#EvacueeDiary XI: The Best Times of Our Lives

We were grown folk in New Orleans, drinking brown liquor with jazz from the source as the soundtrack, and as we rode east we anticipated Disney World and started to drive back into childhood. Sweetie engaged one of her longtime friends, who is a master-level Disney World aficionado as well as a chef, and during the first hours on the road she booked a stay and began assembling a list of must-dos—but, more importantly to me, must-eats—while reserving space for them. I pointed out how many alligators had to be in every pond, ditch, or otherwise wet surface, and we flowed east.

I had been on this road, I-10, before. It’s what my family used to visit our family in Mobile. I remember going through once when the land was recovering from Hurricane Camille, and I remember coming through another time in a van, fighting a dog for the air conditioner. This time I made the journey through the green tunnel of the South with my Sweetie by my side and Moon behaving like a vehicle designed to transport people in luxury over long distances.

I started buying pins back when we were in Area 51, and the first of my collection was an alien’s head. In Colorado I picked up a couple in the mountain towns we visited, and by Taos I had picked up a habit. My belt played out in Colorado, and Sweetie secured a pair of suspenders fitting the Grampy belly I had developed—and my desire to get in and out of the low-slung Moon without showing any cracks in my armor.

The suspenders were a perfect place to display my small haul. As I came to understand, Disney World has an epic pin-trading culture. But my suspenders became an invitation the farther I got from Altadena, and when we got to Buc-ee’s for that part of the pilgrimage, people began expressing their curiosity. I began to make friends on the road with the story of the pins.

When we pulled into Disney World at around three that afternoon, I knew a couple of things. There were most assuredly alligators in that water, and I had had enough of continent-level jumps. Truckers make sitting still while crossing the continent look way more fun than it is, but we were there.

I celebrated by walking into the lobby of Gran Destino Tower at Coronado Springs, where we stayed for the next five days, singing “It’s a Small World.” The staff of Disney World was ready for me like I had written ahead, and every cast member within earshot joined in. Welcome to Disney World. I’m twelve years old, and this is the best time of my life.

We then began a perfectly curated stay with Walt. We’re from Southern California; we went to Disneyland every time a relative used us as the destination. But. Disneylandis a Disney block. Disney World is a Disney. county. Idon’t enjoy rides like I. used to, butI do enjoy eating and drinking, and our guide specified in great detail what to. do, so wedid it.

We met people in lines. whom weloved and still follow on social media. I met a lady from Australia who cursed the fire in such an entertaining way—without using one piece of profanity, but with every piece of empathy—and a Kangaroo Jane accent that made the trip west worth it.

Then we had a meal.

It was at EPCOT, in the France pavilion, at Monsieur Paul.

It was the finest eating experience I have yet experienced. First, our waitress—the young lady who curated our meal—was new and excited to participate in our experience, both willing. and able to explain whatwe were having and what to be sure to savor. We started with caviar and had all the courses of a once-in-a-lifetime French meal. We. took our time, a. such a mealrequires, and theestablishment provided nothing less.

Dessert was served with fireworks going off outside the. window. After it all, I asked if Icould tell the chef how much I had enjoyed his meal. Chef Bruno Vrignon, the chef de cuisine at Monsieur Paul, came out to meet us. He had helped lead therestaurant for years, carrying forward the legacy of Paul Bocuse, and he received my gratitude with the graciousness of. a man wh. understood exactly what the eveninghad meant.By the. time the last glass was empty, the meal hadcost about $3,000. It remains one of the finest uses of money I can remember.

We spent days in Disney World, and we had driven from sea to shining sea. We had also driven past two of Sweetie’s sisters. Although I’m an only child, I have multiple siblings, and as Disney World came to an end—and we both decided to be grown again—the desire to spend time on their porches in Georgia began to swell. I don’t remember which of us decided to go by and see them, but we decided we would.

So we went.

EvacueeDiary X: Laissez les bons temps rouler and Road Barbecue

The road out of Taos was an undiscovered country, unlike the one I knew. The mountains relaxed into plains, and I didn't have to turn the wheel so much as the horizon fell into a long drive away. We did not have a destination beyond Texas and no more motivation than Texas barbecue, so we headed that way, letting the day take us to our destination.

We began a practice we kept, and that was not being in a hurry. When we wanted to see something, we stopped; when Sweetie saw an outlet mall, we shopped. And so we went down the road into Texas. I began to become seasoned to the road: how truckers wanted to interact and how to be a reliable road partner to them. But mostly I luxuriated in the chair and listened, from my phone, to a music library that once required rooms and furniture to hold in total.

Somewhere about two hours into Texas, our only negative experience happened. A truck full of youth yelled something that rhymed with trigger and how we might get f'd, then floored the gas and drove away. I assumed they didn't like the Trojans, got back in the car, and took another bite out of Texas. Our impressions weren't formed by children's attention-seeking behavior. Instead, I was treated to something I'd never seen before: thunderstorms. Moon's navigation opened up a whole other screen and told me how we were going to change our route and angle toward Dallas, and that haste was probably appropriate. I looked at an anvil-shaped thing dominating the landscape behind me, agreed, and took it down the highway.

We didn't run into any tornadoes, and I think Moon would have shared warnings. But it rained like I'd never driven through before. Moon had high-tech wipers, and I still stopped a couple of times because it was raining too hard and I feared what other drivers could do. After a full day, we pulled up to Dallas. We had spent the last hour scouting out a barbecue joint, then went to the Marriott to eat it.

I have a policy of not criticizing food: you don't know if you're insulting someone's mother. The most critical thing I say is, “I've not learned to enjoy it.” I did not enjoy what was served to us. I'm not going to judge all Texas barbecue by the experience I had after the rainstorm drive. I'm going to say, “Hard day for the home team,” and keep it moving.

Black folks have a habit of visiting relatives for vacation. That's what both of our families did when we were children, and we almost started doing it. When we bounced out of Dallas, we started thinking of relatives to visit, and I pointed Moon toward Arkansas. As we barreled east, providence decided that we were going to skip tradition this trip in the form of another set of thunderstorms forming a wall to the east. The only thing left to do was turn straight south, through the middle of Louisiana and on to New Orleans, so we did.

We broke straight south down Highway 165, and when Moon needed a fill, we stopped at a gas station that offered barbecue almost as an afterthought. I still had a taste for it after Dallas, so I bought just a snack pack for the road. While I stood in line, a homey tried to tell me that only a few miles into town was something presentable. He offered to lead the way and sounded like I should run for Canada and freedom: follow him and he would conduct us to better barbecue.

But we were rolling, so I thanked him, took what they had to the car, and started south again. I should have known by how quiet Sweetie had become how good that barbecue was. I got barbecue and fried fish, and Sweetie had already made a naked bone or three and was crunching on something I had to have. I pulled over and savored some of the best cue I've ever had, and began to lament that I hadn't ordered dinners.

The road down the middle of Louisiana does a good job of getting you in the mood for New Orleans. It slows you down and shows you things to look for before you get there, and Sweetie and I acclimated. There were places where we stopped Moon, opened her sunroof, and listened to the bugs. The farther south we drove, the more we could hear a French accent in them. When we got out of the end of the tunnel in Opelousas, we were ready to see New Orleans with the arrogance of LA. I did eventually scream, “MUSTARD!”

We secured a stay at Chateau LeMoyne in the French Quarter, parched and ravenous in a city that enjoys serving you a cocktail and is insulted if you leave hungry. We showered, shampooed, and shined for the night, and then we went off into it.

No one who has never been to New Orleans is ready for it. It's too complex. But I was ready to study, and I primed my research with a whole lot of joy juice. I had a well-formed lady full of rocket fuel. I had a couple of cups I had to be careful with my fire around. We got higher than a giraffe's booty and danced about the city as if we owned it. Although you don't own New Orleans, they don't mind you playing in it, so we did.

I had Ella Flutesgerald in my bag, as that's where she lives since the fire, and a cup full of courage. Sweetie and I engaged a pedicab to take us to Louis Armstrong's sign. There, for the first time in my life, I took out my flute in a crowd of strangers and played “What a Wonderful World” in F major, cause I got it like that. No one threw money, but they did applaud, and I crossed something off my bucket list. Ella told me to go back to the room and practice, but y'all with a muse know how they are.

We rode back, drank some more, and had a plate of food that our ancestors got to experience as we concentrated on its flavor while listening to a homey sing jazz. I don't know what time we got back to the room, but New Orleans was all, “Oh, you were screaming MUSTARD a minute ago. Where you goin'? The party is just starting. Laissez les bons temps rouler.”

We slept our way into recovery. When we woke up, we got some beignets and sat in the shop that sold them, enjoying the coffee and the environment. I shared with Sweetie how Disney World wasn't all that far away in the direction we were moving. She told me how fun it was and how I had never been. We should go, she said, so we went.

Come spar at the dojo.