Journey's End: Up the Mississippi to Memphis and Nashville

The Milky Way above Mississippi.

After leaving New Orleans and driving above the southern swamps at sunset, with the branchless trees silhouetted like totem poles against the burning sky, we headed north to the state of Mississippi. It was dark before we crossed the state border, and it was a couple of hours drive to Natchez, our rest destination for the night. It seemed much of the drive was forested, we barely passed anything resembling a city, and when I stopped the car for a piss in some pitch black woodland the stars glistened so bright I had to pull out my tripod to take a picture. As I finished taking the frame, I let out a mock horror-film shriek to joke with Mark and Matt sat in the car; and as I grinned at them something heavy snapped a branch twenty feet away in the darkness. I flung my camera gear in the boot and floored the car into the night; I didn't want to try and get a photo of Bigfoot, or whatever was out there.

We reached Natchez and after checking into a motel right next to a cool bridge that spanned the Mississippi River, went off in search of food. It seems a lot of restaurants in the States close at 9pm which is a bit annoying and seems like they miss out on a bit of trade: I like to eat late. Anyway, we found one that would serve us but not let us sit inside, so we took hot pork rolls as take out, and ate them on a bandstand in a chilly park sat right above the Mississippi, and looking onto the impressive bridge. I felt a little bit like a hobo and I loved it. After our night time picnic we wandered into a bar we were alerted to by some warbling karaoke drifting out of a window. It was quite busy for a Wednesday night, but we were tired and hungover from New Orleans, so just had the one before leaving for bed.

The Natchez-Vidalia bridge which spans the Mississippi.

The next morning we followed the Natchez Trace Parkway north through ancient woodland. It's a slow road, limited to 50mph, and snakes through forests and historic sites, and runs for 444 miles from Natchez to Nashville; though we wouldn't be riding it all the way. The autumn colours were awesome, though two weeks past their peak; and the sun was hidden behind clouds that morning and so the fall hues didn't shine to their potential. We stopped the car a few times, the first to see a type of earthen pyramid built by local Indian tribes about 500 years ago, it was some type of big ritual platform. The second stop was for the abandoned town of Rocky Springs. It was no longer a town, all that remained was the church which was still maintained by funds, everything else – barring a heavy safe from the Post Office and a brick well – was gone. We walked the trail through the woodland, hand-sized leaves whipped around in the wind like rain and fell at our feet, and we popped into the unlocked church. It had a nice piano which I played for five minutes; I don't know any songs but I can repeat a few chord shapes in different rhythms. Rocky Springs once had a population of over 2,000, but a number of events including the Civil War, disease and crop failure meant the town was now only marked by a small graveyard around an unused church.

The church in Rocky Springs.

The autumn colours needed to be lit by the sun.

A little marsh we passed.

We left the Natchez Trace Parkway at Vicksburg, a town famous for a big Civil War battle. I wanted to go to a battle site museum, but the others wanted to push on to Leland to the home of Jim Henson to see a Muppet museum; a green cloth frog won over American history. We passed Redwood, Valley Park, Rolling Fork and signs for the magnificently named Yazoo City. Just outside the town of Anguilla, which was more a collection of rusted caravan trailers and neglected wooden bungalows, we stopped the car for a piss break once more. We purposefully stopped by an abandoned and overgrown house, so we could have a look. We'd driven past countless properties like these on our trip so far, but hand't been in one for a nose around; this was our opportunity. I tentatively climbed up on to the rotten porch, unsure if it would hold my weight or if there were gun-toting crackheads inside. There was no path through the weeds to the house though, so I assumed it didn't get many visitors. Inside was dust and dry decay. There was a rotten settee and bed mattress, and a few clothes clotted with time on the floor, it looked like the house of African Americans from the 1960s if I used historical racial profiling from the discarded material culture left inside. After a short explore, we got back on the road for Leland. We didn't find the Jim Henson museum, which was little bigger than a shed until just gone 4pm, a few minutes after it closed for the day, so we never did get to meet that green cloth frog or his pink slag. We had a little walk anyway along the river to stretch our legs, before settling back in the car: we had a four hour or more drive to reach Memphis, our target for the night. 

After leaving Leland we headed West towards Greenville, which felt like a small-town version of The Wire. The town was poor and run down, and seemed to be almost exclusively black. Men sat about on corners, at derelict gas stations, on porches of boarded up houses, doing nothing but sitting, and then staring when we made eye contact. It was odd, it felt a little dangerous and I didn't want to hang around; but I think it was the poverty I was afraid of, rather than any subconscious racism. At least I hope so. Anyway, the reason we headed West was to cross the Mississippi and drive through Arkansas, to tick another State off on the trip. We didn't see much of Arkansas as it was dark before we crossed the border. Visibility was reduced further by heavy rain and a hail storm, which made driving a bit more difficult. Ahead in the distance were a few flashes of brilliant purple lightning, which lit up the sky temporarily as if it were for sale, but we didn't get the close thunder storm we were hoping for. We drove through the dark, only passing Dumas, before reaching Pine Bluff, where we stopped for dinner. We went for a Chinese buffet, which was cheap and ok. A couple at a neighbouring table who'd heard our conversation, asked where we were from. We asked them to guess, and they said 'Sweden'. The fact our private conversation had been in English wasn't enough of a clue to suggest we were from one of a few English speaking countries, Sweden not being one of them. Their guess wasn't unusual however. All along the way when we asked people to guess, English wasn't the winning answer. Australian was the most popular guess from the Americans we encountered, but we also had people suggesting Germany or Finland. We're speaking the Queen's English, God's language, you fucking cretins. Anyway, the lady suggested we finished our lunch and get out of Arkansas, which I think was advice on account of there being little to do here, though it came across as more of a threat. We only stopped to eat twice in Arkansas, and both times we were given the same menacing advice: eat up, and get out. After our cheap Chinese dinner we left Pine Bluff and headed towards Little Rock, of which I only saw its night lights reflected in the low clouds, before continuing along Interstate 40 to arrive in Memphis sometime after 10pm. 

The view from the backseat.

The old house outside Anguilla.

A rotten settee.

No one lives here anymore.

Sasquatch spotted. 

The sun goes down in Leland.

The river behind the Jim Henson museum. 

At the wheel.

In the morning in Memphis we went for breakfast at a Waffle House, a chain I had seen along the way and had also been recommended by my friend Mike. Waffle House was great, the food was a top diner breakfast; bacon, hashbrowns which is more like fried grated potato than our version, and waffles with syrup, as well as unlimited coffee. The staff were so much fun and we bantered around with them, they were full of evangelical enthusiasm and energy. They gave us silly paper hats to wear, and some other customers wanted to take a picture of us, such an anomaly we were. After the delights of the Waffle House, we went to the Martin Luther King museum, which is morbidly housed in both the motel he was staying at when he died, and the building from which the fatal shot was fired. I didn't know much about his death, so fed my brain with some information, though I still hungered for more. It didn't come in the museum – they never said what happened to the killer after he was caught and convicted – but I'm sure Wikipedia has the answer.

Quick phone pic of the Waffle House staff.

The balcony where Dr Martin Luther King died.

We then headed over to Graceland, the home of Elvis Presley. Upon arriving we ummed and ahhed whether we wanted to pay the $33 entry, as none of us gave two shits about Elvis, but decided we should as we'd unlikely be here again. We took the audio tour around his house, which was awfully gaudy and not that big considering how rich he was. I know people with bigger houses, and more tastefully decorated; they don't have the title of King though. The house was full of mirrors, which I guess only speaks of his vanity. It was quite interesting though, they had a corridor of all his gold discs – records which had sold over a million copies – remarkable really. We weren't allowed upstairs 'out of respect', but I could buy a pair of pants with his face on it in the gift shop. I only wanted to see the shitter on which he died, and do a trousers-round-the-ankles selfie. No such luck. After finishing the tour I drove us to a gun range, as I wanted to have a go with a handgun. When the guy asked me of my experience, I was honest and my lack of it meant I couldn't be unsupervised, and there was no one there who could supervise me. I should've lied to get the gun, so I didn't get to shoot.

Graceland

Elvis' living room. 

A second Christmas tree – now that's just showing off. I don't know who the presents are for; Elvis is dead.

Elvis' pool room gave hints of psychedelic abuse.

Halfway along the gold disc corridor.

Our final night was spent in Nashville. We'd checked into a Scottish Inn motel as the Best Western was about $250. Don't ever stay in a Scottish Inn. The clue should've been in the name but it wasn't much better than a crack den. We took a cab into town and hit up the bars on Broadway. In the first bar we went in, Matt bumped into his old boss, from when he used to work in California. Small world, hey. We went to a couple of bars with his old boss, Eric, and his brother-in-law, Joe; who was well in his 50s but was pacing around every bar with excitement. They were decent company, and they showed us a few of the main bars, all of which had live music, a cross between country and rock, but it was all good. We met one old bloke in a bar who wondered where we were from. His best guess was Finland, as he'd once seen a programme about a guy who went on a motorbike from Finland to Alaska. Since that was possible, he reasoned we must've done the same thing. We told him we weren't from Finland, but a good distance away, and actually lived not far from London. He said he had heard of London, but  admitted he didn't know where it was or what country it was in. Fuck me. "Aaahhm fruum Mis'ippi" he kept saying, as a line of defence. Actually, perhaps being from Mississippi is a valid excuse for ignorance. Anyway, the night was drunk and fun. We chatted to quite a few locals, some enthusiastic about us being English, others couldn't care less, and rightly so. The girls in Nashville were probably the prettiest of everywhere we'd been. They had that country-rock chick vibe going on, with red lipstick and curves like 1940s Hollywood stars. The kind of girls that make you say 'oh my God' out loud as they go by, a wonderful assembly of DNA. I had some good conversations with a few, but that was as far as it went, and come closing time we were ready for a taxi back to our shit-hole motel and a drunken pass-out after throwing up in a stained toilet.

Robert's on Broadway, Nashville.

Busy bar.

Music city.

Live music everywhere.

Broadway.

Some of the girls of Nashville.

From a balcony in Honky Tonk looking towards some bars.

Matt and Mark with Eric and Joe, our buddies for a bit.

Inside The Stage, a popular country venue.

Oi Matt, that's not our car, mate.

The next morning we slept in a bit, and decided to delay taking the car back and take the financial hit, or else we'd have to sit around at the airport doing nothing for hours. We went to brunch at Logan's Roadhouse. I had an enormous rack of ribs, which I almost finished. Afterwards we went for a walk around a nice but chilly park, and looked at some Parthenon, a full scale replica of the one in ancient Greece, except this was built in 1897 as part of the Tennessee Centennial Exposition. Come mid-afternoon it was time to head to the airport and return the car, which was incredibly easy and bureaucracy free. We'd clocked up 3396 miles while driving in 10 states, more than the distance from New York to LA; and I'd taken 3974 photographs along the way. Driving across America had been a dream of mine for a while. Now that I've done it, I just want to do it again.

Taking the car back to the airport, the last few miles of a 3396 mile road trip.

Louisiana: Swamps 'n Strippers

The quaint town of Natchitoches.

After reaching Shreveport, just inside Louisiana, we branched south on Interstate 49, and rode it through gentle forest until we reached the town of Natchitoches at dusk. The town was quaint and attractive, it had a certain southern charm, of older, more European buildings. The Christmas lights were already hanging over the main street and the shops were perfect for middle aged women – they sold expensive jams and kitsch kitchen utensils. We had a walk along the river and a piss in the park, and our legs were stretched enough to get back in the car as night straddled the road. We continued south, past Alexandria, Bunkie and Opelousas; before stopping in Lafayette for the night. We went to a restaurant which Mark had seen online, and served typical Cajun food. The menu was heavily swamp influenced, full of alligator, crayfish and other water creatures, but the food was delicious. I had alligator to start with which was pretty good, but opted for a steak for the main, with southern sides. There was a Cajun band playing, singing in a French I couldn't recognise let alone understand, but the tunes were good and it was a nice welcome to the south – the people seemed more polite too.  We checked into a motel and crashed out after another long day.

We found a Christmas fair shut for the day - you can have a photo with an alligator and then eat it!

The next morning we were discussing the plan for the day over breakfast, when the motel manager mentioned we could take a swamp trip, so after coffee and pastries headed there. We soon found the place – a big shack on stilts – and arranged ourselves a tour on an airboat, with Captain Buggsy. It was just the three of us on the trip, which was great, and our guide seemed like an old dude. We glided at speed over the water and lilies, and soon branched off down a creek that sometimes looked no more than a severely waterlogged field, but in fact the water and silt was probably a few feet deep, but it had dense vegetation floating on top. Big birds pushed off on long legs and flapped away as we sped closer, herons and things like that, and ducks splattered to take off as our noisy craft ventured deeper into the swamp. At times we stopped the engine, and sat there in silence. Everything was still, and the water reflected the trees erupting from the damp and the fresh morning sky.  "Ain't it priiatay", said Captain Buggsy repeatedly, in his soft southern drawl. It was. He wanted to show us some alligators, and we wanted to see some; so we raced off across the swamp once more, and alongside the Interstate, which runs for miles and miles across the Louisiana wetlands on enormous concrete stilts, which is quite an impressive feat of engineering. We motored up another creek and we could see the nose and eye of an alligator, perhaps five or six feet long, but she soon disappeared, so instead we floated to the waters edge where the lilies were gathered, and nestled amongst the flowers and plants were a collection of infant alligators. The biggest were just under two foot long, and all sat lazily and carefree in the water, not too bothered by our obvious presence. We got some photos and enjoyment, before bombing back across the water towards the centre. It had been a nice morning out in nature. 

Just like Fenland: nice place for your caravan – in the swamp.

Fisherman harvesting the swamp.

The bow of our hovercraft.

Stunning swamp.

Quite other worldly.

 

More swamps.

This area had been logged a long time ago. It's now protected.

Fresh morning skies.

Baby alligators are kinda cute.

We got back on the road and headed towards New Orleans, but stopped in Baton Rouge for lunch, at a chicken place called Pluckers, which was decent enough. The roads doubled in size once we hit New Orleans, as did the traffic, and I coasted through the city, past the skyline and famous Superdome, not knowing where I was going. We rode over an enormous and impressive bridge – there'd been a few good bridges on the trip so far – before asking the sat nav directions to a hotel. We went to a Best Western - these were becoming our preferred choice for being slightly nicer with slightly bigger beds, as we were taking it in turns to share two in a bed, it's not easy finding a room to accommodate three individuals. The hotel was right in the city centre, we were up on the 8th floor and it was the nicest we'd stayed in so far. After checking in, we headed straight out, and walked through a clean and vibrant town, and as always were fairly unsure of where we were going. We walked for 20 minutes before reaching Bourbon Street - the famous street of bars and entertainment. It was a Tuesday, and 5pm, so not that busy; but the first bar we came across was called Fritzels, and so of course had to stop for a drink. The owner looked like he had a few dark secrets, too. We moved on to the next bar along, which was playing music – jazz of course – and the charismatic frontman worked the middle aged crowd into a near fever. Everywhere we'd been had been middled aged, all the bars, all the entertainment. Vegas, Roswell, Fort Worth, Dallas, New Orleans. We were usually some of the youngest out, and we're no longer that young. Where do America's young people go? Anyway, we continued working our way through the bars, all hosting live and fantastic music, all with middle aged people dancing, mostly a form of adapted line dancing, just stopping for a drink in each. We were soon getting tipsy however, but we agreed it was a much more fun city than Vegas already. 

Driving towards Baton Rouge.

New Orleans felt more European.

Looking towards Bourbon Street.

Inside Fritzel's bar.

Bourbon Street at dusk.

Blowing some jazz.

The man had some lungs.

Old people dancing.

Matt and Mark getting drunk.

We continued down the street in the same vein, until the music bars ran out and all seemed to be replaced with strip bars. We had no idea New Orleans and Bourbon Street had a prominent strip club scene, but it appeared so. Egged on by alcohol and each others masculinity, we ventured inside one. Alright, we didn't need that much encouragement with the offer of two-for-one beers and tits on show, so continued our drinking here. In the first one, an attractive girl danced on the stage for one song before slinking off again, while a bored and boring, gormless mum of three sat in her underwear and tried chatting to us. We weren't interested, and neither was she, but I chatted with her lightly to keep the awkwardness from becoming overbearing. We finished our beers and left, before venturing in the next one. This pattern pretty much repeated itself for an hour or so, until we were pretty drunk and getting bored of tits and tattoos. We decided to leave, and head off in search of culture once more. We took a cab to Frenchmen Street, which I was told was where the locals go, and where you can find a more genuine New Orleans, or Nawlins, experience. We arrived in one large bar with some great live and energetic jazz, and got ourselves a position at the bar. We chatted to one lone woman about our age, who turned out to be the manager on her night off, and she recommended a local drink – some kind of whiskey cocktail. It was pretty strong, and I was already quite drunk, but managed to drink it before deciding to get up and join the crowd on the dance floor. As soon as we reached the floor to feel the rhythm, the band played their final bar of the night and thanked the crowd. I laughed. We then left to find some food, there didn't seem to be many choices but found one place with a small menu. We had some unsatisfying drunk food, I had a pitta pizza, and scoffed it at the bar. We got chatting to two American girls from Massachusetts, a bit younger than us, but also on a road trip driving across country. These were the first people we'd met doing a similar thing to us. They were fun and we got on well. One had a very strong Boston accent and swore a lot; she was confident to the borders of aggression, but I was drunk enough to argue for entertainments sake, and beat her in arm wrestles she was convinced she would win. Matt lost to her; I don't know if he let her or not. They were bored of jazz and wanted to go to the strip clubs on Bourbon Street, and although I genuinely would've preferred to explore the late night music venues up in this old and local part of town, my drunk self said 'fuck it' and the five of us walked back to the more touristy area, and into one of the titty bars. Our Boston friends were really enjoying it, popping dollar bills under the working girls elastic, and continuing to get drunk. We spent another hour or so here, getting really wasted by now, before boredom and exhaustion set in, and we set off for home. We'd been drinking solidly for about 11 hours and barely eaten, and bed was calling. We were both staying in the Best Western, so walked back together. The more lairy of the two kept stopping to talk to people, late night street people, and was slowing us down, so I kept getting sent back to pick her up and hoist her forwards, to keep our march going. We got to the hotel, and it turned out we were in a different Best Western, so we needed to take a taxi from there to ours, which was only a short ride away, and then we drunkenly collapsed into bed.

One of the Boston girls ended up lying on stage, under a stripper.

Obviously no cameras were allowed in the club.

Drunken street people.

The following morning wasn't entirely pretty, but it wasn't that ugly either. After a gradual awakening, we got showered and dressed and went out in search of food. We sat in the sun by the Mississippi River, and had calamari, jambalaya and a chicken caesar salad. All of them were excellent. We had a little wander around town, drifted through some souvenir shops, and walked up to Jackson Square in the French Quarter, just in front of St Louis Cathedral. We sat on a bench and let the sun burn off our hangovers further. In front of the cathedral were a gathering of musicians blaring out brass tunes, as well as a collection of fortune tellers and mystics. We walked past one tarot guy, who looked a magnificent slob and was staring vacantly into space with his mouth ajar. His name was 'Angelic Jeffy' and Mark decided he would get his fortune read. None of us go in for that mystic shit and Mark was clearly taking the piss, without it bordering on offensive, and I sat and listened and tried not to giggle. He was clearly a chancer, I mean, they all are, but Angelic Jeffy struggled to be convincing. Somehow though part of me was sucked in, and I thought I'd get my fortune read, so chose a scraggy gypsy woman with teeth like a vandalised graveyard. She was actually pretty good, she managed to be convincing, and got quite a few things pretty damn accurate, but that's the skill in the trick they pull I guess. It's all horseshit, but it was a fun experience. 

A boat on the Mississippi.

A cool old couple who'd just got married.

Street artists.

Jackson Square and St Louis Cathedral.

Mark and Angelic Jeffy.

This man communicates with angels. They chose him.

A jazz band in the square.

Found street scene.

Afternoon sun.

We wandered back to the hotel and collected the car via a valet service, before heading out of the city before sundown. We headed north through the swamp we'd been in the morning before. The highway raced over treetops, many of them dead, and their silhouettes looked striking as the sun burnt in ambers and rubies as it set behind them and on our time in Louisiana.