No. 189 - Bourbon Street, the Beach, and a Maybach

Picture a one-room cabin, without a television or a bathroom, one of eighteen in the Hill Country of Texas, sitting atop a bluff over a canyon of oak trees. Beyond the amber hills, where you can see the curvature of the earth, the sun sets every evening, casting a warm glow over 33,000 square miles of dry topography—where an ocean sat during the Cretaceous period. Hawks glide in thermals during the evening, and there is no noise.

The sun descends into the expansiveness that defines Texas. Every shade of blue paints the sky until it’s awash with violet, and then pitch black.

This is where I stayed during my last visit to Austin. A meditation commune where no one talked. We napped in hammocks and sat around a campfire—in silence. It was perfect.

You see, the three nights before my arrival were quite different, and I wasn’t planning on staying here. In fact, I didn’t know it existed.

Night 1

Bourbon Orleans Hotel, French Quarter
717 Orleans St, New Orleans, LA 70116

I woke up in Atlanta, had my car packed with a tent, sleeping bag, books, Red Ryder BB Gun, and a navy blazer and tie. All I knew is I had to be in Austin in a few days, but between my departure and arrival, I had a few days to kill, so I drove west to Birmingham to have breakfast in Mountain Brook. Can’t say enough good things about that charming little town.

Afterwards, I swung by Tuscaloosa, as I hadn’t been since my freshman year of college in ’97. To say I was impressed would be a massive understatement. Don’t get me wrong—I hate Alabama. They came to Athens the weekend before and beat my Dawgs.

But curiosity got the best of me, as I’d heard Daddy Warbucks, a.k.a. Coach Saban, had brought in a few billion dollars over the course of his tenure, and campus wasn’t what it once was.

All I gotta say is this—I get why the student body is hardly Southern anymore. I get why half the kids from Connecticut and Minnesota apply to SEC schools—namely Alabama. It is impressive. The Greek houses are gargantuan. I thought we had big ones in Athens, but theirs make ours look like Section 8 tenements. I couldn’t believe it. I took a photo next to the statue of Coach Bryant and took off for lunch in Mississippi.

I swung by Laurel to get the fried chicken platter at Pearl’s Kitchen. To no one’s surprise, it was delicious. I’ve said this so many times and hope to continue to: Mississippi must be the friendliest state in America. I get treated like gold every time I’m there—be it in Oxford, Tupelo, or Laurel.

I have half a mind to pack my shit and call it home—I’m not joking. Admittedly, I fit in everywhere I go (with the exception of a few places in Ohio—there’s some real sons of bitches up there), but man alive do I get treated like the favorite one in the family in Mississippi.

I had a reservation at Commander’s Palace that evening and knew I’d get to New Orleans a few hours early, so I checked into my room at the Bourbon Orleans. You see, I’ve stayed there before. In fact, I spent a month there one weekend back in college.

I was interning at the time in Atlanta, as was a buddy, and we’d met after work to drink beer and shoot pool. After we’d gotten hammered, we had a late dinner at Waffle House, believing it was our last stop.

But old Jimmy Buffett started coming through the jukebox, and I said to my friend, “Do you know where Buffett got his career going?”
“No… where?” he replied.
“New Orleans… that’s where. Whadda say we shag ass and go there?”
“NOW?!”
“Yeah, right now. What the f*ck else we gotta do?”
“Go to work in the morning.”
“Nah… we go, and we go now.”

So we threw a twenty on the table, bought a few packs of cigarettes, and made it as far as some unknown town in Mississippi, where we checked into a motel at sunrise to take a nap.

It was right about then when we started sobering up and realized where we were. It was all fun and games until the moment the sun was bleeding through the curtains. So we called our employers, lied about being sick, and headed to New Orleans.

My buddy’s fraternity had recently hosted a social at the Bourbon Orleans, so we stayed there, and that was back in ’99, so it had been a while since my last stay—and it looked identical. Not a damn thing changed.

I arrived in wool trousers, a button-down, and a tie—that’s it. My buddy wasn’t much better off. We proceeded to party for three more days—morning, noon, and night—never knowing what time it was or the day of the week. We went full bore until we had a hundred bucks left—enough for fuel to get home and a meal or two.

So, when I arrived in New Orleans and was looking for a place to stay, it had to be the Bourbon Orleans.

I took a stroll around the Quarter, admiring the architecture and the cornucopia of people who call this neighborhood home.

Eventually, I met my friend for dinner—in a jacket and tie because Commander’s is old-school (which I love).

I cannot recommend this meal highly enough:
Turtle Soup au Sherry
Wild White Shrimp Provençal
Creole Bread Pudding Soufflé

What a place! I took a cab back to the Quarter, bought a dozen postcards, and called it a night.

For a guy who’s on the road as much as I am, occasionally you get a day without drama, and this was one of them. There’s a romance with being on the road, but it’s reserved for those who aren’t on the road.

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve heard, “You’re just living the dream.” And I guess I am, if the dream means being untethered to the comforts that everyone else takes for granted. In all my travels, the things I remember most are when someone invites me to their home for a meal. As much as I appreciate the steakhouses and golf courses, it’s the simplest of things I treasure.

It may not sound like a big deal, but sleeping on a different mattress every week, or every night, isn’t ideal. Add in a night or two in a sleeping bag or in the back of your car in a truck stop and I’m sure you get it.

Having to find a place to get a coffee every morning will wear you out too. Let alone every meal. You come to appreciate a kind waitress or a short order cook with a sense of humor. These people become your people. In a world of constant change, you come to depend on the people who understand your transient nature. They don’t judge and they listen – and you do the same. A mutual empathy is present, even if neither knows the other’s struggles.

There’s something to the struggle that bonds people together. Lord knows we all want what the other guy has, especially if it looks like the American Dream, but for everyone else, when we’re down and out, when we’re struggling with the black dog, when loneliness has our number, we become dependent on the love of strangers. That vulnerability is what I’m most attracted to in my fellow man.

I guess part of the reason why I choose to live the life I live is it puts me in that position more often than not. So, when a day like this one in New Orleans presents itself, when I can sort of float through the French Quarter without a worry, I don’t take it for granted. I live in real time, knowing how good I have it. It’s not something that happens and is only appreciated with 20/20 hindsight.

Night 2

Galveston Island State Park
14901 FM 3005 Rd, Galveston, TX 77554

I had beignets and coffee at Café Du Monde the following morning because it’s a block from the Bourbon Orleans. They’re delicious, it’s a tourist trap, and who cares. It’s fun. To quote Jack Nicholson, “My motto is, more good times!” Along with Commander’s, Café Du Monde is worth a visit.

Before I left, I went across the street from my hotel to Arcadian Books & Prints. If you read my stuff, you know I live in bookstores when I travel. My list is starting to look like a Who’s Who of Bookshops. After City Lights in San Francisco and Argosy in New York, the bar is so high it’s hard for new ones to get on the list. But Arcadian immediately earned its way on.

For starters, books are stacked to the ceiling—no joke. And the owner, who’s been there for over forty years, carved out a few square feet for himself by the door, where he reads all day. I had never seen anything like it—not even in New York. I fell in love.

Arcadian is the kind of place where a guy with my brain can see himself moving in and never leaving. Hell, even if you had to leave, you’re in the middle of the French Quarter.

I’ve always pictured heaven as being Augusta National in Grand Teton National Park, but now I have to add Arcadian in—I guess it’ll be the library in the clubhouse on high.

I spoke to the owner for an hour, bought a few books for Annabelle, and reluctantly left, but not before finding a free copy of Woody Allen’s Getting Even on a stack on the front step.

Anyway, I drove west through Baton Rouge, visited Death Valley and the LSU campus, which is handsome. The Tigers got a lock on unique architecture in the SEC with Italian Renaissance dominating most buildings.

I worked in Red Stick out of college and wasn’t impressed with it, and at that age—and with its proximity to New Orleans—who could be? But as an older man, I dig it. Not to mention the drive between the two cities is mostly on bridges over bayous—pretty cool way to travel.

I eventually arrived in Galveston, Texas, where the houses are painted in pastels and rest high atop stilts. To my surprise, I had to take a ferry boat, which was fun. I grew up on ferries in Washington State, so any opportunity to park an automobile on a boat is a trip down memory lane. Best of all, I’d never seen so many dolphins in all my life.

When I got to Galveston Island State Park, I set up my tent on a wooden platform before walking to the beach with a Masters chair and my BB gun.

Camping near the ocean is a special way to sleep outdoors. To say I was looking forward to it would be an understatement.

I watched the sun slowly set, casting a rainbow of pastels, no different from the homes on stilts, for as far as the eye could see.

When the show was over, I threw in a chew and shot holes in a Styrofoam Whataburger cup before calling it a night. I left the cover off the tent on account of the humidity; boy, was it sticky. The only reprieve was an occasional wind that made its way through my tent, but otherwise it was like camping in a bowl of soup. I cracked open my Woody Allen book and laughed all night—the man can write.

Around one in the morning, I woke to my tent almost being blown off the platform. Rain was pelting my tent like bullets from Snoopy’s machine gun on his biplane. Those suckers came in fast and heavy. I ended up packing everything up and sleeping in the back seat of my Jeep.

There’s a weird thing drifters experience from time to time—an acceptance that this is how life works.

Everyone else is packed neatly into a bed with sheets and a ceiling fan, and I’m using a sweater as a blanket and a Robert Caro biography for a pillow. I crashed around two in the morning and had to be up in a few hours because I had a breakfast meeting in Austin.

Night 3

Commodore Perry Estate
100 Red River St, Austin, TX 78751

I drove for several hours in the dark. No one was up in Galveston when I left; in fact, no one was up in Texas until I got to Houston. I was worn out, hadn’t showered—which I could care less about—but when you sleep outdoors, or at least try to, and the humidity ensures you sweat all night, it’s safe to say I could’ve used a bath.

I arrived in Austin around 9 a.m., brushed my teeth in a truck stop bathroom, and changed into a presentable outfit, as I was meeting a gentleman at a private club named the Commodore Perry.

I had heard of this place but never been. I was dying to see the architecture and gardens. With this brain of mine, you quickly figure out what you want to see when you come to a new town. The place was high on my list.

When I finally arrived, it didn’t disappoint. Dripping with class—or, more appropriately, Texas aristocracy—this club delivers on every level.

Even the menus are a work of art. There is detail-oriented—and there is this place. I instantly fell in love.

The décor is as feminine as it is masculine; it’s as understated as it is intriguing.

And the food... my God, the food! When I say I had the most delicious breakfast of my entire life—I just may have. The freshly squeezed orange juice is not only to die for but up there with the Racquet & Tennis Club in New York: if you know, you know.

On top of that, I met with a modern renaissance man. We laughed, we talked, we got along famously. For an unshowered vagabond barely holding it together, I hit the jackpot and knew it. Suffice to say I didn’t want to leave. I’d just as soon lay out by the pool for a day or two and take in the horticulture. Some places just feel right from the get-go.

As breakfast was wrapping up, Mr. Harvard/Ph.D./classically trained pianist asked where I was staying, as he knew I’d spent the night in my car. I didn’t know and said so. I hadn’t gotten around to thinking about it.

Out of nowhere, he said, “You’re staying here.”

A mix of emotions came over me—gratitude leading the way, followed by excitement and relief. When I tell you I was tired, I was spent. I had no idea what I was getting into either, but man alive, was it spectacular.

First off, my room was an apartment. It was massive! The bathroom alone was bigger than some of the dumps I’ve called home over the years on the road. In addition to two robes—yes, two—I could’ve thrown a party in the soaking tub or hosted a party with a few dozen of my closest friends. What a place.

And if that wasn’t grand enough, I called ahead to get my car from the valet and this conversation followed:
“Well, Mr. Evans, we have a fleet that you can use.”
“Go on.”
“We have a Maybach and a…”
“I’ll take it.”

Lo and behold, a frickin’ Maybach showed up. So I hopped in, turned on the massage thing-a-ma-jigger, and the worst news in the world couldn’t have wiped that smile off my face.

Later that day I had another meeting, and for that drive I got a G-Wagon—but not any old run-of-the-mill wagon, an electric one that hauled ass.

Why a shoebox of an SUV needs to go from 0 to 60 in three seconds is beyond me (and I ain’t complaining), but boy, was that a hoot to drive.

By nightfall I retired to my suite, took a very long and luxurious shower, and had dinner in bed. When I say I didn’t want to leave the following morning… let’s just say I checked out with seconds to spare. I will forever be grateful to a gent named Johnny in Austin.

I had a curious three days on the road before randomly finding my cabin in Hill Country. As always, there wasn’t a plan outside of ending up in Austin. Sometimes this life of mine surprises me—like I’m not the author—like the story is writing itself and I’m just along for the ride.

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA