Nola & I-10

With just a suitcase, a duffle bag and Nola’s backpack, we headed west to Houston. In no time, I learned that between Tallahassee and Destin there’s nothing but pine trees. Nothing. I learned that Nola has the innate ability to know exactly when I need to change lanes and what mirror she has to block to make it as difficult as possible. I learned that letting a dog ride shotgun invariably leads to the car being knocked into neutral. And that when you take a wrong exit, yellow labs make poor navigators.

Staying in Destin for just a night, I learned that I must have the only lab in the world who is dreadfully afraid of water. But that even the most fortified sand castles don’t stand a chance against her. Upon seeing the water the next morning, I remembered why they call it the Emerald Coast. Upon seeing all the rebel flag license plates, I remembered why they also call it the Redneck Riviera.

Heading into New Orleans, hurricane devastated billboards advertised the current condition of much of the city and broken traffic lights told me the rest. I learned that the people in the city refer to Katrina only as “the storm” and that they have had it up to the indelible watermark with the levee councils and corps of engineers. Arriving just in time for dinner, I learned that the best burgers, pool players and dart throwers in the city hang out at a dive called The Swamp Room.

Staying with Matt from Trumpet, I was fortunate enough to have a chance to spend time with old coworkers at a bar called The Bulldog where I learned that a hurricane can wreck everything but friendships. And that the only thing better than having a pint of Abita’s Purple Haze with my boy Jason, is sharing a pitcher of it.



6 am came early Saturday, as I set out to meet the Mexico mission church group in Houston where I learned that Houston and Sprint have had a falling out because I had no service every half a block. Every call I tried to make got dropped. Then my battery died. Walking the streets like a vagabond, I learned that burritos at a Mexican grill called Cabo are served with a fork… picking it up to eat it, I learned why. After the Mexican mess, I basked in the warm glow of 96 degrees atop a balcony bar over looking the city. It was finally time to catch a cab and head to the hotel. But before I did, I watched one of the many Houston citizens standing on the corner sporadically yelling at cars at the top of his lungs like he had turrets. People gawked and stared and snickered. Too tired from wandering aimlessly in the heat to react, I simply shrugged my shoulders and thought… he must have Sprint, too.