Louisiana - The Bayou

The wonderful thing about almost every state we’ve been to is that you know the second you’ve crossed from one state to another because things look different almost immediately. When we crossed from California into Arizona, organ pipe cacti popped up all over everything; New Mexico became flatter and browner; when we crossed into Texas it got even flatter and oil wells scattered the side of the road and well off into the distance. I used to notice this strange transition when we’d go to the States when I was growing up; the minute you crossed the border, everything somehow looked a little bit more American. In this case each state just seems a little bit more Texan, or Arizonan, or Californian...

The same goes for Louisiana. 

Texas is, for the most part, fairly flat and country-like, but the closer you get to the Louisiana border the wetter things look, the more you notice that the numerous animals that have been pulverized by vehicles on the highway have changed from skunks and foxes to possums. When we finally crossed into Louisiana, there was a visitor’s centre about two miles in that seemed like a good idea to investigate. 

This visitors centre was decorated like a plantation house, in behind it was a park that looked out onto bayou. Lichen hung from the trees, “Who Dat?” signs hung from the rear view mirrors: We had arrived at our intended destination!

No problem. 

I think it became clear pretty quickly that our normal modus operandi of finding a box store haven and hunkering down in the Wal-Mart parking lot wasn't going to be as easy as usual. Normally, we'd roll into a town, having realized we should stop soon probably only 20 minutes prior, find the Wal-Mart fairly quickly, and we were good to go. 

So when we went through Lake Charles we did not stop, because the vibes were way off. I don't know if we just missed the outskirts or what, but it felt very congested and didn't appear to have much in the way of public parking, let alone an overnight parking spot. We continued on to Lafayette where we made due with a last-minute parking lot find, not at our preferred comfort store, but just something that didn't feel like we were going to sucked into an evil vortex in the middle of the night.

Buffy continues to instil a fear of Hellmouths in me. 

The next day we kept driving, hoping against hope that we would find something that felt right so we could explore a little without feeling like we might need to pull over somewhere unsafe. While sleeping on the side of the road in the Bayou might sound like a cool thing to do, I am not inclined to be either eaten by gators while attempting to pee or shot by rednecks for trespassing. 

We were advised to take Highway 90 down into the “real” bayou, which we did, but much to our disappointment, was the exact same type of thoroughfare, lined by the same series of chain restaurants and stores, as every other town in America. Our hopes for a funky little something to discover started to fade... but the hope for our beacon of well-lit, amenity-ridden, coffee-having parking lot heaven grew. So we started looking for our "marker of hope"...

You see, we've discovered a sure tell for when you are approaching the vicinity of a Wal-Mart, you might think it's a natural landmark - wide open spaces indicating parking lots, or that the outskirts of town are the most likely locations, and while this is not wrong, it's also not the most telling sign that a Wal-Mart is close. You have to keep an eye out for Game Stop - they cohabitate apparently. We've been joking about it, but I swear to you, when we couldn't see signs for Wal-Mart, but we could see a Game Stop, we went in that direction and wouldn't you know it, there she'd be. 

Not this time, apparently. We pulled off Highway 90 into a place called Morgan City, and the only things open were bars, most of the buildings were falling down or were in desperate need of a paint job, and odd looking people meandered, seemingly without purpose, in and out of dilapidated structures long enough to stare curiously at the van and retreat into their dens once more. It's always possible that we just missed the area we should be looking for, but we had paper maps and no internet so we made due with what felt right in the moment. 

Charming, but eerily empty.

Deciding that we should just continue the hell on down the road, we kick started the beige beast and made ready to leave. No sooner had we turned the corner from in front of the post office than one of these den-dwellers we were trying to avoid waved us down and approached the driver’s side window.

“Do you need some food?”

We stared blankly.

“I saw the sign in the window of your van. Do you need some food? I was going to give ya’ll five dollars for a meal…”

Feeling like supreme assholes as this man didn't look like he had 5 dollars to spare to begin with, we suddenly remembered the “Will Work for Food” sign in the back window of the van, and quickly informed this wonderfully kind-hearted man that it was a graduation joke, and that we weren’t starving. 

Anyone who says that Canadians are the most apologetic, polite, do-gooders clearly has not experienced southern hospitality. Granted, I am a white female traveling with another white female and this, for some reason, makes people want to shelter us from harm instead of eye us suspiciously.

Our final stop on this southerly Highway 90 course was Houma. We had been traveling alongside a river of sorts; it was muddy brown and lined with gigantic plantation-like houses on the far side, complete with lichen-ridden trees and Old Glory blowing from the flagpole out front. 

It was starting to get fairly dark so we pulled off into the parking lot of the first restaurant we saw. This just happened to be a “coffee” shop (I will elaborate on those quotation marks in a moment) attached to the Red Carpet Inn.

Future me: things have changed since 2010...

There was a small dog without a leash wandering around the parking lot and it followed us into the building, like this was common place. No one seemed to notice or care. Country music twanged from an unseen room down the hallway, which was eliminated the second we walked into the café. Two old men, who I feel were probably only in possession of two or three teeth between them, sat at two of the tables…they looked at us like the outsiders we were. I noticed Larry the Cable Guy and Jeff Foxworthy blared from a television that was perched atop the refrigerator as we sat down at one of the tables and a tire-looking waitress approached us with menus. We perused the menu in cautious silence, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves as vastly different from the rest of the patrons. 

Two men in their thirties wearing camouflage trucker hats, wranglers, and white(ish) T-shirts entered the café:

“Hey look!” (imagine the epitome of southern accents) “It’s my man on T.V.!” Larry the Cable Guy ranted about women drivers from his place of glory on top of the fridge.

Another woman entered the café. Her bleach blonde hair had 7” black roots and she wore tapered jeans and a faded blue hoodie-less sweatshirt.

“Aw, heeeell naw! You is suppos’ta be on Vaycay!” Our waitress bellowed from behind the counter. We pondered the menu in continued silence, but remained glued to the snapshot of Americana taking place before our eyes.

The coworker did not stay, and the waitress approached with cups of “coffee”.

“What exactly is catfish” TJ asked. 

“You really wanna know?”

We assured her that this was the case.

“It’s a bottom-feeder. Lotsa people like ‘em though!”

I ordered chicken fingers.

No, thank yew. 

As we waited for our food, we turned our attention away from the conversation the waitress was having with the cook about her son Bubba and the new Tony Hawk game she just bought for him, and focused on our coffee. 

There was no sugar. There was no cream. There was Sweet n’ Low and powdered creamer packets…in the coffee shop. 

The chicken was tolerable but the rest was not. After we finished, TJ went down the hall to use the facilities and I went outside for some fresh air and it basked in the glory of the swamp. 

Inhaling air in the bayou is like breathing through a pile of hot, wet, moss. You can smell the mud, you can feel the wetness of the air, and you can appreciate the ridiculousness of the people who live there. 

Which I did. Appreciate I mean. Especially when a Jason Stackhouse look-alike sauntered past and gave me the “southern nod” complete with "Ma’am", before ambling into the night and disapperating into the darkness like a spectre of plaid button down, well mannered, cold beer-ad looking goodness. 

I have to confess, this was another Texas-dimple moment for me. 

I dithered and tried not to reply with a mimicked "Sir" complete with twang. I can't explain why that was my first instinct. It's like when you spend time with a British person, and because North Americans have very little culture of their own they always talk in accents for NO REASON WHATSOEVER, and it's totally fine and normal until there's an ACTUAL British person present and then you just feel like an absolute twat. 

I specialize in this feeling. And it's why I'm so grateful that I did not respond as such to the Jason Stackhouse wannabe who hit me with that Southern Charm so fiercely.

I also blame the fact that we legit turned on “Bad Things” by Jace Everett as we rolled over the Louisiana border like a couple of dweebs, bringing my giggle factor up to 11 since we got here. 

Imagine this tipping his hat and saying "Ma'am". Lord. Have. Mercy. 

I do recognize that I am an eternal fangirl and it is so unserious.