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Odyssey -- Epilogue

So, we've settled into a nice place in Temescal, Pockets and I--just down the street from Bakesale Betty and Lanesplitter, so if I get all choked up about Brooklyn, I can saunter down there, eat a ginger cookie or a slice, and surround myself in the emitted warmth of the patrons' Saucony kicks, rectangular glasses, and old-timey bicycles. Otherwise, not much to report. Pockets has begun work, while I sink further into an Al-Bundy-like void of ambition. Three weeks hence I am to report to my job, I'm told.

I share the place with an unruly and extended family of unpacked boxes. Also, we're still perplexed by this whole you-have-to-pay-for-garbage thing--garbage, mind you, that's removed once a week.

We bought a mattress. I'd never considered the economics of mattresses before, but wtf, those things ain't cheap. I mean maybe I'm some sort of naif, but after my car and my computer, that's the most expensive thing I own right now. On the plus side, who knew that having a dishwasher could make you feel like an adult? Oh, and E, jeanmeanie, anonymous in India, jbell, others, we've got an extra bedroom, so when're you visiting?

Odyssey -- Conclusion

4896 miles and 20 days later, we've arrived. We (that is to say, I) thought about swinging by the Las Vegas courthouse earlier today to check in on OJ, but the appeal of so doing was lost on Pockets.

As we exited our hotel, I told her we should each do one last spin on the slot machines. My one dollar crank yielded a ten-fold return--a good omen, but her luck was sour, sadly. I cashed out and we got in the car. Even the irksome check engine light decided not to follow us to California. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas indeed. Yet another good omen.

We drove. Bugsy Siegel's desert dream gave way to farm country, which then gave way to hills, then to the lights by the Bay. Tonight it's sleep, and tomorrow it's staving off the very real possibility of homelessness--apartment hunting, an odyssey in its own right. More on this later. In the meantime, enjoy my provocative song choices:

LCD Soundsystem -- New York I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down.mp3
Journey -- When the Lights Go Down in the City.mp3

Odyssey -- Part VI

So, things are wrapping up for me and Pockets. It's very late on Friday night, and I'm bringing disgrace to Las Vegas' famous maxim by blogging from the 51st floor of some hotel on the Strip. Reflected in the mirror, through the window behind me, is the Bellagio, which Brad Pitt and George Clooney once so handsomely robbed--in the distance, behind it, the Palms, site of Britney's crime against humanity. We came for the spectacle, but the spectacle, and the $20 unagi-avocado rolls have gotten the better of us, so we're holed up in our hotel room, catching up on some sleep.

The last couple of days we were in the Grand Canyon. Miraculously, yesterday we rousted quite early and set off for a hike in the South Rim. The Grand Canyon's a strange place, not the least because it exceeds your expectations in this God-affirming sort of way. I think we took a hundred pictures, mostly because we couldn't get over the sight. Today, before heading out of there, Pockets and I stood on one of the lookout points and gazed out at one of the jutting ridges. An elderly Korean couple had ventured out onto the ledge. The woman was dangling her feet over thousands of feet of nothingness, and the man sang a plaintive Korean song into the echoing void. It was strange and beautiful. After they left, we conjured up some strength and climbed down to the same ledge, but Pockets' flip-flops and my neuroses precluded us from making it as far as that old couple. How old have we become?

The day before we spent in Tucson. Not much to report from there except that if you miss the exit for downtown, God help you. We walked around campus a bit, and I looked for someone to talk basketball with, but all we encountered were a few interesting bugs and some sun-burnt sorority girls whose scales had never tipped into the triple digits.

But don't be bored, dear reader, because the day before was a doozy We spent the night in El Paso, and I thought it wouldn't be a half-bad idea to venture into Mexico. We parked our car and took the Bridge over to Juarez. Pockets bought the molcajete she'd been talking about for months, and I thought long and hard about buying a lucha libre mask. Juarez itself is pretty typical border-town I suppose, but both Pockets and I couldn't get over how much it reminded us of Pakistan, and how much--in a strange and nostalgic way--we liked it. After a couple of hours, we collected our purchases and made our way back over the Bridge to the land of dripping honey, flowing milk. Pockets made some joke in the line--the obvious one about our heritage, my unkempt beard, and I snapped at her unkindly. It was in the back of my mind. It was there, but I had been downplaying it. Here we were, making our way back over the border, on September the 11th.

Now, I had insisted that we take our passports with us. You don't have to take your passport with you--that's the official rule, but the last two times I've crossed back into the country from Canada, I've been asked for it, so I know not to take chances. I know official rules don't apply to everyone. Pockets and I waited in the line with your odd tourist and loads of day laborers. Each flashed his or her driver's license and was sent along--literally, no questions asked. When our turn came up, we offered our driver's licenses, and the border agent started to look them up and down with some vigor I hadn't seen before. Pockets then told her we had our passports too, and she said, "Oh, yeah. If you have your passports, that'd be better."

She looked over Pockets' and looked over mine: Visa from the Republic of Pakistan. Visa from the Kingdom of Jordan. I knew the drill. She got up out of her seat and asked us to follow her into the office. We did as we were told. What followed was interesting. She sat us down, in a room with a Mexican guy with his ear bashed in and his hands in cuffs, and took our passports to a colleague. Loudlly, they discussed a "discrepancy" in Pockets' passport. That's the diversion. Another border agent showed up, and looked over the passport too. A female agent took Pockets to a side room, patted her down, and had her count the money in her purse, before dismissing her. But I waited--with the cauliflower ears guy and another guy in wrist-and-ankle shackles. The border guy tried to make "small talk" with me, as he was trained to, and I knew there was nothing wrong with Pockets' papers.

"So, what line of work are you in?...Oh, you're a lawyer. Where'd you go to school?"

I gave flat, informative answers: "I'm going to be an attorney. I just graduated from the University of Michigan Law School." He smiled and nodded. Another border agent--yes, a fourth agent--came up, and asked, "What nationality?," and the original agent stared daggers at him for his faux pas and made a big show of saying, "American. See?," while shoving our passports in his face. That made me laugh a little. It was for my benefit. Heaven forfend I begin to think I'd been racially profiled.

A fifth agent--a bit older--then appeared. He was unnaturally friendly. He explained to me that there were new rules and regulations, and that anyone in the "secure area" had to be patted down in a private cell, and then I said it. I couldn't help it. I tried to bite my tongue, but I just couldn't. I stood up and I said, "Don't worry about it. I know the drill." It bothered him. I could tell. He was just doing his job. He was being perfectly nice. I wasn't supposed to draw any attention to what was going on, but there--big mouth and all--I had. He stayed quiet for a few minutes as he led me into the cell by the back wall. I put down the post cards I had bought and Pockets' molcajete, and I put by hands against the wall, and I pressed my forehead against the cinderblocks. I spread my legs apart before he told me too. I wasn't kidding. I know the drill. He did his pat down, and continued with the small talk:

-What kind of lawyer are you going to be?
-I'm going to be a first year litigation associate with a law firm in San Francisco. I graduated in May, and will begin work in October.
-Oh, great, great...Where'd you go to college?
-I went to Duke University in North Carolina. I graduated in 2000 with a degree in Political Science and English.
He had to confirm I went to Duke, so...--You didn't play lacrosse, hunh?
-No, sir, I didn't. I believe there's a lot wrong with the lacrosse team, but Nifong should be punished for the various ways in which he overstepped.
He had to confirm I went to Michigan, so...What's up with your football team?
-Well, honestly, while the loss to Appalachian State was devastating and the loss to Oregon embarrassing, if you've been following the team for the last few years, you'd see that Michigan is slow on defense and the coaching staff is rooted in an antiquated style of play. We've lost every bowl game in the last four years, and will continue to get annihilated by the likes of Ohio State, unless Carr resigns.

The frisk ended. I was led back into the main room. A few more questions about my parents, where I went to high school, when I got married, what kind of work Pockets does, etc. Then...Hey you're a lawyer, let me give you this questionnaire.

I was sent on my way, and while part of me felt sad for our country--after all, four border patrol agents spent 20 minutes this past September 11th dealing with me and not with the various threats our country actually faces--I thought to myself, goddamn, it's good to be reminded who you are and who you're never ever going to be.

Odyssey -- Part V

Alabama wasn't a total loss. We stayed the night in Mobile, and though initially my queries of the front desk were met with some confusion ("So, where is the cool part of town where stuff is happening?") we did manage to score a lead on a nice little seafood spot overlooking the Gulf. From there we continued our westward cruise on I-10, detouring onto 90 near Biloxi. We got caught in a very isolated tropical storm. As soon as we crossed into Gulfport, the rains stopped. I tried to keep my eyes peeled for Trent Lott's house, but couldn't find it. There were a lot of posh new condos and homes, next to foundation blocks with addresses painted on them--all amidst trees with branches torn off. Some of the piers out into the Gulf are still pretty damaged, but that federal money sure is being spent. You can tell.

After a while, Mississippi gave way to New Orleans. We stayed with our friend Marcia right in the heart of the French Quarter, which, of course, was spared by the storm and, more important, by the flooding waters from the Lake. But things are different there nonetheless; a muted energy. Pockets and I did our best to inject some funds into the local economy; we took a haunted history tour, the same one I took right before the storm--with twenty other tourists. But this time around Pockets and I were the only ones who showed up. Pretty much the same result when we went out to the bayou in Slidell to look at gators: just me, Pockets, and some lady from Seattle. This is just anecdotal evidence, but the state of tourism in New Orleans and surrounding parts seems pretty grim.

We struggled with the idea of being poverty/catastrophe tourists, but in the end the curiosity was too much. We took a drive through the Lower 9th, with a couple of friends who moved back to the city after the storm. Most of the clutter's been removed, and a furious nature has taken its course--weeds and shrubbery have spread across an expanse of land that used to have homes. Empty blocks in the middle of the city, with the levee walls looming in the back. Hand-painted street signs remain, as do the rescue markings on the fronts of houses. Seeing it on TV is one thing, but it really hits home when you look at the water marks on the old houses that are still standing.

As a total outsider, there's little I can say about the pace of redevelopment in the city, and while you can tell there's something lost in New Orleans, the people--from what I remember--remain the same.

Odyssey -- Part IV

So, Alabama on a Sunday? Not a good plan. Most everything was closed, and what wasn't didn't make for too edifying an experience. From Atlanta we headed west. Pretty soon into our drive the skies opened up, and we pulled over to check out the Tuskegee Airmen national historic site. A National Parks ranger was really excited to see us, and made sure we watched the informative video, but a trailer next to an airfield doesn't exactly capture the momentousness of the Airmen's accomplishments. From there, we went to the Tuskegee Institute itself (now Tuskegee University), where more friendly Parks rangers greeted us. Not much for us there. Booker T's house was closed, and the George Washington Carver Museum wasn't much more than a room, with pictures of him looking into beakers.

Next came Montgomery, where we saw literally three people: one more park ranger, and two other tourists. We went to Maya Lin's Civil Rights Memorial, and MLK's church, and then we blazed out of town.

From there the drive down to Mobile was interesting only because we stopped at a Stuckey's gas station, and took the picture above. Who says southern culture's on the skids?

Odyssey -- Part III

So, I guess it was the right time to get the hell out of Ann Arbor. While 110,000 wept in the Big House we were oblivious, touring the Carter Library and Museum and considering the state of Atlanta hipsters. Tomorrow it's Tuskegee, Montgomery, and Mobile. I'm a fast talking, beleathered Lawyer-Brooklynite; Pockets is my sassy, sexy, big-haired sidekick. Hilarity surely will ensue.

Odyssey -- Part II

Well, E, you know I'm not about to come to Atlanta without calling on Usher, but it turns out my boy's warmed those cold feet, and plans to go through for real with his wedding this weekend. So, unless Pockets and I crash it, we're not kicking it with him, and we're not kicking it with VIP guest Jermaine Dupri either (Are these pictures from the rehearsal dinner?). Anyway, it's all very sad that all the heroes of the Dirty Dirty will be otherwise occupied. I'll just drown my sorrows in Coca-Cola tomorrow.

Anyway, not much to report from Atlanta thus far. Pockets read the previous blog post and said, "What if nothing interesting happens on our trip and you keep posting boring stuff like that?" Then we went to load the car, and found it infested with ants. They crawled through the passenger door, the driver side door, and they were all over the engine and had colonized the car battery. Now, that's excitement, right?

Odyssey -- Part I

So, on Wednesday Pockets and I lit a trail out of DC. Our goal--loosely defined-- is to arrive in the Bay Area on September 14th. Most of our journey so far has been southwards. Yesterday, we were in Durham, which post-rape-scandal has become a heavily policed town. Make of that what you will. We walked around campus a little, which wasn't too nostalgic an experience for me because there's been so much construction since I left the place looks pretty different. Freshmen walked around dazed, douchey law students chatted into cell phones, picking at their neck-ties, in between their on-campus interviews. We looked up my thesis in the library, took some photographs in Cameron, I pointed out where Dawson's Creek scenes were filmed, and then we blazed out of there.

Now, we're in Augusta, home of some golf tournament and James Brown--whose statue (pictured) stands on Broad Street across from the Augusta Commons. This weekend we're in the ATL, where I plan to kick it with Andre 3000 and Jermaine Dupri.