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The Tonight
Live Show. With David as Letterman and Sean as Leno. Features an impressive
prosthetic chin and dental gap. Rated CBS/NBC.
12.42
p.m.
Heading out
of N'awlins on 10 West, a freeway passing by stilled carnivals, empty
houses clapping in the hot wind, sidewalks full of rubbish and weedy growth
covering everything like a brown-green cancer. Au revoir, New Orleans.
Goodbye South. Hello West.
THE CAJUN
KITCHEN. MULATES - CREOLE AND SEAFOOD. THE CRAWFISH KITCHEN. MISS HELEN'S
CAJUN SEAFOOD. KETTLE KITCHIN - HUGE PORTIONS! GOODY'S GUMBO. JAMBALAYA
PALACE. CHEF ROY'S ACADIE CAFE. CAJUN HAVEN. CAJUN CONNECTION. CAJUN DRAGON
- SEAFOOD, STEAK, GRILL. CAJUN TALES SEAFOOD RESTAURANT.
3.30 p.m.
The highway
has big irritating bumps every .8 of a second that cause weird humps in
our conversation and give us mild stomach aches. Or maybe that's from
the cajun smoked cajun chicken cajun sandwiches we had for lunch. It's
pretty misty and kind of scary in western Louisiana, like the strange,
wet brightness before a hurricane. The wind bends the weak, old trees
and birds tumble out of the sky like little feathered cripples. I peer
into the bayou country that frames the highway and wonder if, just a few
miles away, there are lots of cajun guys, talking patois, playing zydeco,
eating 'gator and shooting people they think are from Maine. Or would
they be more likely charging tourists five bucks a throw for a look at
their lousy teeth?
We've just
cut out of a town called Sulphur. On the radio a preacher is reading rather
disinterestedly from Matthew: `We are all but ghasts in the house ahf
Gahd.' Following the liturgy is an awful song; the only words I can make
out are `Jesus', `love' and `come and die'.
`What do
you know about Texas, David?'
He accelerates as we begin to overtake a car with a `Purple Heart Veteran'
tag on it. `Apparently it's big,' he says.
`The second biggest state, I think.'
`Which is the biggest?'
The driver of the Purple Heart car is wearing a military beret. As we
flank him, he turns and snaps off a quick salute. I nod and smile politely.
`Either Rhode Island or Alaska. How long will it take us to drive across
it?'
`I'm not quite sure. But long.' `Texas Rangers, Texas Longhorns, Texas
T, Tex-Mex, Tex Avery, Texasville, "Texas Flood".'
`What are you doing?'
Behind us, the veteran slows to turn into a cemetery driveway.
`Acclimatising.'
`You forgot one: Don't Mess with Texas.' I can hear the stern capitals
in the words.
4.38 p.m.
Texas
The highway
improves as soon as we cross the border. A sign says `Drive friendly -
the Texas way'. Awrighton! We pull over to take a look around and I survey
the scene by standing on the roof of the Neon. They're right, it really
is bigger than Texas.
`Where will
we stay?'
`Galveston, probably.'
`Sorry, where?'
`Galveston.'
`Oh, Galveston.'
5.26 p.m.
Gas and Food (No Lodging)
Because we've
stopped at a gas station in Nowhere, Texas, and because I cannot think
of anything better to do I've bought a packet of Hostess Twinkies. They
are, after all, an American institution and the favourite food of Zippy
the Pinhead. And if they're good enough for him, they're good enough for
me. They are, however, so sickly sweet that there should be a warning
printed on them: `See your dentist after every bite'.
Snapshot
The Gulf
of Mexico is a hundred yards to our left. The landscape is flat and cheerlessly
etiolated, marked only by an infinite line of telegraph poles disappearing
into the dusk that is our destination. White birds stand on the backs
of cows, hitching a slow ride to nowhere in particular. David is taking
photographs; holding the camera in his left hand outside the car, steadying
the wheel with his right. A police car flies past in the opposite direction,
its red and white lights dulled in the dingy sea air, its siren silenced
by the wind. There are no houses or stores, just bleak flatness all around
and an oil tanker up ahead. I suggest to David that we stop and let off
some firecrackers. He shakes his head, still searching for the perfect
firecracker place, which I suspect exists only in his mind. The Twinkie
taste won't go away.
6.45 p.m.
A ferry is
taking us to sandy Galveston Island; its deck of black tar creates the
effect of a floating road. A no-longer-young blonde in a red convertible
is being ogled by a group of Hispanic teenagers leaning out of a minivan
on the upper deck. They are too far away to see that she's old enough
to be their mother's best friend. All they can see is her hair colour
and her sporty car. It's enough.
8.07 p.m.
Galveston Island
Galveston ain't
very nice. There's a hopeless, thin beach here, lots of cheap hotels and
a Wal-Mart for every man, woman and child in the city. As a `resort town',
I have to say that it fails. Except compared to Surfer's Paradise. And Pigeon
Forge.
We briefly
discussed the idea of crossing the border into Mexico. But why should
we? We haven't done anything wrong.
Westward Ho . . . tel!
Rated ![](/file/14186/www_07_1999.iso/inne/lonelyplanet/journeys/drive/graffix/star2.gif)
Checked into
an Econo Lodge with a view of a car park and a drugstore. The room is
tiny and smells of putrid mould. There is one towel between the two of
us, the toilet flushes itself constantly and the complimentary Econo-pencil
is a stumpy little number that you couldn't finish a laundry list with.
But there's cable TV, so I'm fairly happy.
The teenage receptionist who checked us in asked, `You guys Aussies?'
`No,' David said, pointing to our car. `We're from Maine.'
Ask
Sean a question
About
the book
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