Believe it or not, the southern United States have regressed since James Vance and the Giant Orange took office. Much to the chagrin of a hillbilly’s elegy, eggs are still expensive even where cost of living is lowest. I have nothing against the south, besides the stereotypes of violent racism, violent homophobia, xenophobia, anti-Semitism, anti-Palestine, bad style, bad teeth, low education and low expectations, but other than that the food was great. We started our trek in New Orleans. 

New Orleans is an unimaginable fantasy to people who yearn to drink in public. Upon reaching our hotel my mother realized she made a terrible mistake by getting a hotel between Bourbon street and Canal street, which is like sitting between a drunk and a schizophrenic. Our one and only walk down Bourbon street had us waving to strippers and a drunk mime who muttered something back. 

If anywhere in America is a melting pot it’s New Orleans. It’s hot and both the culture and buildings literally melt into each other. 

We took a Greyhound to Mobile, Alabama which I believe is named after the phone or the home. The Greyhound bus station in Mobile is better than I expected, but in the same way a dog bite is worse than you expect. 

We arrived in Pensacola, Florida later that evening. There’s an awful irony in seeing a lifted truck up on bricks. One night we went out and seeing 50 year old men and women clubbing gives the same impression that a polar bear has in Arlington, Texas. I liked the bars, but I wish they could’ve played more than “No Flockin” on repeat for two hours, but then again it is Florida. They did finally play “No Hands” by Waka Flocka, which I proceeded to sing bar for bar, but this had to stop as soon as my mom started to cheer me on. I had to explain to the fellow bar patrons that she didn’t know what the song was about.

As we flew back into Seattle I began to cough and by the end of the night I had a fever, so at least I came back with something.