Weather, like one’s health, is often taken for granted until it’s not going your way. The 320-mile drive to Baltimore was marked by rain which, if the newscasters are accurate, should continue until Saturday morning. When we leave.

We spent yesterday in Wytheville, VA, after leaving Asheville. During our last walk in the Asheville motel parking lot, I noticed a maid looking at Loren with a smile on her face.

“Want to meet her?” I asked.

Not that she had much choice. Loren was already on her way for an introduction, pulling me along for the ride.

“You’ve got a pretty dog,” she said, leaning down and letting Loren kiss her.

“She’s not my dog,” I replied. “Her name’s Loren and she lives at a no-kill rescue in California. We’re just traveling across country together to promote animal adoption and pit bull awareness.”

The maid’s name was Amy and she was interested in adopting Loren. When she asked how much the fee was, I said $150 and she said that was a lot.

“There are plenty of dogs like Loren at local shelters looking for a family,” I said. “They usually only charge $30 to $50 and they’re fixed and everything.”

Amy shook her head. “That’s true,” she said. “This one just seems like a real sweetheart.” She had OZZY tattooed on her left hand and more tattoos up her forearm and on her neck. My inner hesher grinned in recognition. Back in the day, I admired that look, I just never had the balls to get inked.

As we walked away, Amy called after us.

“That’s a real awesome thing you’re doing,” she said.

I got tears in my eyes. “Well, she’s an awesome dog,” I stammered.

The trip to Wytheville was uneventful, 188 miles of farmlands, brick buildings, and white church steeples, rolling hills with farmhouses nestled within. It was beautiful, but as my boyfriend said the other night, “There’s a price to pay for all that green.” The price is lots of rain, kind of odd for June, at least in Southern California. I just assumed every day on this trip would be sunny, but brought along a few hoodies just in case.

For dinner, I hit Main Street and found Dukes BBQ - “Best BBQ in Wytheville.” It was pretty darn good…and cheap! Only $3.99 for a pulled pork sandwich, which in my opinion, was better than the brick pit - same tender, melt in your mouth, except this was smothered in a tangy sauce.


Dukes BBQ

Doing my usual food photography attracted a weird reaction from the two couples eating across from me.

“You wanna take our picture?” One woman asked me sarcastically, followed by a high-pitched cackle. She had a really bad perm and I imagine, wasn't too popular in high school.

“Um, no…I just like taking food pictures,” I responded calmly, proud of myself for not adding “It’s none of your f’ing business.”

They all stared at me as if I were an alien life form and I continued snapping. Whatever. A few minutes later, a pastor came to join them for dinner and once again I was struck by the hypocrisy of churchgoers who don't exactly act Christian.


Speaking of...one of Wytheville's many churches

I should sic Loren on them, I thought, and looked out to see her faithfully waiting for me in the truck, sitting in the passenger seat, her little red and white head staring intently into the window.

Getting up early with Loren is a challenge. The girl loves to sleep in, preferring to snuggle and get pet for a half hour before we do the potty thing. We left for Baltimore at 10:15, an hour later than I intended.

"Just hit snooze one more time..."

More green, brick, and farmhouses awaited us as we passed through the rest of Virginia. We stopped in Harrisburg to get gas and I let Loren out for a break. As we headed out for the grass, a woman with bleached blonde hair spotted Loren and made a scared noise, followed by an “Ooh…” which sounded more like boo.

“She’s friendly,” I said.

The lady kept moving and made another “ooh…” which really pissed me off.

“God, she’s just a dog!” I said and hurried along, as mad as a mother with a handicapped child that draws unwanted attention. It incenses me that people think they know Loren with one look. “Oooh, Pit Bull, Bad.” It’s so ignorant. Especially since Loren's demeanor is so gentle.

We didn’t get to Baltimore until after 5 p.m. We checked in but our room wasn’t quite ready, so we sat in the truck and checked email as the rain pounded against our windshield. I looked at the back seat and patted Loren’s booty.

“You’re a good friend for putting up with this,” I told her.

"Are we there yet?"

We went closer to downtown so I could get to a meeting, not just to stay sober but for my sanity. I needed human contact. Of course, I forgot to write down the exact address, so I got lost and blew a half hour. Along the way, we got to view some very cool Baltimore architecture - rows of town homes, with absolutely no space between them, and incredible churches that must date back hundreds of years.

Scenes of Baltimore

It felt good to connect at the meeting, even though Loren set off the alarm twice.

I felt I owed Miss Thang my company after her patience today, so I picked up takeout at the Chicken N Trout. How could you not be intrigued by that name? I got an order of wings, mac n’ cheese, and collard greens. The woman ahead of me had a plastic Wal-Mart bag around her coiffure.

Tasty takeout...

The food was pretty good, if not a little fattening. Hey, I had Grape Nuts and a peach for breakfast! Tomorrow, I will eat a salad…and some crab cakes…what else is there to do but eat if it rains all day?

  
"Goodnight!" 

I have these theory about vacations. The first third goes by in slow motion, the second third in real time, and the last third in fast forward. We are about one-third in and it seems things are moving along at a much quicker pace.

Take today. We woke up at 9 a.m. - yikes! That is way late for this early bird, but I was up until 11:30 working on the blog last night, so I was beat. We didn’t leave for Blue Ridge Parkway until 11 a.m., after picking up a piece of vegetarian quiche, a double chocolate cookie, and some chai tea at Filo, an upscale bakery just a few blocks from our hotel. The USA roadbook mentioned that food and bathrooms were not plentiful on the drive, so I was prepared…for once.

It took about five miles for the scenery to get interesting, though a guy riding down the hill on a unicycle provided comic relief (serious cojones on that one!). Our first stop at the Bad Fork Valley had a 3,350 elevation and a panoramic view of the dense foliage. Loren became rooted to a certain spot, sniffing away. Until the bees came in. Once she heard the buzz, her ears perked right up and she ran, not walked, to the security of the truck.


"What's that smell?"


"Smells like BEES!"


"I'll BEE in the truck..."

Slowly we drove up the mountainside, as a feeling of peace and gratitude overcame me. Here it is, a Tuesday afternoon, and I’m seeing one of the most magnificent sights in the whole country. So lucky I am. Loren snoozed in the back, as usual, missing the beauty but enjoying it all in her own way.

Like a dork, I honked through every tunnel and there were a lot of them. I was in awe thinking of the work it must have taken to make that construction happen. Really, of the whole U.S. highway system and the many conveniences it provides for travelers. Having lived in Shanghai briefly, where it was uncommon to find a bathroom or a gas station outside any major city, I know how lucky we are here.

Many bicyclists were on the road, pedaling with purpose up the hill and through the tunnels, outfitted with luminescent safety strips. Wow. Not something you would ever catch me doing, but very admirable.

Cursed with the tiny Sathe bladder, within a half hour, I was looking for a restroom. This trait generally annoys the hell out of my human travel companions - I’m worse than a little kid. I saw the universal bathroom sign and pulled over to the Mt. Pisgah pass. We had to hike a bit to get there, but thankfully the trail was shaded and cool, so Miss Thang made it with no problems.

Until we got to the restroom. Since other people were in the area and I refuse to leave Loren alone, I dragged her in with me. And I mean drag. When Loren doesn’t want to do something, she’s not shy about it. She was the same way with the elevator at a hotel in Savannah. My willpower seems to be stronger than hers, however, so she sat with me in the stall as I went about my business.

“Sorry, Loren. This is how humans do it. We can’t just pee in the grass,” I told her.

She just looked at me with her big amber eyes and tried to crawl under the stall.

At the 4,000 foot elevation range, the scenery shifted a bit, the broccoli crown clusters sprouting pines that looked like asparagus stalks. Shades of pink and white imbued the flowers that grew at each stop. (This place must be spectacular in the fall). We stopped at Funnel Top, where I glimpsed the valley of trees below, and tried to get Loren to take a potty break or photo opp, but she wasn’t having it. The clouds had opened up with a crack and started raining.


Mountain flowers

“Are you crazy? It’s wet out there,” Loren seemed to be saying as I tried to coax her out of the truck. She stayed put. We went as far as the view sight for Cold Mountain (one of my favorite movies) before heading for city life again.


Cold Mountain...sigh

Gidget the GPS led us to the 151 on our way back, a tight, winding road with a canopy of trees that seemed to grow outward to greet visitors. A smell of citrus permeated the air. Six miles from Asheville, neighborhoods started springing up, from tiny trailers to big, beautiful wood homes, some with horses grazing on their vast lawns. I watched an ancient Australian Shepherd amble across its ample property and smiled.

Programmed to head to a bookstore, I was diverted by a Farmer’s Market sign and ditched the plan. This wasn’t your typical table and tent affair. Asheville’s Farmer’s Market is open daily, with two massive metal buildings overflowing with vendors selling nuts, meats, cheeses, produce, honey, ice cream, fudge, and just about anything else you can imagine. There was even a drive-thru section with more produce and also purveyors of plants, under an industrial-sized carport.

Farmer's Market outside


Farmers Market inside

I managed to get away with the purchase of a quart of strawberries, to be enjoyed for dessert tonight and breakfast tomorrow, and a $3 of cured meat similar to bacon that doesn’t have to be refrigerated, according to Kevin, the vendor - hopefully it‘ll survive the trip home. (FYI - North Carolina berries rival those from Oxnard, people - juicy, sweet, and farm fresh).


Kevin & his strawberries

After chit chatting about where I was from and telling him about our mission, he mentioned his sister had recently adopted a pit bull.

“She loves that dog. It’s changed her life,” he said.

Craving Asian, we drove downtown to a noodle house that was packed. No parking. Nor was there any place to park at any of the myriad restaurants. Tuesday night must be way hotter than Monday, because we found a place no problem last night.

Up and down Tunnel Street we went until I stumbled upon Café Azalea, tucked away in a little corner in a strip mall. There was a patio, too, so I could park and watch Loren in the car. It was another gem. (I love Asheville, an optimum mix of mountains and city, culture and nature. I could actually envision living here someday, if my man would consider it).

The meal started with a delicious bowl of lobster soup, light yet rich with onions and red peppers and bits of succulent lobster throughout…and the bread…forget about it! Crusty, warm, soft…they make it in-house and serve it with herb-infused olive oil. I ate it all.

I got my Asian fix from the incredibly spicy lettuce shrimp wraps, which were stuffed with fresh carrot and asparagus, it’s heat cut with a sweet and savory dipping sauce. Rounding things out was a bread pudding made with flaky croissant dough and finished with caramel sauce. Oh, yeah!


Bread pudding at Cafe Azalea

Loren had a big dinner herself, scarfing all her food down before launching into a spaz attack. This is only the second one she’s had on this trip - the first was at Mark & Julie’s. She runs around like a whirling dervish, jumping on furniture and sprinting back and forth. It’s pretty entertaining, a rapid departure from her usual ladylike self. For fun, I threw in her woobie, which she shook like the rag doll it is. We all have our moments.


"I'll get you, woobie!"


"I love you, woobie!"

(A special shout out to my crazy mountain sisters who almost convinced me that my friend Gail got married over the weekend - ha ha - YOU SUCK - and I love you.)

Loren & I were dropped off at River Street around 10:30 by a nice mechanic. We had about three hours to fill, so we set off for the waterfront. The streets are cobblestones in parts with stairs so steep it takes your breath away, architecture hundreds of years old. It’s a very cool place, with lots of parks and memorials built at every corner.

"Rolling, rolling, rolling on the river!"

Loren enjoyed the sights and sounds, stopping frequently for shade breaks. We found the Dockside Restaurant, which had not only a first-floor patio but misters (!) to offset the heat. The crab chowder was pretty good, the salad not so much. However, the homemade key lime pie was stellar - light, tart, creamy with a crumbly graham cracker crust. Very refreshing. Probably the best I’ve ever had.


A slice of cool, creamy refreshment.

Even better was the service. Our waitress, Melina, sat with Loren twice while I went to the restroom. That is a challenge when sightseeing with a dog - because I refuse to leave her tied up and alone. Besides stray dogs, my second biggest fear is her being dog napped. Which is kind of crazy - they can’t give away pit bulls at shelters - but you never know.


"Thanks for babysitting me!"

Melina told me she has a red-nosed pit, which she bought from a breeder - she was having second thoughts as she surveyed the scene, but the puppy she picked was so sick and run down, she felt in her own way that she was rescuing it.

Loren the charmer brought the hostess over a few times, who cooed at her. “I’m usually afraid of pit bulls, but this one’s so sweet,” I overheard her telling Melina. (She also chastised people walking by with McDonalds cups. “Oh no, you did not come to Savannah, Georgia and have McDonalds for breakfast?” she chastised them sweetly. Major points for the hostess).

I really wanted to go to the praline shop (!) but again, what to do with my canine companion? (It was probably for the best…I try to limit myself to one dessert a day…even on vacation). When I heard some live music, it felt like a good time to take a break.

The musician was playing a banjo and harmonica simultaneously, singing songs from Sublime, Third Eye Blind, and get this, Gloria Gaynor (“I Will Survive”). They all took on a Bob Dylan/Deliverance vibe which eventually grew monotonous, but for 15 minute or so, I was utterly charmed and sang along, even getting inexplicably teary-eyed.


"Freebird! Freebird!"


"You've got a problem with Freebird?"

Listening to the music, watching Loren panting happily as the river boats cruised by, stuffed full of tasty food, the sun playing on the water - major gratitude filled my heart for being able to take this trip.

A street artist named LaVon came over to meet Loren and sell me a rose which he made from a native sugar palm leaf. “What’s your name?” he asked me after getting the traditional Loren greeting (i.e. a hug and slobbery kiss).

"Wassup?"

“Michelle,” I replied.

He smiled. He was missing four front teeth. “Michelle! I’ve had experiences with Michelles. One that was great, one that was not so good,” he said and looked me square in the eye. “You look like one of the good ones. I can tell.”

LaVon, I’m sure, is a junkie. His eyes are glazed and yellow and he spoke in a shuffling cadence that I could barely understand as he quickly fashioned my rose with his leathery hands, explaining each step. It was beautiful, intricately wound and finished with a wispy flourish. The cost was $5 - “A special deal for you,” LaVon assured me. Uh huh. I gave him $1 tip. We all have to make a living.


A rose by any other name...

At 1:30 pm. I called the shop. It would be another hour. At 2:30 p.m. I called again. It would still be another half hour. I asked to be picked up and was told a mechanic would come get me. At 3 p.m. no mechanic and no call. I called again - the driver would be called and asked to call me. 3:15 p.m. I called again. The driver “had gotten into an accident.” Um, thanks for the call!

Was he f’ing kidding me? Was this a strange sort of Southern customer service ? I was slowly losing my patience. You don’t leave a California girl in a strange town without her car - it’s like taking Linus’ security blanket away.

“We can send a cab for you,” I was told.

“I don’t care who you send for me, just tell me who it is and when they’re going to be here,” I said.

“I’ll call you back,” he said.

Surprise, just a few minutes later, my car was done and the mechanic who dropped us off would pick us up. At 4 p.m. he came. By this time, I was pretty wiped out. Loren was good about the whole scene. She just hung out by my side and thwacked her tail whenever she spotted people, especially when they came over to pet her.

We had a two hour drive to Dublin, where Mark & Julie live. I was so tired, I periodically slapped myself to stay awake until I found a station playing really bad 80s music, which kept me enthralled wondering how the hell these songs could have ever been hits. (There’s a reason Taco’s “Putting on the Ritz” is not in heavy rotation. My pick for worst 80s song, however, is “Safety Dance“ by Wang Chung. Seriously…what were we on?)

It was7 p.m. when we pulled up to Mark & Julie’s lovely brick home. Loren ran right up to the front door. Inside, she sniffed around incessantly, intensely preoccupied with some of the stuffed animals Mark had killed while hunting. She was especially interested in the massive wolf.

“If that wolf was alive, you wouldn’t be so curious,” Julie told her.

After a delicious dinner of grilled chicken with a vinegar-based sauce, mozzarella, tomato, and avocado salad, grilled corn and roasted Vidalia onions (a special sweet variety native to Georgia), we went beyond their gorgeous 7-acre property, which shares a look with neighboring homes, to look at some of the other estates.

Mark stopped at the fence of their neighbors and called over their horses. They came trotting over and I looked at Loren, wondering if she would try to attack them. She stood up on the fence with Mark, watching intently. It was quite a scene, with the sun setting behind them.


"Hark..who goes there?"

Icould see the wheels turning in her head. “These creatures are a lot bigger than me,” she seemed to be thinking. “I better just let them be.” So she did, backing off.


"Whoa, Nellie!"

“Wow, Winston would always bark at the horses,” Julie said.

Winston was their lab who died in March at the age of 13. I could tell Mark and Julie missed him, as well as Hewey, a female who died just a few months before Winston. They treated Loren as if she were their own, constantly petting her and letting her kiss them. “She’s such a sweetie,” they both said repeatedly.

We had a great night’s sleep in the guest room, with some of the most divine pillows on earth, not getting up until 8 a.m. Julie and I had some cereal and a nice chat before I took a shower. Before I got in, I noticed Julie laying on the ground with Loren, stroking and talking to her. They were in the same position when I got out 20 minutes later.

I told Julie I’d be happy to ship Loren to them, should they be interested in adopting her. She just smiled at me - they travel too much to have a dog, I’d been told. (A girl can have hope…)

320 miles were ahead of us, a fairly long day of driving, so we bid Julie goodbye at 10 a.m. The drive was gorgeous - Georgia’s got grass for days and lush farmland for miles. We stopped for peaches on Hwy 441, the only fruit stand that would sell me half a basket, and picked up some candied pecans and BBQ sauce, too. The peach was so juicy, it squirted all over my clothes and ran down my hand. I needed a bib. It was perfect.


"Moving to the country, gonna eat me a lot of peaches..."

When the mountains of Asheville came into view, the trees so dense they looked like broccoli crowns in the distance, my heart stopped. It felt like home. Our hotel is pretty old-school, but in a charming, rather than grungy way. The air is fresh out here and there is plenty of grass for Loren to take her potty breaks on. Yeah.

On the tip of my “USA” guidebook, we went to look for Early Girl Eatery in the downtown area. It was closed, but there was a patio at Market Place Restaurant right down the road. What a serendipitous find. A $29, three-course prix fix menu that rocked my world.

A potato leek soup started the meal off - light and springy, with a bit of piquant pepper sauce, which when swirled into the soup, added a welcome bit of spice. The main course, a strip steak with blue cheese butter, was artfully arranged and even better than it looked. The meat was expertly grilled medium rare and finished with a bit of sea salt, the savory butter melding into the meat, which swam in a sea of creamy cauliflower puree. I groaned with delight.


A savory work of art

Loren, who is becoming quite the café society girl, looked at me and I couldn’t help myself - I sucked off the sauce and shared about five little pieces with her. It was the least I could do, considering how great she was being.

Dinner was finished with a molten chocolate lava cake with ice cream. Yeah, it was as good as it sounds, even better. It was all I could do to keep from licking the plate.

The chef, named Michelle, came out to greet us and I praised her effusively. It was so nice to see food this thoughtfully composed - especially from such a young chef. How could she be so talented already?

Michelle squatted down to pet Loren and told me about her own dog, a young Australian shepherd. “Someone dumped a box of 10 puppies on the road, where they weren’t found for over a week,” she said. “They were in pretty bad shape. I rescued one of them.”

An awesome chef and a dog person. We might just have to go back tomorrow night.

"Good steak...got any more?"

In the morning, we are going to explore the Blue Ridge Parkway, as early as possible so Miss Thang doesn‘t overheat. It’s not as humid out here and tonight it’s actually a little cool, so hopefully we can get a bit of hiking under our belts. I definitely need the exercise after all these decadent meals.

On a separate note, I have to share - I am getting so attached to Loren. I just adore her. She is just a fantastic dog, more so than I ever anticipated. For those who don’t know, I haven’t adopted her because of my two pit bull mixes, Sam and Buster, who have enough issues of their own without adding another pit in the mix. Sigh.

I wonder if I am doing more harm than good with this trip - making Loren think I am her person, then taking her back to a kennel. Or is that putting human psychology on an animal? Right now, we’re spending 24/7 together, so it‘s even more heightened that just bringing a dog home and resuming your everyday life. We’re joined at the hip.

I pray, pray, pray that someone is going to fall in love with Loren like I and most of the people along this trip have and give her the life she deserves. She has it pretty good at the Brittany Foundation, don’t get me wrong, it’s just not as ideal as a home of her own. Hopefully, Loren will have four or five worthy people to choose from waiting to adopt her when we return on July 5^th. That is my ultimate dream for her (and her kennel mates, too).

Until then, we’ll just continue to take it one day at a time and enjoy this incredible opportunity to see the country. You never know what tomorrow will bring.

 
"Are you my furr-ever family?"

Yesterday sucked, one of those days where little to nothing went right.

Endless driving. Motel room that smelled like cat pee. Motel clerks unwilling to help. Trying to find a meeting on a highway with no address. Finding said meeting 20 minutes before it starts. Dashing into a Chinese food place, thinking that will be my quickest bet. Marveling that it takes 15 minutes to make one order of Egg Foo Yung. Slopping said Egg Foo Yung down shirt and all over passenger seat in desperate attempt to finish in five minutes. Burning roof of mouth. Walking in late. Running out repeatedly when dog sets off car alarm - no less than five times in 45 minutes. Marveling at a Southern rainstorm, complete with lightning pyrotechnics against a color-shifting sky. Trying to sleep when the atmosphere is wet and heavy with humidity, despite the rambling air conditioner.

Through it all, Loren is a trooper. She never complains. I would complain if I were her. This sucks. This room smells. I don’t want Chinese food. Etc. That is why I took this trip with a dog. I knew there would be times that weren’t so joyous, times when things go wrong, times when things become downright irritating, which become exponentially worse with another frustrated human being by your side. Loren is almost unfailingly polite, except when she’s tracking a new smell or sees a cat. Then she becomes slightly pushy, as is her right.

Today was much better. We checked out of our hotel and found a cleaner one closer to the city. Top on our agenda was having lunch at Uncle Bubba’s Oyster House (Bubba is Paula Deen’s brother) with Mark & Julie, family friends that go back over 20 years. They are originally from the south, but lived in California for a few years. They and their daughters, Ashley and Marianne, were a welcome part of many vacations, camping trips, and BBQs when I was in my late teens. It must be over a decade since I’ve seen them last. They look great, still youthful and happy, pulling up on their Harley, which has seen them through 45 states.


"I wonder if they have room on their Harley for me?"

They greeted Loren warmly, even arranging for us to sit on the patio so she could join us. It was perfect - we had a little private shaded area all to ourselves, overlooking the shallow tides. A guitarist played classic rock, serenading us with Jimmy Buffett and Van Morrison songs.

The wait staff loved Loren, coming over to meet her and share their stories, from the waiter with the rescued black lab puppy to the waitress with a new bulldog “grandson.”

Mark ordered us two dozen steamed oysters as a starter. They were fresh from Galveston, their rough shells the size of flattened tennis balls.

"Who originally looked at this and thought, food?!" I pondered.

"The Indians," Mark said. "Then we saw what they were doing and tried it ourselves."

Thankfully, Mark shucked for the both of us (something this Yankee has never done). Topped with lemon juice, hot sauce, and a little melted better, the oysters were divine, briny, succulent, very easy going down. They were a great counterpart to the complimentary, crumbly little cornbread cakes, which were so moist they didn’t need any butter.


Oysterfest!

When it came around, I could barely tackle the huge bowl of shrimp and grits I ordered, an amazing dish: rich, creamy, studded with bits of smoky bacon, peppers, and onions, and overflowing with tender shrimp. I sighed looking at task in front of me.

“I don’t think I should’ve eaten so many oysters,” I said. (Not to mention the cornbread).

“Just eat the shrimp,” Julie encouraged me. I did. Every single one.

Between being treated to all that tasty food, about a gallon of Arnold Palmers, good conversation, and the relaxing vibe, I was feeling much better about life. So was Loren. She napped most of the time, stretching out on a shady part of the wooden deck.


"Sleeping on the Dock of the Bay is my favorite Otis Redding song."


Saturday afternoon, Savannah style!

“Dogs sleep about 20 hours a day,” Mark noted. (They just lost their two dogs in the last year - RIP).

So true. When I first started working from home, I was shocked at how much my dogs slept. Loren is no exception. She naps whenever possible - in the car, at the hotel, under shady trees and bushes. When dogs are on, they’re on, so I presume it must be exhausting.

Like when Loren spotted the tiny orange and grey Uncle Bubba’s house cat. Suddenly, she was up on all fours, straining against her leash, wanting to, umm, introduce herself. (Actually, she wanted the cat steamed with a side of melted butter).Thankfully, she’s also easily distracted, going over to Mark for attention and becoming fixated on something below our patio table, before splaying out again.


"Where'd the cat go?"

After saying our goodbyes (we’re heading up to Mark & Julie’s for dinner and a sleepover tomorrow night), Loren and I drove over the bridge to Fort Pulaski. Though I’m not a history buff, I couldn’t help but be humbled by the thought of the men who died there in many a gruesome fashion, right on that soil. There was a huge brick fort, with cannons on the rooftop, and that famous Southern murky water filled the moat. (Gators?)

"I ain't afraid of no reptiles!"

Loren and I sat under a tree for a few minutes, taking the scenery in.


"Pretty cool, Aunt Michelle..."

All that humidity produces some beautiful landscape - grass as far as the eye can see, moss dripping from branches, swollen treetops swaying in the wind. Not too far from the fort is shoreline, where three men fished for their night’s dinner under puffy white clouds and a cerulean blue sky.


Fishing with a view

Next, we took a brief jaunt to Tybee Island, a seaside town rife with tanned young bodies, families overloaded with beach gear, dune buggy and moped rentals, and lovely beach houses ranging from funky to palatial. So full I was, I managed to bypass a homemade ice cream shop, something that wouldn’t usually be within my willpower.

The siren all didn't lure me this time...

We had one last stop to make before going back to our hotel. My car is making funny noises, what I thought was my back brakes. When we pulled up to the auto repair shop, the mechanic took one listen and said, “That’s your U joint.”

That means a $300 repair and 2 ½ to 3 hours to fill tomorrow. Oh, well. It will give us a chance to explore the famous nearby River district, filled with historical monuments, praline shops(!), and waterfront restaurants. Hopefully, we can find as nice a patio as Uncle Bubba’s to hang our hats on for a few.

Tonight, it’s take out and turning in early.

 
"Let's make it a Blockbuster night."

I have a confession to make. I lied about Loren’s breed when checking in last night, writing down “boxer/pit bull mix.” Why? I was afraid they wouldn’t let us in a fancy place if I stated pit bull. I’m kind of ashamed of myself, really. Next time, I’ll be 100% honest and proud to write pit bull, damn the consequences.

It’s so humid. We got up and went for a walk at 7:30 a.m. and it just hits you like a steam room. Within 30 seconds, my hair starts to curl.

After taking advantage of the free breakfast here, I set up Loren for a flea bath appointment. She’s been scratching a lot - this is bug country, for all creatures apparently. Beforehand, I was determined for us to see the ocean, so we headed for the one dog-friendly stretch of this 27-mile long beach I could find online, near the Dan Russell City Pier, set smack dab in the heart of Panama Beach City.



While finding a parking spot, my friend Liz called to tell me she had walked my dogs and how well they were doing. Having to parallel park, I asked her to hold and threw the phone in the back cab. It fell into Loren’s water dish. It died. A classic Michelle move.

We hit the beach and Loren was panting within five minutes, way more interested in the nasty kelp beds than the pristine blue-green water. She ran from the waves, as gentle as they were. Thankfully, the fine white sand wasn’t hot or we wouldn’t have made it five feet. (I found one area that Florida kicks California’s ass. Their beaches are more Caribbean than toxic wasteland).


"See, you don't have to actually walk in the water..."


"I laugh in the face of danger...ha ha ha ha ha..."


"Hey there...come here often?"


"Thanks for bringing me here, Aunt Michelle."

On our way up the shore, a young black Great Dane with floppy ears ran over to meet Loren. Unlike my civic-minded self, his owner didn’t have the dog leashed. Though he seemed friendly enough, I panicked, yanking Loren away and hoping he’d get distracted. No such luck.

He made contact and I lamely pulled out my air horn, which gave a funky fizzing sound since I hadn’t used it in months. The Great Dane’s owner retrieved him in time - she must have thought I was nuts! I felt bad for not giving Loren a chance to interact with him. She didn’t seem aggressive. just startled. Next time I will give her the choice of whether she wants to meet a new dog and act accordingly, instead of freaking out and setting her up for failure. I am not yet a pack leader, even with just one dog, but am learning.

I dropped Loren off at the Barks and Bubbles salon. She ran off with Matthew the groomer with nary a glance backward. Yeah. Three hours to myself. Too bad 1.5 of them were spent tracking down a non-existent AT&T store (thanks, Gidget!) and getting my oil changed.

The remainder was spent at Sharkey’s, a tourist trap (think Pappas and Beer in Florida) with mediocre food and the most bitchen ocean views. Like real estate, this restaurant was all about location, location, location. They had a “Lobster Zone” game, like the toy retrieval version found at restaurants everywhere, only with live crustaceans they’ll cook up for $2 a try. I passed.


Good times, Florida style...except for the lobsters!

Armed with a great book (“Me Talk Pretty One Day” by David Sedaris), watching over the leathery brown people basking in the sunlight as I ate my dry fish tacos, I had an epiphany. I, like Loren, am not a beach girl. I used to be a faithful sun worshipper, lavishing on the baby oil and sizzling for hours, but now I’d much rather be somewhere cool, like the mountains where I live. The heat is too much for me. I, too, am a delicate flower.


Nice view...wish I could say the same for my hair!

For that reason, I’ve decided to reroute away from some of the beach campgrounds and head into the country. We are spending an extra night in Savannah and going to Asheville, North Carolina (which I heard is a really cool place), and Wytheville, Virginia, before resuming our route to Baltimore. This will also break up some of the mileage-heavy legs of the trip.

Also, no camping - unless we can upgrade to cabins. As much as I’d like to be a handy, rough-it kind of girl, I have to admit - it’s just not my nature. I like having a roof over my head - preferably plaster, not nylon, which is prone to, say, gators. I’m not a wimp - I live in bear country and have been within 100 yards of a mountain lion, only to hike the same trail the next day. I just like my comforts. I’m getting old…I deserve it…and so does Loren. She spends enough time outside in her kennel.

Loren got a perfect report card from Matthew, the groomer, who said she was sweet throughout the whole process, including getting her nails clipped. So far, she has proven to be a wonderful dog - loves to travel and snuggle, no potty accidents, fine at the groomer, great with people, including little kids. (Anyone in Southern California ready to adopt her?)


"I feel pretty, oh so pretty..."

We ended our night with dinner at Barnacle Bruce’s - fresh Dungeness crab, steamed with a side of butter, steamed corn and potatoes, and a healthy dinner salad to round things out. If you’re gonna hang out at the ocean and not go in the water, one should at least enjoy the fruits of the sea.

Just could not rouse myself out of bed in a hurry this morning. The Big Easy pace seems to agree with me and with Loren (new nicknames: Miss Thang and Divalicious). We got up around 8 and were working on the blog when my cell rang. It was Ken. I had asked him to breakfast the day before and he was confirming. Yeah! Good conversation to look forward to.

We packed up our stuff and bid goodbye to Jezzie, the groundskeeper at Rathbone Mansion, thanking her for making our stay so pleasant. The woman is amazing - taking care of the whole place while taking care of a 4-month old baby. I would catch her cooing to her daughter as she worked, sounding much like I did with Loren.


"Come on, lagger, let's get going!"

At 10:30, I made it to Surrey’s, this little, tiny breakfast and lunch place on Magazine Street. While Ken wasn’t there, I ran into a lady I met while having coffee on Sunday named Susie. She joined me and we soon were off and running, talking about dogs.

Turns out Susie was a pit lover and a rescuer when she lived in Atlanta a few years back. “I would see my neighbors hanging pit puppies from trees to teach them how to lock their jaws,” she recalled. “Then there were the ones that were chained up. Some were 12 or 13 years old.”

Susie would often take these outcasts and was soon up to 15 dogs. “It was crazy,” she said.

Ordering breakfast was a challenge - so much good stuff. I was pretty determined to order homemade bagels and lox, which I did, with avocado mash instead of cream cheese. The plate was beautiful and its contents delicious - the lox salty and luscious, the avocado a perfect accompaniment atop the toasted bagel. I piled on capers, red onion, and tomato, and was a happy diner.

As good as promised...

Except when I got up to use the bathroom. The uneven floors and tiny space of Surrey’s made me feel intoxicated. Still, it’s got a way cool vibe. Very funky, eclectic, and arty, complete with hip young servers.

Ken told us about a hoarder in California who had 30 pit bulls they were trying to place at rescue groups throughout the country. His board of directors at The Sula Foundation (www.sulafoundation.org) were seriously considering taking one in. 

We pondered the plight of pit bulls in general and determined it was a socio-economic rather than racial problem, that it was all in the way a person was raised to consider their dogs - as guard dogs, protection, or pets - and whether they had the means to properly take care of them.

Sometimes, however, a seismic shift of consciousness can occur later on, as Ken illustrated.

“I worked with this guy that had a big dog that he kept outside and barely interacted with. His girlfriend got a little dog that they kept inside and treated like a pet. It hit him then that the big dog was a family member, too,” Ken said. “He started volunteering with the SPCA after this realization.”

Ken and Susie walked me over to my car. Loren immediately ran to Ken and greeted him with her trademark sloppy kisses. Susie squatted down and was soon the center of Loren’s attention. “Pretty girl,” Susie said as she hugged Loren tight. “I wish I could take you home with me.”


"I Heart Susie!"

Under deadline, Ken left and Susie and I took a brief walk so Loren could take her final pee before we hit the road to Mobile.

“Those hoarders…” she said. “I can really relate. I wanted so much to help and thought every one I took in would be the last one. But it never was. It never ends.”

I sighed in empathy. “You know, all we can do is what we can do. If I look at the situation in a macro sense, I become immobile,” I said. “So, I volunteer where I can and try to make a difference in my own small way. Maybe you could help Ken. Maybe you could become a foster home.”

Susie smiled and gave me a hug, heading on her own journey to South Carolina to watch her niece graduate from high school. Another friend made.

The lush highways to Alabama were a breeze to navigate, only 133 miles, which was a jaunt compared to the 350 to 400 mile trips we took through Arizona and Texas. It was like a trip to the grocery store

We checked into our free motel - again, no problems - and were happy to see the hardwood floors and subdued linens, giving the place a retro feel rather than a hyper-tropical one. They even had some fruit, crackers, and water waiting for us. Very nice.

Loren was really excited most of the afternoon - there were lots of kids playing around the pool and her ears would perk up as they screamed and played. As usual, she wanted to be part of the scene, but I had errands to do.

While doing laundry, I saw two pit puppies in parking lot, tied to fence. Was this my worst fear coming true, finding strays and not knowing what to do? When I came closer, I saw they both had tags and collars. Their mom, a young brunette, came out and looked at me suspiciously.

“I hope you don’t mind, I just wanted to make sure someone didn’t dump them,” I said.

She smiled. “No, I don’t mind, but we would never dump them, they are our babies,” came the reply with a sweet Southern accent.

Angel and her husband T.J. got their pit bulls, one who looks a lot like a baby Loren, from a breeder and plans to breed them. I told her she really shouldn’t as there are so many in shelters who need homes and she raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Where?,” she asked. “Shelters won’t adopt pit bulls out around here. I’ve checked.”

I didn’t know how to reply.

When I took Loren for bathroom run, we met the maintenance guys in the parking lot. “Pretty girl,” they exclaimed and rushed to pet her. When I told them what we were doing, they revealed they were involved in rescue, either indirectly through a relative or taking a more active role.

“I live at the end of a dirt road, so I don’t need to look for animals. They find me when their owners dump them on my property,” one of them said. He currently has a Chihuahua, an Australian Shepherd and another purebred. “All beautiful animals,” he said.

They also substantiated Angel’s claim about shelters and pit bulls. “They won’t adopt them out. They’ve had too many problems with fighting,” they said.

Loren seems to like smells of the south, taking her sweet time on walks, and she doesn’t seem to mind the humidity as much as the desert’s dry heat. It was getting late. Hungry for dinner, I consulted my handy “Roadfood” book and programmed Gidget for “The Brick Pit.”

Subdued but superb.

The smell hits you as soon as you enter the parking lot, delicious, tantalizing smoke. We pulled into a shady spot in the back and I went in to order. With a camera around my neck. Like a total geek tourist. The order placed, I started perusing all the reviews hanging on the walls when a man poked his head out from the kitchen.

“Someone got a dog out there?”

Oh, God. “Yeah…what’s wrong?”

He smiled. “Your dogs done up to jump out the window. She’s setting off the alarm,” he said. I started panicking about the exit and he directed me to the employee area. “You can come out this way.”

I ran out to greet my nemesis, Miss Thang, who was sitting upright in the driver’s seat. I clicked off the alarm and sighed.

“It’s great to travel with a dog and it’s a pain to travel with a dog,” I told the nice man. “You got dogs?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Two pits.”

I smiled.

“She a pit?” he asked me.

“Yeah. You want to meet her?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

Loren jumped out and promptly jumped all over him. His name was Keyon and he agreed to let me take his photo with Loren, after I told him what we were doing. This is a gift. I’m sure Keyon and I would have never struck up a conversation had Loren not been with me. Crazy as she makes me sometimes, she is a catalyst for making friends.

"Yum...smells like pit bull and BBQ!"

Keyon went back in to work and I sat in the parking lot with Loren, unwrapping the sandwich which, surprisingly, was served on thick, white bread. It smelled like smoke, which permeated the incredibly soft meat, enhanced with a spicy, vinegar based sauce. Delish.

I gave Loren a few pieces without sauce, which she gratefully accepted. Still, she’s no pig, like the Labs I’ve had over the year who were relentless beggars once they smelled food. Loren waits patiently, never lowering herself to beg, never pushing me. She is just about the least food motivated go I’ve met. She’s all about the love.


"See, I'm not tempted..."

We drove through the ritzy part of Mobile, on Government Road, looking at all the mansions. Huge brick estates with pillars and mammoth wrought iron fences. Beautiful.



On Government Street

Intrigued by a cannon in the middle of an intersection, we stopped and went for a 15-minute walk at Memorial Park, with a plaque dedication to mothers of soldiers in the south. So historical this place is.

"Let's check this out..."


"Proud to be an American!"

It hit me as we were driving back to the hotel and I saw a sign for Montgomery - we are in the deep f’ing South! This is the place I read about as a kid, about Martin Luther King, about segregation, about police dogs and sit ins. This is the real deal. Incredible.

TJ was in the parking lot with his puppy when we got back. He’s a landscaper and she cleans charter buses for a living. They are staying here until they get an apartment. Earlier in the day, I had seen a tiny white kitten with a collar, then turned around for a second, and it was gone. It was theirs. And it got along just fine with the pit bull puppies, according to TJ.

“They all sleep together,” he said.

When I asked him what it was he loved about pits, he smiled.

“I can’t put it in fine print, but I just love their personalities,” he said.

“Is it because they’re funny?” I asked.

“That’s it!” he said. “They’re like little clowns! They crack me up!”

(Fuzzy Rescue in California is desperately looking for foster homes for the pits rescued from a hoarding situation. If you can help in any way, please contact sheila_choi@fuzzyrescue.org)

Loren was feeling mighty frisky on our last night in New Orleans, chasing after a milk bone and sliding all over the hardwood floors. I, on the other hand, was in the midst of a food coma. Ate I came to do here and ate I did.

This morning started with a trip to Café Du Monde for beignets and café au lait. As we waited at a red light, a woman, looking intently at our magnets, walked over and asked me if I had a card. I handed her a postcard and she briefly pet Loren. “He was homeless before we rescued him,” she said, nodding at her rust colored fluffy dog. “That’s awesome,” I said. The light turned green and we waved goodbye.

At Café Du Monde, the scene was much quieter than the 5o to 100 deep line I had witnessed the afternoon before. There were only a few people waiting, though it still took a long time. Things are not super efficient in New Orleans and it’s a nice change when you’re on vacation, to not rush around like a madwoman, like I do in So. Cal.

Four dollars later, I had my beignets and coffee. The former were a little greasy and doused in powdered sugar. There was a ½ inch of powder at the bottom of the paper bag and about a ½ ton spilled on the floor in the small dining room. The coffee was alright. All in all, not the must-experience taste sensation I anticipated.

Doughnuts & coffee, New Orleans style

The lemon mango iced tea at Mojo Coffeehouse on Magazine Street, however, is fantastic. I had one yesterday and had to go back. It’s too warm and muggy for coffee, anyway. Or so I thought.

The morning cooled way down and rain started to pour as we came back to our room. I received a return email from Ken Foster, the author of “Dogs Who Found Me,” who lives in New Orleans. He agreed to meet us for lunch! How cool!

We originally scheduled to meet at Willie Mae’s Scotch Kitchen, which the Food Network hailed as having the best fried chicken in America, but they were not open for business. The Praline Connection was our backup plan and it was a pleasant surprise. Crisp white linen on both the tables and the servers, who also donned snappy black hats.


Talking dog & enjoying sweet potato pie with awesome author Ken Foster

The chicken was great, as Ken had assured me it would be - crisp, succulent, slightly spicy. He often stops here on the way back from his local teaching gig.

We mostly talked dogs. Ken has four now, two males and two females, which started with Sula, his beautiful pit bull. He named his non-profit organization after her - The Sula Foundation. They have an active foster network and regularly hold educational/fundraising events in New Orleans to fund their rescue efforts.

I told Ken the curious reaction I was getting from people when I walked Loren, especially some tough-looking characters I thought would never be afraid of her. They actually crossed the street as we approached them, even though I assured them she was friendly.

“You have to remember, people from these neighborhoods usually know pit bulls one of two ways - either through dog fighting or as a drug dealer’s enforcement,” he said.

Like Los Angeles, the New Orleans shelter system is overrun with pit bulls, many from backyard breeders who think they can make a quick buck.

“I ask them how much they think they’ll get for a puppy and they say, $1,000,” Ken said incredulously.

I laughed. “Really? Are they on crack?”  (This is one of my favorite sayings...probably hits a little close to home around here).

These unscrupulous breeders are lucky to get $100 for a pit bull pup. Most of them end up in the shelter, like a little white, deaf girl whom Ken is boarding at the Animal Clinic on Magazine Street. One of 13 pups, her breeder immediately took the dog to the shelter when he realized she was deaf, refusing to pay the $10 owner surrender fee. He drove off in a brand new SUV.

We went to pick her up puppy food at the Canine Connection on Magazine Street, a really cool doggy day care and boarding facility. Their canine greeter, Wendy, a shepherd mix of a certain age, was rescued by their owner. She was scheduled for euthanasia for being too old and unadoptable. She looked about seven or eight and was certainly spry enough to come over to every visitor and lean against their legs until she was pet. They were also boarding an adorable black terrier mix of some kind who was rescued from a neglect situation.

Since the vet wasn’t open until 2 p.m., Ken and I took Loren for a walk. She took a shine to him instantly, showering him with kisses and minding him quite well. Loren’s a puller when walking and she kept poking her head into every store and bar we came across, trying to introduce herself. She loves the people. Sure enough, the hardcore guys with beanie caps and baggie jeans avoided Loren at all costs.

"Yum...tastes like pit bull!"


"Gives good kisses, too!"



"Ken, there's a much better deal down the street!"



"Aunt Michelle, I don't want to sit!"

Loren settled back into the truck so I could meet the cutie with one blue eye and one green eye. Is there anything more adorable than a puppy, especially a white pit bull puppy? She ran to and from everyone, a little white blur, still awkward like a foal, making us all laugh.

"I am cute..."


"I am sweet..."


"I am Super Puppy!"

We tossed around names, with my clever mind coming up with Scampi (because she likes to scamper about) and Praline.

“Ugh,” Ken said of the latter. “I don’t like anything that sounds too New Orleans.”

Antoine, the vet, was very loving toward the little girl as she ran to and fro, taking an especially keen interest in the bags of dog food near the floor. He told us of a local man who crops pit bull ears and dispenses fake medications and vaccinations. All with no license, of course.

“I must have to clean up his mess at least once a month,” he sighed. “I’m getting tired of it.”

Loren & I headed back to our hotel, where we played in the courtyard for a few minutes before she had dinner. I took a shower to get ready for my big meal at Commander’s Palace. After blow drying my hair, which looked really good, we stepped outside for a brief walk. By the time we got back, boom, my hair had poofed up into a cloud around my head, like a bad 80s perm. This humidity does not agree with me.

It was a certain thrill going to Commander’s Palace, which is located in the upscale garden district, where mansions are aplenty. I have seen this place on the Food Network and read about it a thousand times. As I was led to an upstairs table, I watched in awe as a corps of waiters simultaneously served a table of eight, as beautiful as a synchronized swimming routine.

I ordered the three-course chef’s dinner with shrimp & char chili soup, soft shell crab atop a bed of greens and blue crab, and pecan pie for dessert, as well as my favorite mocktail, a cranberry and club soda with lime. The soup was amazing - just the right amount of heat against the tender shrimp - and the crab even more so, crispy fried perfection, it’s creamy interior cut with an acidic tang from the tomatoes and vinaigrette. I was so full, I took the pecan pie back to the room, where it remains untouched.


Big hair & a big appetite.

This feels a little bit like home now, so I‘m sad to leave. Rathbone Mansions has been especially accommodating to us - it’s so nice for Loren to be able to run free and act like a silly dog once in a while. I hope there are more places like this in store for us.


"Parting is such sweet sorrow."

We’re heading to Surrey’s on Magazine Street for a breakfast of homemade bagels and lox (another Food Network favorite) before heading to Mobile, Alabama…and some BBQ!

(Thanks Ken Foster, for making our last day in New Orleans so memorable. To learn more about Ken and the fantastic work he’s doing, visit www.dogswhofoundme.com)

Slept in today. Got up around 7:45 a.m. Loren (new nicknames: Sophia Loren, Loren Bacall and Lorenzo Lamas) is not much of a morning dog. She prefers to lay in bed indefinitely, getting belly rubs and giving kisses, until I clearly indicate it’s time to get up. Then she stretches languidly and looks at me for direction, which is usually a morning potty break walk followed by breakfast.

I’ve grown used to this area. It’s quite cool, actually. People here really seem to be a community - they hang out on their porches and barbeque, drink, or just chat. Lots of dog walkers. Thankfully, no stray dogs have approached us. I saw a dog roaming around on its own yesterday (from the safety of my truck), a golden shepherd mix, but he seemed to be heading somewhere, so I’m praying it was a case of cruising the neighborhood rather than being homeless.

 Three very different scenes, all within 100 yards of each other

I went to a recovery meeting at a coffee shop a few miles away. The streets are endless here and they are usually one way, so if you miss a turn, it’s a loop until you can get back on course. Though unintentional, getting a little off track has given me an opportunity to see some of the extreme poverty here, that the rebuilding is still an ongoing effort, that many people in this country really do without a lot of the things I take for granted - a middle-class lifestyle and the promise of opportunity.

After the meeting, we came back to our room and as Loren settled in for a snooze, I couldn’t resist. We took a three-hour nap in air-conditioned comfort, getting up at 2 p.m. to go for lunch.

The French Quarter was particularly lively today, being a holiday weekend and all. It was hard to find a parking spot amongst the throngs of people intent on having a good time. Fortunately, we found one in front of a restaurant called Oceana, which had a convenient patio where I could keep an eye on my girl, who rested in her comfy cab in the shade. They were playing Bon Jovi’s “Dead or Alive” when I came in, so it wasn’t the most authentic place in town. Down the street, a live band was wailing out “Bobby McGee” with a passion close to Janis Joplin & The Big Brother Holding Company. The streets were a party and it wasn’t even close to dark.

Scene on the street

I went tourist and ordered “A Taste of New Orleans,” a combo plate of jambalaya, red beans, rice, sausage, and crawfish etoufee. The latter was the best, though my good friend Michelle Vincent makes a better version. I’m not much of a jambalaya person, I’ve discovered - it’s too reminiscent of Italian red sauce, which never floated my boat. The red beans and rice were delish, smoky, rich, and the sausage was excellent (you can never go wrong with sausage). The waiter was nice, supplying me with an endless stream of Arnold Palmers.

A taste of New Orleans, indeed.

Loren & I hit the streets briefly afterwards. She’s a big hit wherever we go. “ She’s beautiful” I heard three times. “Wow, she’s really built” was another common theme. Loren just sniffed along the trail, intent on rolling around on some mysterious cloudy liquid before I could pull “Her Stubbornness” away from the scene. “She must have found some dead bodies,” someone cracked.


"The French Quarter? I bet there's some good leftovers around here!"

No, but she did find some chicken bones on the floor of a daiquiri bar I made an ill-intended shortcut through. These are like Icees for adults, with a dozen flavors swirling around and waiting to be dispensed. I pulled her quickly out of there - not exactly the best place for either of us. She hacked up the bones and we were on our way.

In the mood for some reading beyond my travel guides and local newspapers, I found the Fauborg Marigny Arts Books & Music Store on 600 Frenchman. This place is about as far from Barnes & Noble as you can get - scattered subjects, some gay porn, lots of characters mingling in and out. The owner was great - led me to Ken Foster’s “Dogs I Have Met” (he also wrote the awesome “Dogs That Have Found Me,” which I devoured on vacation in Homer, Alaska. He’s a pit lover/owner, and animal activist that lives here in New Orleans). I also selected “Me Talk Pretty One Day” by David Sedaris and “America Anonymous” by Benoit Denizet-Lewis. Should keep me occupied for a while.

Our hotel is really growing on me. It’s a 10-room “mansion” built in 1846. Besides our room, which is unique and beautiful, we have the courtyard practically to ourselves - no other guest have dogs so Loren is running around having a good old time. We lounged by the pool for a while, but it started to rain, so we headed inside. I am currently writing this blog from the covered patio. It’s overcast, a little muggy, but a damn fine Sunday evening nonetheless.

"Must inspect perimeter!"


"Time for a break!"


"No, must romp!"


"My work is never done!"

Tomorrow we’re going to be more ambitious - beignets and coffee at Café Du Monde, followed by an early meeting, then a nice long walk, then off to the upscale area for taking photos, and finally, an elegant dinner for one at Commander’s Palace or some equally extraordinary restaurant to bid this city the proper culinary farewell.