Changing your mind

The only difference between a rut and a grave is their dimensions. ~Ellen Glasgow

I’ve always wanted to visit New Orleans, and this trip seemed finally to offer that opportunity. Unfortunately, we changed our minds. Somewhere just north of Atlanta we realized we needed to be in Tucson within 2 days, and that’s a long, long way to go. 1,736.2 miles according to Yahoo Maps: 25 hours and 14 minutes of drive time. To get ready, we stopped at Polly’s college roommates house north of Atlanta and drank some of their fine scotch.

Levy celebrates Atlanta as a triumph of capitalism over racism, a “showcase of peaceful desegregation” (Levy, p.159), a city successful in elevating blacks into every nook and cranny of power where the mayor proclaims Atlanta “Too busy to hate”. Then he wonders, considering the enormous crimes perpetrated against blacks, if it isn’t a façade or willed forgetfulness, a decision not to bear witness. Our brief stop in the northern suburbs, where we actually see no blacks at all, begs the question “desegregation”?

So we changed our minds about visiting New Orleans.

I used to equate “changing my mind” with “failure”, but this led to a number of corollaries with disastrous implications. For example, on bicycle trips it became impermissible to ever retrace steps. This led to some fine(?) adventures in sodden farm fields, but also compounded navigational errors. In renovating condominiums, it became impermissible to sell before the renovation was complete. I learned some fascinating woodworking techniques, but the venture resulted in marital and financial toast. Now “changing my mind” gets filed with “breaking out of a rut” and/or “improved understanding”, and I work a lot harder at improving my understanding before making up my mind.

Anyway, while visiting New Orleans offered a textbook example of grappling with my current obsessing on “change”, going there seemed rather akin to shamelessly examining a car wreck or a cripple: we weren’t coming to help, we weren’t going to spend much money, and we weren’t staying long enough to achieve any real understanding.

Route 20 headed west

Bridge over the Mississippi River

Mississippi River

Route 20 Rest Area

We headed west on the I-20 instead of south to the I-10, across Georgia and Alabama and Louisiana, crossing the Mississippi river and managing 800 miles before calling it a night in Dallas, Texas.

Jim's BBQ and Catfish

As we left Louisiana, at the first Texas exit, an exit numbered a daunting 600 something to give you just a little taste of the miles to come, with hunger etching little curlicues in our stomach linings, off to the right stood a tall pole announcing "Jim's B-B-Q (and Catfish)", and how could we possibly resist?

Jim's BBQ and Catfish

The appearance evoked more authenticity than it inspired confidence, but we entered anyway and the staff and customers were terrific and funny (Polly almost backed our car through their plate glass and into the booth with the owner), and the food...the food...that was some incredibly delicious beef barbeque.

Jim's BBQ and Catfish

Changing your mind

Atlanta, United States