actually saw some of the pictures Doris would use in her discussion the next day. 
Considering the fact that it was summer, tourist season, there were hardly any people around. Everything seemed to me just a bit tattered at the edges, like an old magazine that has been read too often. The town had a kind of strained cheer that made me feel a bit sad. The stubborn focus on Tom Sawyer, on everything light and positive and fictional smelled, of lost opportunities.

The general consensus seemed not to upset anybody, not to stir up any serious thoughts or images. There could have been so much more. This town, or this street, could have been so much more interesting and challenging.

The illustrations Doris showed us had been done for the first edition of Huckleberry Finn. They were funny, satirical, controversial. But the thing is ... they changed. More recent editions have other illustrations, done by other artists. They go with the times; they do not remain frozen. Every artist tried to capture the characters as he or she perceived it.

Hannibal, on the other hand, ... if you walk along the street, you get the feeling nothing has changed in a long time, and nothing much will change in the future. Even if the people tried to include Huckleberry Finn by adding a few copies of the book to the selection in the gift shops or build a Huckleberry Finn house ... everything still seems static.

There is no sense of open-mindedness of fresh interpretations of Mark Twain's books. Tom Sawyer is the most popular of his stories, so this is what the people of Hannibal will stick to. And if visitors complain that there's nothing on Huckleberry Finn, they'll add some stuff (and I use this word deliberately here) to make people happy—but carefully, so as not to start a debate.

There is virtually nothing on Sam Clemens in Hannibal, hardly anything about Huckleberry Finn... and who the hell was Jim?

Hannibal tries to present a fictional reality ... not necessarily out of historical interest, but to draw tourists and their money, which the town seems to need desperately. But this kind of fiction posing as reality works only with mediocre pictures.

Johanna C.A. Fally

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

A Tale of Two Cities..

The Runner's Cultural Study:

"Running in the mist of early morning Hannibal, many a frog has ceased jumping. Stretched out flat on the concrete, only literature can bring them to life again..."

see: 

Mark Twain, "The Notorious Jumping Frog of Calaveras County"

Tom Robbins, Half Asleep in Frog Pyjamas

[a.g.]

*************

30/17 of a Haiku? [m.z.]

*************

The Mississippi is a grayish-brownish mess, but wide and smooth and soft around the edges, its banks lush and green. No animals in its opaque depths, its energy level matching mine after I don't know how many days of traveling. A pretty sight all the same. (ko)

*****************

Beautiful scenery with spectacular vistas of the river as we headed toward Louisiana MO—quite a contrast to what was offered as sights when we erred around St. Louis: The Chain of Rocks Bridge closed (open only on weekends); endless construction sites blocking traffic so effectively that we ran over an hour behind schedule, even after the projected lunch picnic was effectively canceled by the imponderable decisions of municipal authorities (barring us from accessing the park near the Chain of Rocks bridge).

So we lunched haphazardly at Route 66 State Park, only to learn afterwards that we had indulged, rather ignorantly, in a feast on grounds once known as Times Beach ... [kam.]

For a few off-track infos about that (more to come!), go to http://www.univie.ac.at/Anglistik/easyrider/data/made_in_usa.htm  [m.z.]

go to pictures of St. Louis Museum of Transportation

CAIRO AS SEEN BY AN AUSTRIAN AND AN AMERICAN: an intercultural approach

When coming to Cairo, we had no idea what the town really was about. What the museum displayed was rather the hayday of the Mississippi river town than what it had become in the later years. We plunged into the past by reviewing the town's local history (Grl. U.S. Grant actually had his headquarter stationed in Cairo for about half a year) without getting much to hear about the present problems. These we saw when entering downtown historic Cairo: Noon. A deserted street. No people around, except Mississippi river travelers. All the shops are either closed or run down. Many had the doors wide open, no one seems to care about them. As we opened one of them, a beastly smell entered our noses. Homeless people had turned the house into a shelter. Intuitively, I challenged Michael for a duel on the main street. Death was in the air. We took ten paces, turned around and drew our guns. BANG! Michael's dead, but he fell gloriously. Then Michael got up again, and we proceeded on our trip through the ghost town. On the river front, we found a dead fish (which Tim considered to take with him for the picnic on the confluence site; finally, the smell made him reconsider his plans). We still had not met a single soul, until a drunk woman stumbled out of a bar. She was upset about our presence in her town. We were being rude to the town by walking in, taking pictures and disturbing the lives of those who still exist in the town. Perhaps, she was even right. (ajg, hb)

go to pictures of the visit to Cairo

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

Cairo.. 'nuff said

go to picture gallery of Memphis

Memphis, Tennessee

The National Civil Rights Museum, built in the former Lorraine Motel, the original site at which Dr. Martin Luther King was assassinated in 1968, and Graceland, home of one of "America's" most powerful myths--no need to mention the name here, right?--set the town of Memphis in stark contrast. Different histories; different geographies; and two incidents of cultural wars fought about representations of different versions of America. [k.h.]

Graceland:

It's afternoon in Memphis, Tennessee, and turning off Elvis Presley Boulevard (sic!), the visitor faces a giant parking lot next to the "Heartbreak Hotel," passes the fences around Lisa Marie's airplane tour and after passing one of the seven cashier windows finds himself/herself ushered into one of the vans that takes him/her to the mansion, after a photograph has been taken and headphones for the audio tour have been issued. You don't need to be a fan to be doing this, but it helps.

When Elvis Presley was still living at Graceland, a fan took a different approach. After playing a show in Memphis one night in the 1970s, a musician decided on impulse to take a cab out to Graceland. He stood in front of the gates, looked up to the mansion and saw the lights were on. Concluding that Elvis must be home, he jumped the wall and ran up the driveway. At the front door, his request to speak to the King was turned down by security. Elvis was at Lake Tahoe, the musician was told before he was walked back down and dumped outside the gate. Telling the security guard that he had been on the covers of Time and Newsweek did not help Bruce Springsteen much. At Graceland, he was just another fan trying to worship Elvis.

When Springsteen decided to jump that wall, he seems to have acted out the idea Paul Simon would later put to music: 

Maybe I've reason to believe 
We all will be received
In Graceland

(Paul Simon, "Graceland") 

Well, who will be received here? It is appropriate that the narrator/protagonist of the song is a white guy. Graceland doesn't seem to speak to African Americans. Although a considerable number of international visitors comes to the site, there weren't any blacks to be seen when we stopped by (many of the personnel were African American, though). That observation tied in with a group discussion we had the day before on the function of myths. In Graceland, "Elvis" is produced, presented, and reproduced so as to make him fit a peculiar mythical version of white America in a number of ways. All the way from the Tupelo, Mississippi, shotgun shack to what seems every household in the western world, Elvis was the Southern boy who loved his parents, donated to local charities, would not turn any fan down, went into the service for his country, and, clinging to his roots, stayed true. He died because of "chronic health problems" and too much "prescription medicine," as the audio tour will tell you. 
The central issue in the discussion that preceded our visit to the myth had been whether it was possible to use myths critically and subversively--to turn them around and employ them as counter myths that oppose or resist the dominant ideology. Graceland seems to say no. The way Presley's death is contained in the official story is only a minor illustration of the power of that story to control and preconfigure the ways visitors can read the site and its Elvis. It is easy to see how only particular people would be drawn into the story Graceland tells--not only of Elvis, but also of "America"--and how the site will remain silent for others.

Graceland, after all, may be not so much about Elvis Presley and commemoration, but about racial, ethnic, gender, sexual, social and age differences and their relation to "America," and, equally important, about the production of and confirmation of particular identities for the visitor. Perhaps that is a characteristic of each of the cultural "texts" that we are going to see for the remainder of this road trip. Parallel to how Graceland seems to empower fans on its own ideological premises and excludes others on the same grounds, the other sites we are going to visit may talk to differently positioned readers, visitors, and comsumers in different ways while refusing to address others. To look at that aspect is perhaps one undertaking that is significant as we go down the Mississippi Valley. [k.h.]

hey verena--greetings from the road! [a.b. and k.h.]

********

At Night on Beale Street:

Black dancing to some funky blues music need not necessarily be different, but these two couples were... extremely good-lokking and in high spirits. I witnessed the production, communication and consumption of erotic vibes, constituted by outward sexual movement and a more subtle expression of some kind of fever.
Look into her eyes... she conceives of herself as the Queen of the Dancefloor, which she is; her younger friend does the same, and she is, too; their guys as well: Kings of Beale Street. The audience, the spectator, were all at once turned into voyeurs...

[a.g.]

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

Black, White, and Blues..

go to picture gallery of Clarksdale and the Blues Museum

yellow planes with insecticides above our heads... so close we ducked our heads in perfect unison... [a.g.]

... which goes to show--after the theoretical discussion we've had about our identities as Americans, Europeans, women, men, students, etc. and whether/how our different identities would affect our readings--how easily we can all be constituted as one group in this trip... ;-) [k.h.]

[An kleine Eule: "All Along the Watchtower" - Jimi Hendrix Gitarrengott - in the van, as we're driving alongside the damp cottonfields of Mississippi...]

**************

Visiting the Blues Museum in Clarksdale and leaving it with a better understanding of the blues....

We just left Memphis, Tennessee, and are heading south towards Clarksdale. Those of us who are not asleep probably look out of the window and absorb the wide, seemingly never ending cottonfields. The Mississippi Delta, stretching from Memphis to Vicksburg, is known for this plant, which was cultivated by slaves. Their labor and the worksongs that accompanied it provided the basis for the emergence of the blues. 

Clarksdale, the local economic hub, appears as a rusty, run-down area with depopulated streets. The town has to face a certain loss of economic wealth, but it has definitely kept its heat and humidity. We leave the air-conditioned van and dive into the heat of the town and deeper into the blues by entering the one and only highlight in Clarksdale, The Delta Blues Museum. We enter the room and stand in front of black-and-white photographs of the Delta's landscape. As the cottonfields we were passing prepared us for Clarksdale, the photographs now prepare us for the exhibition of the blues. It becomes clear that being able to understand the blues presupposes being aware of the environmental and social conditions from which it emerged.

This focus on the region right at the beginning already points to the way the entire exhibition presents the blues: naturally, more or less originally and honestly. You feel partially drawn into it. We are carefully prepared for the story of people who were born in the Delta, who have made this music alive (as strange as it may sound) and were hence responsible for the blues' development. Parallel to the internationally known musicians such as John Lee Hooker, Muddy Waters, B. B. King, etc. many locally known artists are mentioned, who also lived the blues. 

As I look at the different "Stella" Guitars (6 strings, 12 strings, 9 strings(!) ), suddenly the soft music in the background becomes apparent. This music does not distract, but it enhances one's feeling and understanding of what this museum is trying to convey.

Right beside a portrait of Muddy Waters, there are quotations of artists such as John Lennon, Rod Stewart, Keith Richards mentioned, as well as of Eric Clapton who "felt so much love for him [M.W.]". Muddy Waters is a definite presence in the museum. There is a small log cabin built in the room, which concerns exclusively him. However, this does not change the character of the museum, it rather reinforces it. It is made out of wood, naturally presented, not glitzy, but real, fitting the music. It seems as if the designers of the museum actually intended to present the blues as original and deep as it is and, at the same time, not dedicating it to one person only. 

The colorful paintings made by African American artists seem to foreground the basics of the blues as much as the  black-and -white pictures at the beginning. The painter may have had the same goal as the photographer, but has chosen a different way of presenting it. Just as the blues notes make up the essence of the blues, the photographs and the paintings make up the essence for the museum.

I leave the Blues Museum with a feeling of having captured some of what it is all about. I now have more understanding of the blues because of this visit. From my point of view, it has thus fulfilled its duty as an authentic representation of the Delta Blues.

In case you are interested in blues and like to know more about its origins, development and performance, I recommend the book Deep Blues by Robert Palmer, which I bought in the museum's shop. According to "the blues specialist" in the group, Elliot Mandel, "the book is great. It gives the reader a sense of how the blues developed as an art form, why it has emerged and why it is still around today."

Tim Conley: "Elliot may be the best blues interpreter in the entire - uh - restaurant." 
[s.f.]

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

Keys to the Highway..

Vicksburg

There is a short story by Bobbie Ann Mason called "Shiloh" about a middle-aged couple that one day decides to go to what once was the place where thousands of Confederate and Union soldiers lost their lives. What they do there, however, is a rather telling example of what we experienced at another of the numerous National Military Parks, as they are officially called. Surrounded by the atmosphere of senseless slaughter, the couple has a picnic and decides upon their future together. So I felt less surprised when we entered the park and ended up picnicking, basking in the sun and playing frisbee. Civil War sites, for Americans, seem to represent an area of both recreation and commemoration. I was more surprised, though, when in the evening's discussion it came out that many (especially Americans) felt pretty bad about having lunch on a place where once the Civil War (or the War between the States, as it is still called by some Southerners) was fought.

My general impression was that if anyone coming to Vicksburg tries to commemorate the death of thousands of soldiers and reflect upon the causes that really had led to that horrible war, he/she will certainly have a hard time to do so. Entering the park you are directly led to the Vistors Center where you can buy Civil War souvernirs as well as books about the war (in a way there seems to be a whole Civil War industry working in the background, thus benefitting from the biggest catastrophe this country ever experienced). Further, there is a thirty-minute movie that is supposed to introduce the visitor to the whole matter (this was at least my expectation of what the movie would or should be about). Instead, we were mainly shown the major movements of regiments, which made it hard for me to stay awake at all (I must confess). What the film did was indeed presenting a totally selective and biased view that celebrated the Union whilst totally neglecting the fate of the common soldier, Union and Confederate alike (cf. the brochure). What we have is the Union on the one hand, and the "rebel" on the other. What the whole park reminded me of was not so much a celebration of war than a celebration of what that war restored with the force of war: the United States of America.

I think that a good deal of what this trip created in the mind of outside students could be felt at Vicksburg, too: a steady feeling of disease and discontent about the way delicate matters are dealt with by authorities of any kind. This confusion in a way I think is caused by the attempt to put to the fore one point of view among many, in a way forgetting about the diversity and randomness that big country stands for. [hb]

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

"When you have something to cover up, build a state park.."

go to pictures of the stay in Natchez

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

Study in Simplicity..

The itinerants' efforts at reaching the Gulf of Mexico at Cypreemort were undercut by a barge that hit the bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway just a few hours before we endeavored to go over it. The bridge closed, we were barred from reaching our destination and had to change our route. Spotting another, the only other, beach access about thirty miles off, at Burns Point, we headed there ... [kam.]

go to pictures of the trip in Louisiana

*************

if holger and michael keep up the fast pace in which they teach their austrian lessons to everybody on the green van, we can probably switch to writing this journal in german by tomorrow or the day after. (a rather informal journal it would be, though.)

we're slowly approaching nawleans, but we take the long route. south to cypreemort, LA, to take a swim in the gulf of mexico, and then east, past new orleans, to biloxi. today will be one of the longest drives so far, so we decided to leave as early as possible—8am. michael and me agreed that the very early departure—no matter how difficult it might be to wake up—probably saved our lives yet once again: by the time we get up, there usually doesn't seem to be much oxygen left in the air-conditioned motel rooms, the windows of which of course can't be opened.

it's the 10th day of our trip (i think), & we've already covered 7 states.. one could almost start thinking the u.s. are not that big after all, or are they?—actually, they are, and we cheated a little—we did nothing like "covering" any of the states we've been to so far (in iowa, for example, we have not been much longer than 10 minutes.). on the contrary, wherever we stop and have a brief look at a museum, park, or historic site, we find that we would have to stay for a very long time to even begin to be able to get a notion of what it is that we see and hear. on the other hand, the fast traveling, the quick swift changes of make us very aware of the different landscapes, accents, local habits, [note: at this point the computer crashed.]
as we progress, the only clear picture that starts to take form in our heads probably is the understanding that we travel through a region that is far more diverse and complex than most of us thought, in a number of contexts that is too large to [note: twice. I can't quite remember what I was up to here, and no time to re-think it all]

most of us have problems calling home, so this is a msg to everybody not to be worried about any of us..
Bellsouth doesn't seem to be able to process international collect calls, and VISA cancelled their phone-services, obviously without finding it necessary to notify any of their austrian clients. as i learned last night, since about half a year it is impossible to place phone calls using *austrian* VISA cards.
take this as a bad excuse if you like—you might be right, all the symptoms are there: we enjoy the trip, everything has worked out perfectly fine up to now, & i don't think the possibility of home-sickness has occured to anyone yet.
[m.z.]

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

"Goin' down south in the Bayou country.."

New Orleans, July

When I came to New Orleans, I knew nothing about the city except what I'd encountered in various stories in order to prepare for this trip. I´d mainly read pieces by George Washington Cable and Kate Chopin, two writers who had each spent considerable time in the city and who, in their writings, dealt with the horrors people of mixed racial origin had to face. Basically, I knew about "Désirée's Baby", the intricacies of race relations in this city and elsewhere and a little bit of everything concerning the cultures that blended together to form New Orleans. 
But those were the 1800's; I knew not a first thing about the New Orleans of today. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the houses were what they must have been in colonial times. Balconies, jungles of fern and ivy, cobblestone, narrow streets, small restaurants… The only thing I regretted was not finding the Haunted House on Royal Street. That's a downside for sure, after I'd gone through the trouble J of reading George Washington Cable's version of the story (a two-parter) that sticks surprisingly close to the "facts" as unburied by Harriet Martineau in the 19th century.

On our nightly stroll through town I was met with a great deal of craze, loud colors, hybrid music, noise (or more of that music?), and people of questionable gender, race and origin. I also had my first encounter with voodoo, if only from afar.

And I loved it. Every minute of it. The part about the voodoo I'm not entirely sure about. Of course I'd seen the dolls and had contemplated buying one. I probably would have, too, had they not been that ugly. No kidding, I'd always assumed they actually have to resemble the person they are used against, and not wild-eyed beasts with frizzy hair. Other than that, the dolls were fine and not in the least… unsettling. What I'm talking about is two people (of indeterminate gender… you get the picture) standing behind a tiny stand in the street. They were obviously vendors, their faces painted a shining white as if to attract customers. And here's the scary detail: they waved me over or were attempting to do so and they had this weird look in their eyes. Hypnotic. High? They were on something. And I was gone.

Apart from this episode, I felt perfectly safe, though I was glad to be part of a group and not on my own. New Orleans is amazing. It's is so much alive, it just draws you in, sucks you into a whirlpool of voices and music and technicolor and old dust, and suddenly all you get is clusters of impressions and you feel like you're missing the big picture. Everything's moving, happens so fast, there's no way for you to register it all. You're flowing with it, on streets that are streams of life [unlike bayous; those barely move, as we now know], drift into a bar, a club, have a drink, play ball, twirl back out, still spinning… it's crazy.

So much going on at the same time. One night in this zip code is just not enough. Gotta come back. Anyone wanna join me? (ko)

go to pictures of the drive from New Orleans to Biloxi

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

Nawlins:
ah gahron-TEE..

Tall-Tales of the Swamp

Eagerly looking forward to some "real", "wild" experience, we drove back on U.S. 90 to Slidell, L-o-u-isiana, on a "Gator Swamp Tour": The waterways led our small aluminum barge into the densitiy of the swamp, where we would get an idea of "the primitive beauty of the ecoscope," said to be "preserved in all of its pristine grandeur" (according to Gator Tours, Inc; and neglecting the fact that  the average size of the slow-growing alligators has shrunk significantly to no more than 15 ft. - about 5 m - over the last 15 years, due to the impact of hunting, it seems: the creatures aren't allowed to grow old anymore).

We did get many an idea, though... not only of "primitive" wildlife, but also of primitive methods of dumping steel, old iron, and water bottles. 

Whether our tour guide was an expert in his profession, I cannot say; he was definitely professional in the telling of tall-tales. Combining a hunter's knowledge and native wit, he acquainted us with his life from a New Orleans childhood to his high-school days, spinning facts, memories, oral tales, and a good portion of Southern drawl into one yarn after the other... "it would have made great literature!"

[a.g.]

***************

Gatorade

Gliding through the Honey Island Swamps 
in a boat that barely fit us all 
and suddenly level with a pair of gator eyes 
scanning our paws for the sweet white of fish bellies 
then rapidly vanishing in the coffee colored masses
without so much as disturbing the water.

[ko]

go to pictures of swamp tour

***************

OUR EXCURSION TO THE "TREASURE BAY CASINO" IN BILOXI

Three of our group decided to seek an audience with temptation. We were eager to explore the seemingly authentic replica of an 18th century pirate ship. It looked convincing enough from the outside; however, a blinking neon sign lighting up the whole area almost already ruined the mood of it. Coming closer, we crossed an enormous turnabout and entered—the souvenir shop! Instead of pirate booty we encountered kitsch of every shape and size, most of it unrelated to pirates. As we stepped into the casino we still hoped to leave it with the fortunes displayed on the outside sign. And fortunes were there, but not for us.

Rachel, being the most resistent, broke even after gambling with merely 2$. Sabine and Doris lost the equivalent of two decent seafood dinners at the one-armed bandits (exact figures not given here). Doris won 40 credits at one time and was optimistic enough to play it all and eventually lose it. Sabine was desperate enough to be thrilled after winning one quarter and played it right back into the slot machine. That was the signal for us to leave, richer only of an experience.

(r.w., s.f., and d.g.)

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

Coasting..

Just now (we are heading north again, towards Oxford, MS on I 55) we took over a truck that was missing one of its rear tires. Looks like the guy didn't even notice he (or she) has lost it. Little bits and pieces of rubber zig-zagged in the wake of the collosal machine truck—it looked dangerous, even if we left the image behind us in little more than two or three seconds.
Maybe it's only trucks that lose all those torn up pieces and strips of rubber along the roadside, looking pretty much the same as all the run-over armadillos, squirrels, and possums. Anything smaller than those trucks, I can imagine, would swerve off to dissappear forever in the seemingly endless swamps, or pine woods, or fields of all sorts that line the highways and interstates.

*******

I think none of us ever had to get accustomed to that many different pools, bars, breakfast buffets, and TV remote controls in such a short time-span. But we are doing a great job.
[m.z.]

*******

The green van experience (I have no clue when I wrote that but it must have been some time after Combsday, and that was a Wednesday if I remember correctly)

The van experience would have been a more pleasant one had it not been for a particular reverend who set his mind on collecting change and using his make-belief urn for a musical instrument of questionable quality. 
We do appreciate the panorama view that allowed us to keep track of the possums and armadillos, cats and dogs on both sides of the road, as well as the cornfields and soy fields, the cornfields and soy fields, and the cornfields and soy fields. Also, especially on long rides, we had ample opportunity to catch up on some sleep. Once you get used to the road and the humming of tires on concrete, of van-mates fighting over radio stations (seeeek!) and the green darting by on the outside, all of this blends together, lulling you to sleep. (ko)

*******

Fiction…
Love on the Mississippi?

Today we were talking about them at the pool. Then we saw them. Him, with a smile that spoke volumes and a bucket of ice. "Very engaged", was our comment. And her, with another one of these big smiles on her face. Cute, I thought. But doesn't he have a girlfriend? 
Hey, move, Superman. You're not supposed to read this. MOVE. [He's sitting next to me in the van as I'm writing this.]

This could be fun. Oh, and I saw them in her (his?) room tonight, alone, dim light, more smiles. Quiet and happy, at ease but excited. Flushed? Anticipation is the word. I guess it's not all about chemistry. It's also about patience. He scored big on that, as the green vanners will surely admit. 
Can I even put that on the net? Should I? Will they or one of them forever despise me for my scrutiny? 
He wore a blue sweater, she wore… 
Don't look, Supie. I promise this is not about you. 
I would love to go peek. 
Hey, Reverend, keep Superman busy. He's bugging me. Go comb the reverend's hair, Supie. It's Combsday. 
Anyway, it's looking pretty promising. You two, I'll be watching you. (ko)

go to pictures of the drive from Biloxi to Oxford

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

Oxford, pizza, and a dead armadillo..

go to pictures of the stay in Oxford

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

Mississippi Hill Country..

On their way from Oxford (MS) to St. Louis (MO), Austrian students reaped the first benefits from their hard work, patience and endurance to teach Kibilka and Gdowski basic "German" phrases. An example:

Kibilka: Gdowski! (Gdowski!) 
Gdowski: Wos is? (What's up?) 
Kibilka: Host an Hunga? (Are you hungry?)
Gdowski: Foi! Du ah? (Yes, very much so. And you?)
Kibilka: Eh kloa! (Sure!) 

Further effort will be taken to refine their profound knowledge of German everyday communication. (hb, ajg, klk, mw)

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

Baseball's been very very good to me..

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

Doughnuts: A study in unity..

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

Endings?

Blue Eliot's
Road Journal

Reflections