Air Travel Ain't What It Used To Be

Air travel just isn't what it used to be. Boarding a 757 in Houston, I found an older Asian guy in my seat who insisted I should take his seat in 8E (a window seat) so that he could sit next to his wife. It wouldn't have been that big of a deal but the night before, when I checked in, I specifically worked on getting an aisle seat to accommodate my ever increasing frame and would be able to occasionally stretch my leg into the aisle. Aggravated that he wouldn't get up but kept pointing to his seat and giving me a sheepish grin saying, "You take my seat, okay?" I looked around at other passengers who appeared to sympathize with him. Let's face it, there was no way I was going to win a public relations battle over it so I made my way to his seat where I sat squeezed between the window and a very large Amazonian female for the next 2½ hours. I felt like a pressed ham.

I can remember when flying was a big deal. The first time for me, included getting all dressed up in a suit, buying a cigar and having my picture made at the airport. Boarding a Delta Douglas DC 3 tail dragger at Selman Field in Monroe, Louisiana for a very long ride eventually arriving in Hartford Connecticut, I was ever eager give the appearance of an experienced traveler. That was in 1967.

As the twin engine plane belched fire, let out a puff of smoke and became airborne, you could see the wings bending under pressure as it rose to a cruising altitude. Sitting in the rear, with no one beside me, I lit a cigarette when the seatbelt and no smoking signs went off. By the time we were in the seven to eight thousand feet range, my cigarette had developed quite a long ash. Looking around for an ashtray, I found what looked like on on the side of the plane. Holding the cigarette with my right hand, I attempted to pull on the ashtray with my left but found it somewhat stubborn in it's release. Getting a firmer grip, I gave it a mighty tug a the same moment I swallowed.

Never having been at that altitude, I didn't realize that your hearing was slightly impaired and I would have to swallow to clear my ears. So at that very precise moment that I did so and pulled on the ashtray, all the noise from those twin engines must have tripled in my head. Just in that brief nanosecond, the synapses in my brain began to compile all kinds of tragedies and I briefly imagined I had pulled a hole in the side of the plane and could see myself being sucked through it.

Those were truly the golden days of air travel.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day 2010, Gonzales, LA

Lafayette Car Show

My riding podnuh called me just as I had gotten in from Dearborn Friday night asking what I thought about a ride over to Scott, LA (Lafayette) to an auto show held in the parking lot of Cajun Harley Davidson. "But of course!", was my response. "Where do you want to meet?" was the next question. We mutually agreed on a place so at 9:00, Saturday morning we met for our ride over to the car show.

Before I left this morning, I found my front tire was nearly flat, so I aired it up and when we got to the Harley shop in Scott, I talked to the service people and they convinced me it would better to have a new tube installed. So, for 3 hours we wandered around a somewhat small car show with temperatures at 92° in the shade and can only imagine what it was out on the concrete.

This wasn't necessarily a restored car show for many were fiberglass replicas of custom cars. There was the abundance of 60s Chevys and Fords with a few Rat Rods thrown in for good measure. There was even a motorcycle drawn hearse, compliments of Pellerin Funeral Home.

While we waited on the tire, we sauntered next door to Fezzo's, a local restaurant for lunch. I'm telling you, their version of a loaded baked potato was outstanding. It consisted of a large pomme de terre laden with crawfish etouffe on top. Tres bon! Slap yo mama!

After the tube was finally installed on Boudreaux, we headed south out of Lafayette, cruising through Abbeville, Delcambre and New Iberia. Approaching Breaux Bridge, the bottom decided to fall out of the sky and we found ourselves seeking shelter under the cover of an abandoned service station. I'm not opposed to riding in a little rain but when it's lightening, blowing rain and hail, it's time to draw the line. Besides, riding in that kind of weather brought back haunting images of the Harley drawn hearse back at the car show.

After holding up there for an hour or so, we decided to take our chances getting home. We hadn't traveled 10 miles before the skies opened up again and we found ourselves parked at local grocery store on Hwy 31, just north of Breaux Bridge. At this point, we figured putting on rain suits might not be a bad idea.

Anyway, with a few items of clothing on the damp side we eventually made to Highway 190 where everything had dried out. Even though spots were a bit disagreeable, we both counted it as a great Saturday ride with 300+ miles on our bikes.

Hoedown Detroit

hoe·down :
-noun

1.

a community dancing party typically featuring folk and square dances accompanied by lively hillbilly tunes played on the fiddle.

2.

the hillbilly or country music typical of a hoedown.

A local radio station put's on a "hoedown" every May here in Detroit. Now, a "hoedown" isn't necessarily the same in all places but the folks in the frozen tundra look for any excuse to get out when the weather warms and the sun shines.

Detroit's hoedown is held downtown on the St Claire River right beside the tunnel that scoots daily travelers under the river to Windsor, Ontario. It's a free event with several country bands on various stages.

Participants dig through the bottom of closets and under beds to pull out old hats and boots to look somewhat southern, country or western. I'm telling you, Nashville denizens would lay on the ground and have a big ole belly laugh at some of the costumes that appeared. But bless their hearts, they really try and enjoy the heck out of themselves.

The music is constant and loud, the vendors sell cheap western hats and T-shirts and the food is plentiful and palatable.

Not bad for a Sunday afternoon in a city.

The Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village

Years ago, Henry and Clara Ford set up the Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village. Although they initially funded it, they left no provisions for the upkeep of it. At one point, a few years ago, the area fell into disrepair so badly it appeared it would have to be demolished. So, a foundation of volunteers and benefactors raised funds and have restored it to a magnificent reflection of not only Ford's history but 19th and 20th century America itself.

Greenfield Village provides a walking history tour of everything from railroads, aviation and automobiles to glass blowers, printing presses and farming. One impressive demonstration was the vintage Jacquard loom that was capable of weaving any image directly into the fabric. What's so impressive about that? Well, it was a programmable loom, invented in 1801 that took it's cues from cards with holes in them. In other words, it was the first punch card system which ultimately, led to IBM developing the first computer. Bill Gates, Michael Dell and Steve Jobs wouldn't be who they are today were it not for Joseph Marie Jacquard.

The Henry Ford Museum is not necessarily a pat on it's back to the Ford Motor Company. Sure it has a slew of old cars but also tells the story of American ingenuity in steam engines, electricity, farming, aeronautics and culture.

By the end of the day, my feet felt flatter than the streets I walked on for most of the day so I hobbled off to the car and checked into the Marriott Courtyard.

Dearbornistan

Ack ! !............Update:

Just when I thought I'd never have to deal with Detroit again, I find myself headed for Dearborn, Michigan. Oh well, like I told my wife, there's got to be a blessing laying around in there somewhere. So, within a few days, I was able to share my faith with someone who had a very different idea of what an independent protestant Christian was.

After a couple of weeks here, I've had some pretty positive experiences. Before arriving, my perception of Dearborn was pretty grim, simply because it, like many places I've been to, were for the most part a sum of rumors and fear or reluctance of the unknown.

Dearborn is where Ford Motor Company is headquartered and streets reflect the city's dedication to the company. Streets and roads such as Ford Road, Fairlane and Mercury Drives are only a few examples. Had Henry Ford been born in Amarillo, Texas, Detroit would be a defunct fur trading outpost.

Part of my reluctance for coming here was knowing this was one of, if not the biggest centers of Arab/Muslim culture in the United States. Yes, the place is running over with ladies (and sometimes gentlemen) dressed in Arab garb and restaurants, stores and signs on cars are first hand evidence that make it the norm here. That being said, no one has held me down and forced a felafel into my mouth or have been discourteous to me at all. I've even heard Arabs calling into talk radio (yes, I'm one of those listeners) with American views to the right of Karl Rove. After all, many families have been here for 4 and 5 generations who came here to work on Henry Ford's moving assembly line. I've met a few people here and in many respects, they're just like me, trying to hack out a living and pursue wealth and happiness and grow old around their grand-kids.

Do I necessarily find Dearborn charming and have thoughts of moving here? Absolutely not but Arabs and Muslims are here and not going away. Like the Jews, Irish, Italians and Asians before them, they too will eventually place an indelible mark on the culture of the USA. It is what it is.

Ironically, Rima Fakih of Dearborn is the new Miss USA in Las Vegas, May 15. Fakih, 24, formerly from New York was raised in Dearborn, Michigan. She beat out 50 other contestants, including runner-up Miss Oklahoma, for the grand prize. It is said that the local Muslims are divided on her winning Miss USA, particularly the swimsuit division.

Probably the pole dancing video doesn't help either.

Irony indeed.

YeeHawww!! Branson!

I had a good week and a couple of days working in Baton Rouge and before I knew it, I was driving up to Shreveport for another week. The upside was.....well, being at home every day for a week and a half then being close enough in Shreveport to drive home for the weekend and also to spend a night with my Mama.

Sheveport was barely an image in my rear view mirror when I got the call to go to Branson, Missouri. Hearing the circumstances, I began to figure I'd be hanging out here for maybe a couple of months in the mountain air (people in the western states will scoff at that) free from the stress that had been haunting me in a couple of the last assignments.

It has been probably 20 years since we've been here in what has described as a cross between Mayberry and Las Vegas. Staying on the western end of the strip, traffic is still nuts as you attempt to cruise from one end to the other. Now there are a couple of bypasses that you can take if you truly need to get around.

Branson's oldest attractions have been the outdoor drama, Shepherd of the Hills, the theme park Silver Dollar City and some old time musical and comedy acts like The Presleys and The Baldknobbers. Over the years "name" people like Mel Tillis, Micky Gilly and other country entertainers have turned the place into quite attraction. It seems now that if an artist ever had a following in the entertainment business, Branson is the next stop before completely giving it up. Others like Shoji Tabuchi have created their own following after a leg up from Roy Acuff who had met him in Japan. Acuff told Shoji that if he was ever in the US, to look him up. Eventually, Shoji showed up and Acuff accepted him and put him on the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville a few times. Tabuchi gambled on Branson and opened a theater and became a local hit.

The place is largely patronized by retirees or at least those over fifty. Bikers traveling through on 3 wheeled Honda trikes remind you of the Dead End Gang. Nothing emphasizes it more than the Hampton Inn's breakfast bar featuring a large container of Activia Yogurt. Activia has a stronger reputation than prunes. Don't ask me how I know this.

Unfortunately, I had only been here a day before finding out the situation was in the process of resolving itself and now find myself looking for a plane ride out of here. I won't be eating the Activia before I fly. On the fortunate side, I was able to break bread and spend a little time with an old friend and his lovely wife over in Shell Knobb. It's all good.

Wild Bores

Back in March, my friend Lewis and I had been planning hooking up with a pair of his buds from Alabama for a "Wild Hogs" weekend. Our original plans called for us to meet Frank and Jim in Mobile and take a motorcycle run over into Florida. However, after reviewing weather conditions and the fact that spring break would unleash 30 or 40 thousand college students onto the beaches and highways of Florida called for a change of plans. New plans would call for us meeting up in Biloxi and somehow figure out where or what we wanted to do for the following 3 days. Bear in mind, it was supposed to be very warm, temperatures were still in the 40s, 50s and 60s, so full leather for that much wind was welcome.

Lewis and I met up in Denham Springs and after donating $20 to the saddest tale I've ever heard from a panhandler, we struck a pace east toward Biloxi. Avoiding the interstate as much as was reasonable, we hit old Hwy 90 on the Mississippi gulf coast. Even though recovery from Hurricane Katrina had been ongoing for 4 years, evidence of destruction was still there. Stopping off in for lunch, we encountered a "Picker" much like the episodes on the History Channel where people roved around the country buying oddities for resale. The one we met was driving an old hearse with everything from paintings to handmade toys.

Meeting Frank and Jim from Alabama, we hit the rack early before even firming up what we'd do for Friday through Sunday. The next morning at breakfast, the best we could do was come up with an obvious direction. They didn't want to go back north, spring break was going on in Florida so riding westish was pretty much the only choice.

Thursday morning found us riding old Hwy 90 west toward New Orleans through the Rigolets before getting into New Orleans east where we found ourselves in a major traffic jam due to some kind of accident on I-10. Since it was near noon, we thought maybe lunch at Mother's on Poydras at Tchoupitoulas. Bad idea! Patrons were lined up outside half the length of the building on the Poydras side and a place to park, even for 4 Harley-Davidsons, were not to be found.

Not wanting to wait, we rode across the bridge to the west bank, stopped for poboys at a combo seafood store and deli. It was a curious experience for the boys from Alabama to be eating seafood sandwiches close enough to hear the fish flopping behind the counters.

Anyway, after that we mounted up and rode to Raceland, we cut south along Bayou Lafourche to Grand Isle. By the time we had a short visit there, the sun was getting lower so not wanting to find a place to sleep that involved gravel or creeping things, we rode on up to Houma, getting lost in the process and arrived after it was well dark.

Saturday, with an early start, we headed northwest through Morgan City, stopping at Frank's favorite restaurant in Jeanerette. You want find Lil's listed as a Zagat's favorite but since Frank, Jim and Lewis had been there before, Lil welcomed us with open arms.

Our next destination was Lewis' home near St Francisville by the way of Lafayette, Opelousas, down Highway 90 to the old bridge at Baton Rouge, then north. After arriving at Lewis', I dismissed myself to ride home another 65 miles for the night. The next morning, with Ms Darlene seated firmly on the back of Boudreaux, we headed north again to meet Lewis and Jan. By that time, Jim and Frank had loaded up and were on their 500 mile ride back to northern Alabama.

On the two bikes, Lewis, Jan, Darlene and I rode up to Natchez for lunch at Natchez Under The Hill. After riding around some through the old town, we were ready to get home and finally off the bikes. By the time we split up with Jan and Lewis and rode on home, I had put over 1,000 miles on Boudreaux. The guys from Alabama probably had at least 1,800 on theirs. It was a great four day weekend.

Chicago

Sorely disappointed in a quick change from home office, I canceled tickets to Sarasota and found myself scrambling for a flight to yet, another spot in the frozen tundra. This time, Naperville, IL, near Chicago for the next two weeks. Oh joy.

I arrived last night in a wet snow storm rendering the drive to the hotel in Naperville, a tad chancy. Weather reports on the internet say that will be the case over the next few days. I mentioned "Weather reports on the internet" because there were no TV weather reports due to the satellite dish on the roof of the hotel is full of snow and the little old lady at the front desk refused to climb up and sweep it off.

As for the swimming pool, I probably wouldn't have wanted to swim anyway.

Yelling kids, RVs and Ice Sculptures

With no particular place to go and a long President's Day weekend to burn off, Saturday, I took in a huge RV/Camper show in Novi, MI at an indoor arena. I have begun to have cabin fever and needing to get out. In places like Michigan and Minnesota, families will sometimes check into hotels on a weekend just to let the kids play in an indoor heated swimming pool. So, last night the hotel and it's pool had kids screaming and running up and down the halls. The ones next door and above yelled, jumped on the floor and pounded the walls until 11:00.

There's not much to say about an RV show rather than they were big, they were expensive and they were too far from home to drive or pull. At least I got to see if there were any new developments in the RV world. The only thing new (to me) was the slide out kitchens on the side of many of them. Since I would probably not buy a new one, it gave me a standard to watch out for if and when I buy a used one.

Sunday afternoon, I found myself in old downtown Utica, MI, a small township across the freeway from my hotel. They have an annual Ice Festival that includes some really great ice sculptures. Not as huge as some I've seen in Minneapolis/St Paul, these were a little more commercial and appeared to be sponsored by the local businesses from the themes on them.

It didn't take me long to observe most of them and after walking a few blocks in 31° weather with an 11 mph wind, I found my way back to car for a quick drive back to the hotel.