Day 21: Galveston, Oh Galveston!

No, before you ask, the Glen Campbell song isn’t why I came to Galveston last night – it was mostly because of the price of hotels in Houston. Anyway, today I got up pretty late after an uncertain night’s sleep (as in I’m not sure if I slept properly or not). A little dazed and confused, I was now faced with what’s become a bit of a morning chore – trying to get out of the hotel before check out time. In the early few days of the trip I was really good at getting up early, but to be honest, in recent days a spate of late evening arrivals to hotels leads to an inevitable sleep in come morning time. It’s a vicious cycle I’m hoping to break tomorrow (more on that later). So upon checking out of the hotel (which was quite OK for the money and location) I walked to the Malibu with my haul of ice for the cooler and felt a warm, humid breeze on my skin. After neglecting to put suncream on yesterday, I figured I might as well do so this morning or face another evening of driving at 70mph with my arm out the window trying to cool it!

Google threw up some funny results when I checked for a breakfast joint, but to be honest I didn’t hold out much hope for a place like Galveston – despite not evening checking the place out, I’d kinda figured out what it was about just from the sounds and smells. I took to the promenade and drove a little toward the more built-up end, parked by the shore and decided to walk for a while. It was nice to be honest, looking out on the Gulf of Mexico at the far off oil drilling platforms and container ships. The sun was beating down on my skull and the sea air blew in from the south. What spoils it really however is Galveston itself. I’m sure in the early to mid 1990s, Galveston was THE place to be on the Gulf Coast. Today however, ravaged by a handful of pretty fierce storms and a complete and total lack of investment (beginning to see a pattern here) and the changed economy preferring different types of US vacations, Galveston is a run-down, derelict, unkempt and rather filthy town. The ‘Seawall Boulevard’ resembles something closer to a forgotten 1970s road deck with crumbling sea-wall defences, a litter-strewn beach and some private beaches which have been destroyed by badly thought out semi-permanent structures. The tacky tourist-shops (those that are still open that is) are stuck in a different time warp, and the closed down restaurants and bars just give the place a desperate appeal. Seriously though, a million dollars would go far here – a few guys with bulldozers and earth movers and you’ve got a good shot at clearing up the joint.

Taking a cue from Google again, I decided to head to the oddly-named ‘Mosquito Café’ in search of breakfast. Driving up through some of the Galveston neighbourhoods, I could see lots of people on balconies and decks – and this was a Thursday morning. It made me wonder if most were on vacation in mid September or unemployed rich people. Pulling up at the Mosquito, I found on-street parking and went inside to the cool and very quiet café. This is one of those ‘line up and pay up’ deals, where food is brought to the table with your number – I’m not really into this, mostly because it kinda screams “we have too many walk-outs” which begs the question, why?! Anyway, after getting to the counter with a vague idea of which of the strange menu items I was going to have, I was rather rudely and unprofessionally let in on an inside secret that breakfast is only served on random days (I think she said Wednesday, Friday and Saturday) and that even if it was being served ‘today’ it was quote “already after 11”, whatever that means. She sorta pushed a menu in my direction and glanced down to check her iPhone tucked in behind the till before moving on to the next person, so I just left. This is a trend I’ve started to notice since leaving California and the West coast states – the standard of service and courtesy has kinda evaporated. In the economy you hear about every day on television and read about online, you’d be forgiven for thinking that people with jobs should be glad to have them, but most of the people I’ve met in hospitality lately in Texas have been rude. Even in Arizona, a state I can’t quite make my mind up on whether or not I like it (Google Joe Arpaio), the service was better but likewise in Nevada it was so-so. But so far Texas has taken the biscuit in terms of poor service, in Austin, Dallas and now Galveston. I’m not sure what it is really to be honest, especially when it’s pretty obvious I’m a tourist which could potentially mean I would tip well and spend well too – and I’m on my own which would also – you would hope – make people more welcoming. I dunno, but to be honest, I’m not “feelin’ it” these past few days.

Angry with myself for not saying anything to her or her manager about her behaviour, I was more or less finished with Galveston but knew that the road to New Orleans was long and I’d better eat something as I didn’t really intend stopping until I got to New Orleans, some 6 hours away. So reluctantly I decided to go into Dennys. Most people know the chain, and I’ve eaten here many times in the past, but so far only once on this trip and even then I wasn’t ‘amazed’. I ordered a breakfast from their somewhat disgusting menu (I’ll never understand the fascination with putting cheese on everything in America – and not even real cheese, it’s that disgusting gloopy cheese substitute stuff). I ordered the eggs as I normally do – sunny side up. What I got however were practically raw eggs brought on by too much heat when cooking – they were inedible. The english muffins too had been browned on the same grill and coated in what I suspect was liquid margarine and also tasted revolting. What was left was a leathery piece of grilled ham, two shrivelled up bacon and two pancakes. Reluctantly I ate what I could and then took a pencil to order a milkshake to go (I made my own using their in-house slip, adding chocolate with fresh banana and chocolate syrup, calling it “Chocolate Bantastic”) paid and tipped the waitress and let myself out once she brought out the Bantastic. Maybe it’s because I’m Irish and we’re brought up to respect authority to their face and vilify them afterward, but I can’t bring myself to complain about bad service. I know that in return, people don’t get feedback and the problems never get resolved that way, but it’s just my nature to not be a prick to someone’s face – despite it being the true expression of feelings (unless under the rare circumstances of being drunk – then I might tell you what I really think – in detail!).

So after a pretty shit morning all things considered, and the first one so far to be honest, I decided to get outta Galveston and head east to NOLA, New Orleans Louisiana. After being directed to ‘drive 1 mile and board ferry’ by the GPS, I boarded the Galveson – Bolivar ferry and took a few minutes to get some sun on the upper deck while watching people feverishly feed sea gulls “Cheetos” which I’m sure the sea gulls will regret later when they poop orange stuff. I also spotted some dolphins and marvelled at how some of the Americans couldn’t identify seagulls as seagulls! Disembarking onto the Bolivar peninsula I drove a long straight road up through a strange place. It’s a bit like Achill island (though far less shit) but also a bit like what you’d imagine Galveston started out as; a slew of holiday homes for the semi-wealthy intersected with occasional elderly fishermen both trying to catch fish and tourists with their bait shops. There were also a few lumber yards and the odd Lowe’s truck so you had to have some confidence that the place was being invested in. Pretty much all of the homes were built on stilts however so you knew there were reasons for that, predominately the strong risk of flooding from on-shore storms in the Gulf, and presumably to gain a better view onto the sea front. Still though, it’s strange to see a house on stilts 12-15 feet tall. I pulled in onto what looked like a vacant lot for a few minutes to compose the blog I’d neglected to write earlier due to my race to beat the check-out time. It’s nice to think that with the MiFi and where technology is right now, that I can do that; pull in on the side of the road in a coastal area in the heat and sunshine and write a blog and upload photographs to share with the world. The days of needing an “office” are truly changed forever.

The road to New Orleans however is a long and straight one. Much of the State of Louisiana in the southern areas is marsh and swamp land or Bayou areas. Consequently, the roads are few and far between, and the one I needed to take, Interstate 10 East, remained an elevated road most of the time. As with all Interstates, it’s a long and boring road with only the occasional clever advertising board calling your attention from the mundane task of catching up to a truck, signalling to overtake, going back into line in front of him and then cursing the prick driving the truck behind the truck you just passed for overtaking you and him at the same time. There is a small contingent of truckers who do make driving in the US a complete nightmare, for a variety of reasons, mostly though their flagrant disregard for public safety by overtaking at slow speeds, snaking, tailing and lane hogging. This is true of car drivers too, however 18-wheelers are a beast on any road and should not be used as a tool of wanton aggression. Though I must also observe that a large contingent of men who buy flat-bed pick up trucks that seem to only serve as a compensation for a possibly small manhood (I’m not talking about small flat-beds, more the wide double-wide Silverado and spotlessly clean Ford F250s) who just act the total asshole on the road.

Getting nearer to New Orleans, after crossing numerous beautiful humpback bridges, I took a shot in the dark at Googling a BBQ joint, and one came up trumps called, yeah you couldn’t write this, “The Joint”. A few taps on the GPS and I was all set, and after negotiating the myriad of ramps and “keep left then right” instructions, I found myself deep in the heart of east New Orleans. It’s funny, I only saw one piece of hurricane damaged property on the way in (bear in mind it’s dark and I’m focussed on driving) but going through these narrow streets looking at poorly-maintained properties in neighbourhoods I can only conclude lie very close to the poverty line (under or above) I was struck by how bad the area was and wondered if it was storm-related damage or more likely, the damage of an ailing local economy over the past 10 years that has lent itself to yet more malaise and malcontent and a lack of pride in one’s neighbourhood. One thing I have noticed throughout my trip has been the prevalence of American flags flying in more well-to-do neighbourhoods, but there were no flags here. The odd corner was marked by a small convenience store or watering hole, the rest were marked with working-class vehicles and patchy reconstruction. The GPS lead me astray however, not really its fault though. After checking online to find “The Joint” had moved recently, I was shortly parked outside and standing in line to order. I just got a combo plate to sample the fare and enjoyed it thoroughly. Although it’s no Bobby Q’s, the meat did fall off the rib bone and the chicken, though slightly overcooked, was nice too. I gave an allowance for the fact they were closing at 10pm and I didn’t push through the door until 9.15 so I guess the food was only relatively fresh. I’ve no doubt though but that at the right time of day, this place would be great.

Full of yet more pork, I went westward through the streets toward the hotel. After finding online that I should get some on-street parking as opposed to using the valet at $32 + tax, I pulled in on a quiet street and walked to the hotel. After pulling on the wrong door for a while (without anyone from the right door figuring out my mistake and coming to my aid) I eventually got checked in by a semi-interested woman – Louisiana was so far not lighting up my tree in terms of service. I got into the room and though small, it’s quite nice and given I’ve met my target of under €60 for the night I was happy. After such a relatively long day, it took a lot to get me to get out and explore, but I did. Obviously everyone who comes here has to walk along the magical wonder that is Bourbon Street, and I was no different. After walking through some of the prettier streets in the French Quarter which really do feel like one of the northern arrondissements of Paris, I turned onto Bourboun Street and the madness and proceeded to walk the length of it. It struck me as odd though that on the street named after a wealthy French family, in the heart of a city named for its French counterpart ‘Orléans’, it was the Irish pub “Pat O’s” that people wanted to get to – and around the corner from Pat O’s was Molly’s, another Irish pub. I’m refusing to go into these places to avoid the cliché, but in Molly’s case this was less of a difficulty, as they had chalked down a drink called the “Irish Car Bomb” under a ‘Newcastle Ales’ sign which both offended and perplexed me – and I’m not easily offended. Just a bit too close to the bone.

Anyway after all that excitmement, I went back to the hotel after donating $4 to a guy who approached me for $3.25 which ticked the box for my good deed for the day. At the hotel I stopped into the bar and asked a rather rude and disinterested bartender who didn’t look like he was still working if I could get a beer. The response of “could you be more specific” pushed me to want to respond “hold the fucking attitude and get me a beer”, but biting my Irish tongue (gift of the gab or what!) I just asked for a Corona and parted with another $4 and went upstairs. That’s my lot. I do have to get up early in the morning to put a ticket on the car before 8am so that should help get started early. Night night!