We have arrived in baton rouge. We are waiting 4 the bad weather to recommence so we can finish the journey to new orleans tomorrow. 80 something miles and counting, to be ridden in driving rain, 15 mph winds, and... clean knickers. For lease navidad, friends!
We tried, made a valiant effort for the red stick tonight. But. We found instead the bar that is like being inyour best friend's kitchen. So james and I have found ourselves at our new friend renee's house in port barre.
Oh, and I got a flat. Fine al fuckin ment. Merci bo cus louisiana.
Your roads are so bad, your coffee is so good, your biscuits so full of butter, your people so tender. O louisiana! I can't even believe how much better your boudin balls are. Holy crap, they're good.
Dear bloggerie,
Today bore witness to the very first boudin ball of our boudin b-Monday. A boudin ball is a belectable fried bit of fat, more specifically rice, pork, and fat, deep fried in the shape of a ping pong ball, or bigger. James has it on good authority that there is a line, a demarcation somewhere between here and baton rouge, where boudin becomes barfy. We two intrepid eaters are bhot on the trail for answers as to where, and more seriously, why. Is it the addition of liver? Perhaps simply unspecified offal? Maybe it's the blood of she-goats.
Today was our first boudin sighting. Hence, this marks the westernmost point on the historic boudin trail.
Todays boudin was not good, but no one threw up. It came from a gas station outside cleveland, tx, where we were treated to the sounds of square dancing on the 2nd floor. These balls were big. We shared one, and ate with forks. Drier than a bayou, it was. But no liver, as far as we know.
Conroe to moss landing. 40.0 long miles.
James and I rode 95 miles today, quite a few of them after 6. We are back in the world where people smoke in bars. I am shocked by my own surprise, and notice that when you can smoke inside, most people smoke.
At this point, I'm excited to be out of texas. I think this part of texas is excited to be out of texas, too. Things are starting to feel decidedly cajun. We peddlin to dat boudin, cocodrie.
James and I (there is still so much novelty in this 'we' thing) have taken to telling folks that 'we' have been riding since seattle (or spokane, or whatever) and that 'we' are really excited to be so close to new orleans, where 'we' are going to stay for a while. Which means I get to blame him for all the less proud moments of 'our' trip. And I sort of get to rewrite history, making me feel somehow better about what it was like for 'us' in west texas. Anyway.
We rode a little further today, and got up a little earlier. But for me, it feels like party time so I'm back to 40 mile days, and the going gets tough, find a cinnamon roll latitude.
When we made it to burton, we knittled our bikes up to the victorian inn, but it was booked. We talked to a lady on the phone who said we could ride 8 miles in the wrong direction to stay in her bunkhouse, but I hated that idea. So we went to the white horse tavern for beers and to find out what next. What next was tommy, who brought us back to his burton family christmas, told us bow hunting stories, fed us, showed us silver jewelry he'd made, insisted we stay tomorrow to dress a hog and light the bbq... that kinda thing. We're staying in a room with a stuffed brown bear, saharan ekg wallpaper, green couch. We graduated from tent campers to cousins in an evening.
Tommy has at least 15 old schwinn 3 speeds and runs an informal bike club out of his house. He says he'll let me help dress a deer tomorrow, or wild hog. He builds his own bows, he's built his house from the ground up, while living in it, he doctors a doctor by teaching him to make jewelry in exchage for classical piano lessons.
With such a supreme host, do we dare move on?
