Finally Jock interrupted her. “You get a gold star, darlin’. But you missed the most important thing ’bout us. We love good food, we love good music, and we love us our bayou!”
And with that he whooped and hit the gas, flying onto the highway, out of New Orleans through the countryside toward the swamp. Miss Ruby and Miss Georgia gave a kind of YEEEEHAWWWWWW yell, and Gavin whistled with his fingers (something I’ve always wanted to do but usually just wind up drooling all over my hands), and off we went.
Trying to write about the bayou makes me doubt I’ll ever be an author. I don’t think I’ll even get close to describing what it’s like. We got on a small metal motorboat with a loud whiny engine and headed out into a swampy area, but it’s like nothing we have up north. What I call a swamp at home is a muddy little pond with frogs and maybe some dead trees or even a beaver dam. This was like something out of a fairy tale, or maybe a horror movie….Imagine giant trees with roots that stand up in gnarled tangles above the water, while vines twist and hang all over them like they wanted to swallow the trees whole. Then the moss hangs off the branches like supersized cobwebs in some abandoned attic, and the heat is so steamy that it feels like the whole place is out of another world, where dragons or wraiths or zombies or swamp princesses are just out of sight. Oooh! The Swamp Princess…That would be a cool title. Or even The Swamp Princess and the Zombie.
Anyway…what was I saying? Oh, right—the amazing scenery. Even Ladybug was struck dumb, between the heat and the eerie landscape. Travis kept shaking his head and whistling low, saying “Dang. Daaang,” again and again, like a quiet chant. It was hard to remember how close we were to the city.
So after a while we got used to the creepy trees, and Jock told us all about the land and the people who lived there, and then he started making these weird noises, and I honestly started to freak out, thinking that he had lured us out there to kill us.
But don’t worry, he was just calling the alligators! YES, THAT’S RIGHT. HE WAS CHATTING WITH HIS BUDDY, THE EVIL REPTILIAN GATOR KING. Good grief…this trip was not for the faint of heart. Mom grabbed Ladybug so hard, she squeaked, and even Laurel said, “DUDE. That’s legit,” in the kind of voice she uses when she’s seriously impressed. The alligators come when called, it turns out, not because Monsieur Cormier is a murderer who feeds tourists to the gators, but because he feeds them marshmallows. Yep, good old Campfire marshmallows like we have at cookouts. Apparently alligators love them.
Then Jock told us all about an invasive species called nutria, which are basically giant rodents that look like beavers with rat tails, which ARGH, SOMEONE GET ME BRAIN BLEACH! These things are destroying coastal Louisiana, eating all the wetland plants and stuff, so a few years ago the government got involved.
“It went like this,” Jock said. “The Feds started offering good cash money for turning in nutria tails, and many a swamp Cajun made a pretty penny that way!”
“Why only the tails?” Laurel asked.
Jock burst out laughing. “ ’Cause nutria’s good eating, if you want to put it in the stew pot!” he said. “Consider it a form of recycling!”
I. Cannot. Even.
Ladybug was pretty excited about the whole thing. She broke free from Mom and peered over the edge while Mimi held on to her collar. All we could see of her was her bum, sticking up as she stared into the water. Then she popped back up, all excited.
“Snake!” she called. “Mr. Jock, I saw a big snake!”
Laurel blanched a little. She’s super-crazy-brave about almost everything, but not snakes. She got kind of pale, and I could see she was trying not to look into the water. “Are there snakes here? Seriously?” she asked.
But Jock grinned. “Mais oui,” he said, then gave a little wink and cupped his hand around his mouth like he was telling us a secret. “That’s French, y’all, in case you were wondering. Course you saw a snake, because…did you forget? We in the bayou now! We got all kinds of snakes. What’d you see down there, princess? A cottonmouth? A coral snake? Rattler?”
Laurel looked like she was going to barf at this point, and even Mimi, who was the most gung-ho about this whole tour, stiffened up.
“Jock, honey,” she said, and she had that I’m-not-upset-I’m-just-curious voice she uses when there’s a massive kitchen disaster at home. “How safe—”
But Jock started laughing and promised no snake could climb into the boat and we were safe as kittens. Then he talked about snakeskin belts and illegal poaching until we all felt bad for the snakes and even Laurel relaxed a little.
Travis turned to his dad and whispered, “There are more things that can kill you here than even in Texas!”
Remind me never to go to Texas.
For all his goofing around, Jock really knew a ton. He showed us an eagle’s nest and some rare endangered type of turtle, and he got Root all fired up by talking about alternative energy sources. Even though I was literally dripping sweat and the mosquitoes were buzzing and whining like nuts, I have to admit, it was pretty awesome. I felt like I was a million miles away from Shipton.
We’re sitting back at the dock now, waiting. Jock says he has one last surprise for us before we leave. I really hope it’s not another alligator.
It was another alligator.
But a baby one! And it turns out baby alligators are actually kind of cute. Laurel even held it, and Jock talked more about conservation and endangered environments, and pollution, and then Ladybug took a photo of Bruce and the baby alligator.
Then the party started.
Cajuns know how to throw a serious party. Jock’s final surprise was a fais do-do, a kind of dance party/feast that his wife and her sisters and their kids and maybe some cousins—it was hard to tell who everyone was—cooked up, and a live band played a kind of music called zydeco, which was the most foot-stomping, toe-tapping, sing-along music I’ve ever heard. I wonder what Saanvi, who’s a total music snob, would think about zydeco. It’s not anything like hip-hop, but wow. People played accordions and guitars, and there was an old guy with a beard wearing a metal chest plate, which was actually an old washboard that he whacked with drumsticks like it was a wearable drum. Then there was a teenage girl, probably not much older than me, and she played the fiddle like someone had lit her on fire. People were screaming and stomping their feet, and her hair was flying into her eyes, her dress strap fell off her shoulder, and she just kept going, and one of her fiddle strings broke, and she whooped and screeched and played on without it.
Anyway, Jock ended the festivities by teaching everyone some dance steps, which involved Miss Ruby and Miss Georgia pushing and shoving, then giggling so hard, Jock had to hold them both up. Finally they got the hang of it. Then it was Mom and Mimi, Travis and Miss Ruby, Gavin and Miss Georgia, Laurel and Root, and Ladybug and Jock all dancing away in pairs. Mimi of course blathered loudly about how this was just the sort of spontaneous joy that travel brings, and how she couldn’t wait to write about it. Needless to say I politely declined when she invited me to dance with her and Mom. That’s all I need—a play-by-play of my totally pathetic inability to follow any steps. (Seriously. Ask Em….I can’t even do the most basic dance moves she tries to teach me. I’m a mutant when it comes to dancing.) Not that I was paying much attention, but Travis is not a dance mutant….He’s more like a dance savant. He was the first to pick up all the steps, and he and Miss Ruby were pretty impressive. It looked fun, honestly.
Right before we left, Jock balanced Bruce on top of the giant wooden carved alligator statue and took a photo with him. By the time we all got into the van to head back to New Orleans, my tongue was burning from all the spices in the gumbo, my hands were sore from clapping, and I was singing along with the chorus of the last song, “Allons Danser.”
It’s too bad I didn’t learn the dance steps. Not that watching wasn’t good too. It was. Totally.
It’s our last night in New Orleans. Tomorrow we get on a new train, City of New Orleans, and take it to Chica
go. The Crescent feels like a million years ago.
I don’t really want to leave. Even though I’m hot and my stomach is a little sore from all the food and Mom has gone back to being grumpy (she and Laurel fought again…not even sure what about this time), even so, I don’t really want to get on another boring train with a boring dining car and my boring life.
Here I can pretend that my world is far more exciting than it actually is.
Another note! What is his story? I’m going to write him back and tell him to stop. But in a nice way. Obviously.
Getting back on the train somehow seems ridiculously hard this time. Laurel nearly missed it because she was getting her palm read, Ladybug was crying about saying goodbye to the kittens at Purr Café, as she named it, and Mom was on a work call on the platform, trying to keep the phone on mute so the lawyer on the other end couldn’t hear Ladybug wailing. When we loaded all our bags and ourselves onto the train, everyone was mad: Mimi was mad that Mom wouldn’t get off the phone; Root was mad (though he calls it being “bummed out, dude”) that Laurel seemed more into the palm reader, a tall, dramatic-looking girl who wore scarves and a nose ring, than hearing his newest idea, which seemed to involve on-train vermiculture, which is another word for worm-based composting. (This means keeping buckets of worms on the train and dropping all compostable food into the bucket. I…I don’t even have enough words for all the reasons I think this is a bad idea.) Anyway, he’d been talking about it with a group of musicians who’d recently converted their tour bus to run on used restaurant cooking oil, and he was all fired up.
Finally we made it. The NTFs arrived at the very last minute, looking a little frazzled. Miss Georgia’s face was pinched, and there was none of the usual loud laughing and goofing around. Travis kept trying to help her, and she yelled at him, kind of meanly, I thought. But he kept helping like he didn’t even hear. They settled into a bunch of seats near a bathroom and kind of kept to themselves, which was a relief. I wonder what’s wrong, though. Not that I need to know, obviously. I mean, it’s their business, not mine.
The train was icy cold, air-conditioning blasting away any last memories of New Orleans fun. We ate cruddy stale gluten-free crackers from Mimi’s bag and stared out the window as the city disappeared. We’re on the train until Memphis, Tennessee, where we arrive late at night. Hours and hours of watching the kudzu wrap around buildings as the Big Easy gets farther and farther away. Goodbye, zydeco music, alligators, beignets, Erik the Adorable Ukrainian. I’ll miss you!
I forgot how boring the train is. Mimi fell asleep and is snoring….There is no bullfrog in the world that makes a noise like she does.
Fun Fact!
Jackson, Mississippi, was named for Andrew Jackson, and was invaded by General Sherman during the Civil War and…wait for it…was burned to the ground. Honestly, the burning to the ground is getting really old.
Fun Fact!
McComb, Mississippi, enjoys the distinction of being the Camellia City of America. No city can boast a greater variety. (No, really, this is considered a fun fact. I think the people writing this are getting desperate. I know how they feel.)
Fun Fact!
Brookhaven, Mississippi, is the childhood home of Robert Pittman, founder of MTV.
Not-So-Fun Fact!
The mention of MTV appears to have reinvigorated Mimi, and she’s reminiscing about her youth and music videos and some song about getting “your money for nothing and your chicks for free.”
Laurel apparently doesn’t like that song, and they’re now in an argument about feminism.
LAUREL:
Just because you’re a lesbian doesn’t mean you get to call women “chicks.”
MIMI:
Honey, I was a feminist back when you were begging for the deluxe Bratz doll set with matching eye shadow kit. Shush, now.
Honestly, I think they each have a valid point on this one.
Huh. I was walking by Travis’s empty seat on the way to the bathroom, and he had left his stuff all over the table. I guess I could have walked by, but I was kind of curious. He wrote, “Auntie G is feeling pretty rotten, which is to be expected under the circumstances.” I wonder what that means? What circumstances?
Also, he wrote, “That girl is still top-level prickly. But I’ll keep chatting away. It’ll either warm her up or make her mad, and both are pretty fun.”
PRICKLY. DOES HE MEAN ME?? OMG.
We’re almost in Memphis. This train ride was more boring than usual, probably because Ladybug, Laurel, Root, and Travis spent the whole time playing games while I read. Not that I want to play games—I’m so done with Ladybug’s “rules.” The last time we tried to play Twenty Questions, it went like this:
SARA:
Okay, Ladybug. Your turn!
LADYBUG:
I’m thinking….I’m thinking….I’m thiiiiiiiiiiinkinnnnnnng. (keeps thinking for ten minutes)
LADYBUG:
(finally) I have it! BUTTERFLY!
SARA:
…Um. Butterfly?
LADYBUG:
YOU GUESSED IT!
Seriously.
So just because Travis is laughing his huge TEEHEEHEEHEEHEE laugh and Laurel is snorting and slapping the table does NOT mean that game time is fun. It just means they have a pathetically low bar for amusement.
Meanwhile I’ll sit here and count the number of seats in the train car. In Latin. Unus. Duo. Tres. Quattuor…
Fun Fact!
Memphis is known as the birthplace of a style of music known as the blues, and was home to blues musicians like B. B. King, Muddy Waters, and Robert Johnson.
Fun Fact!
Memphis is also home to “the King”—Elvis Presley.
Not-So-Fun Fact!
Elvis fans apparently have no shame and will parade around in public wearing monstrous Elvis-covered articles of clothing.
Not-So-Fun Fact!
Most people here look like “late Elvis”—really fat, long sideburns, bad jumpsuits—not “young Elvis,” who, I have to admit, was pretty darn cute.
Memphis is LOUD. And bright. Just getting from the train station, we’ve seen more Elvis stuff and weird music souvenir stands than you’d think any city needs. Luckily, we’re taking a taxi, because Ladybug is fast asleep, clutching Bruce and occasionally muttering something about dancing cowboys. (I blame Travis for this.) Root is being heroic and carrying her. (I should clarify, this is heroic not because she’s heavy: the rest of us are hauling all the bags, which weigh a lot more than a six-year-old. But there was a little mishap with the ketchup at dinner, and Ladybug’s pretty sticky. Plus it looks like she’s been stabbed. To Memphis’s credit, no one seems to notice that we’re walking around with a comatose red-splattered kid. On second thought, maybe that doesn’t say anything good about Memphis. I mean, isn’t this the kind of thing someone should notice? Good grief. Remind me not to get stabbed here.)
What was I saying? I am seriously tired.
We managed to avoid the NTFs only because they had plans to head “DI-rectly to the Blues Palace,” where some famous musicians were playing. Thank the Lord for small favors. Anyway, we’ve finally gotten to the taxi stand, but not surprisingly, there has yet to be one large enough for the six of us plus luggage. Root’s trying not to complain, but Ladybug just flailed in her sleep and knocked his glasses right off his face. Luckily, they didn’t break. Unluckily, she also managed to smear ketchup onto his face, so now he looks beaten and bloodied. No wonder the cabs aren’t stopping.
Well, that was amazing. Mom and Mimi were in one of their muttered conversations, trying to figure out if we should split into two groups, when a GINORMOUS stretch limousine pulled up. The side window opened and…I guess this is what happens in Memphis…Elvis leaned toward us.
“Where y’all headed, darlings?” he asked, lowering his sunglasses just enough to peer over them. (Note: was almost eleven at night and dark out.)
Mom of course tried to tell him we’re not interested
, but Mimi didn’t miss a beat. She opened the back door and started flapping at me, Laurel, and Root to start getting in.
“Peabody Hotel, please! And can we request some ‘Jailhouse Rock’ on the way?”
And that is how we arrived at the fanciest hotel I’ve ever stayed in: the limo’s disco lights flashing, and the driver, complete with microphone, belting out old rock and roll. Ladybug woke up of course, but took it all pretty well. In fact, she managed to get Bruce to perch on the driver’s shoulder when we stopped at a red light. The best part? When we got to the hotel, no one seemed to find it strange that a bloodstained (okay, ketchup-stained) kid with a Roman centurion was posing with an Elvis impersonator and his limo. They welcomed us in, nicely offered Ladybug and Root a couple of wet wipes, and sent us up to our room.
This place is really NOTHING like home. Maybe that’s okay.
I’m not allowed to sleep in, even though this is one of the fanciest, biggest, most comfortable beds ever. The place is huge. Even better? Ladybug, after (finally!) getting cleaned up, was whiny and refused to go to bed with me, so she slept with Mimi and Mom, and I got a whole giant bed to myself! And Mimi didn’t even snore…maybe because Ladybug was pushing her out of bed all night. Welcome to my world, Mimi. Anyway. Best. Sleep. Ever.
We’re up early because we’re trying to beat the crowds at Graceland. Even Mimi, who’s been obnoxiously psyched about everything, couldn’t make it sound fun to stand in long lines for Elvis Presley’s house. But apparently one cannot come to Memphis without making the trip. I, personally, could DEFINITELY come to Memphis and not get up at the crack of dawn just to see some stupid house, but I don’t get a vote. I am trying. Really, I am trying not to be Veruca Salt, but this stinks.
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