The Biggest Private Beach in Louisiana

The place used to host over twenty thousand holidaymakers every summer season. This year, it boasts little more than empty beaches spanning to the horizon and sand of a somewhat unnatural color. Why the situation has changed so drastically and who the culprit is can be easily learned as soon as one crosses the bridge conjoining mainland with Grand Isle. In the front yard, one of the residents posted signs featuring SpongeBob characters. ‘Seriously … when can we go back in the water,’ asks one of them. ‘Thanks BP,’ satirizes another.

Grand Isle is an 8-mile-long strip of land stretching between Louisiana and the Gulf of Mexico. It is connected to the mainland via a causeway bridge which caught fired last year and had to be replaced with a new one. The island is notorious for its hurricane attacks history. In August 2005, it was severely affected by hurricane Katrina which destroyed numerous houses along the coast (this is the location of all dwellings on Grand Isle). This year, residents were not affected by a natural force. Instead, they had to suffer the implications of a man-made disaster. The oil spill reached the shores of Grand Isle, depriving numerous inhabitants of their main income source (fishing, catching crabs, shrimps, etc.) and scaring tourists off the beach. That meant a substantial drop in the revenue for motel and restaurant owners. On the other hand, I feel compelled to mention that lodging was strongly overpriced and totally not on par with the quality offered.

Currently, only one zone of the beach is open and it is supposedly safe to bathe there. Rumor has it that Barack Obama visited Grand Isle to take a bath in the gulf and prove that it was already risk-free to do so. Hard to say how successful his demonstration was. After all, he entered the water black and left it having exactly the same skin color. No oil could be seen on his body. I decided to check it for myself and since my body hasn’t gone black I have to say there is indeed no danger looming in that part of the shore. However, it doesn’t necessarily mean that tourists are storming Grand Isle again. We spent half a day there and didn’t meet anyone except for three middle-aged women, one of whom was a permanent resident of the island. Talking to them gave us some first-hand insight into the problems faced by the inhabitants. It turns out insurance companies make use of similar strategies regardless of which country they are located in. In the post-Katrina period, they were clinging onto all excuses imaginable to pay the victims as little as possible. Additionally, there are underlying racial tensions in the local community. If anybody seriously thinks that ethnic aversions are a thing of the past, they should head southwards and talk to the locals. We heard people complaining about the fact that there are too many African Americans who don’t even try to get a job, live off government grants and receive free grocery shopping coupons. It is not my intention to discuss the credibility of such statements here, yet they definitely show that racial symbiosis is still little more than a utopian term in this country.

The previously mentioned women approached us while we were taking a bath and scrutinizing whether our bodies hadn’t already become somewhat brownish. They were probably excited to see some fresh meat, young gigolos displaying their muscles and abs. We touched upon dozens of topics, ranging from Grand Isle everyday existence struggles to family stories. They have been through a lot in life but garnered enough strength to overcome tragedies and keep on going. Best regards to you ladies if you ever get to read that. It’s a bummer we couldn’t join you for that dinner; I’m sure it would have turned into the wildest party Grand Isle has seen in years.

Texas Is Watching You

‘The eyes of Texas are upon you,’ says a sign one encounters upon crossing the state’s border. Sounds quite intimidating, particularly given the fact that whatever the place, you get overwhelmed by an infinite number of signs informing about all bans man has ever come up with. No loitering, no public display of alcoholic beverages, no walking off the sidewalk, no playing in the dumpster. Texas has also put up a strong front against DUI. However, it needs to be noted that, in similar fashion to many other states, Texan law allows drivers to have 0.08 blood alcohol content. Compared with the equivalent Polish regulation, that looks very benevolent, of which I frequently take advantage. Rules might exist but their enforcement is a thoroughly different story, especially if you are a European tourist travelling across this country. Within two days, we had 4 encounters with the police. The ‘offences’ included stopping on shoulder to take pics, speeding and neglecting to use winkers. The story of Europeans taking a journey into the unknown must be so appealing and touching that every time, instead of being given a ticket, we only strike up some small talk about our adventures.

One police encounter was caused by a different reason, though. We stopped next to a high school, having mistaken it for a supermarket (it really looked like one). Obviously, there was little chance of doing any shopping but since we had been travelling for quite a long time, it was a good moment to take a brief pause. No sooner had a couple minutes passed than two police cars drew up. They had been alarmed by the guards looking at the security cameras outside the school building and seeing that there were some guys, potentially drug dealers, hanging out close to the entrance. The police officers ended up laughing heavily as soon as they found out the actual reason behind our presence. That situation left me ruminating over two issues:
1) The point of using CCTV. On the one hand, it is supposed to prevent crimes and help capture offenders. On the other, it is very difficult, verging on impossible, to draw a line between protection and excessive interference into citizens’ lives. The police should find it easier to identify certain criminals but will also be forced to waste a lot of time attending to unjustified calls.
2) To what lengths should schools go to eradicate the drug abuse problem? They have to do something because otherwise parents would lay all the blame on them. Most high-schoolers, however, use this time of their life to experiment with what is considered illegal. It is rooted in human nature and schools will never be capable of fully resolving this matter. They might even install airport-style gates at the entrance but teenagers will be getting the drugs their want after school hours. If they want to try, nothing will stop them.

Texan police officers are great but there was another highlight of our journey through this state. For the first time, we saw what I deem to be an essentially American landscape. If the American South struck us with its extent of uninhabited land, Texas did the same much more powerfully. There is no longer an exit leading to a town with a full array of services every few minutes. GPS shows that the closest gas station or restaurant is located within 40-50 miles. The distance between towns is large enough to feel that one travels across a no man’s land, a red and yellow prairie, with occasional green bushes. Upon turning into a smaller county road, we came face-to-face with a group of brave cows which were very reluctant to move off the street and let us pass. It took a lot of hooting before they eventually surrendered.

Southern Charm; or Lack Thereof

‘Anything that comes out of the South is going to be called grotesque by the northern reader, unless it is grotesque, in which case it is going to be called realistic.’ Flannery O’Connor

When I was learning about the concept of Gothic space in the literature of the American South, I thought it was easy to imagine how such vast spaces could contribute to the sense of fright and obscurity. But it wasn’t until I actually saw them that I realized what partially served as an inspiration to William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, Thomas Wolfe and many others. We were driving for what seemed like forever along miles of cornfields without being passed by any other car. Every now and then, a typical southern-style mansion emerged on the horizon, surrounded by boundless stretches of land. We arrived at a state park in Tennessee and intended on spending a night there. The entrance to the inn was barred with iron chains, while the adjacent campground featured nothing more than empty sites. The only inhabitants of that ghost park were three stray dogs wandering aimlessly among the trees. There was a scenic lake nearby, full of exotic-looking trees, with a shore which suggested that it could be a perfect habitat for alligators. Feeling astonished and somewhat uneasy at this absolute lack of human presence traces, we left the place in search of a better lodging. It took another long drive down empty roads and next to limitless fields before we reached a town with a motel to spend the night in.

Southern towns, with their slow living pace, sun-beaten streets and relative homogeneity, evoke the ideas of colonial times gone by. They create an impression as though time had stopped flying and people were indifferently stuck in a moment, reluctant to take a step forward. That was a huge transition from the rush dominating the streets and corners of NY or Chicago. Whereas people may relish undisturbed everyday existence, enterprises certainly don’t. I needed to get some gas and stopped at a station just to find out that it had gone bust. It was in Cairo, a place located at the intersection of three states – Illinois, Kentucky and Missouri. One could think that this sort of business can’t be doomed to failure and is bound to thrive, yet in southern states, there were numerous stations which had gone out of business. Nozzles lying chaotically on the ground significantly contributed to the visions of derelict and undeveloped ghost towns.

That people speak different accents depending on a state should not strike anyone as a surprise. What I found shocking, though, was that we met someone whose manner of uttering English phrases made me reconsider my language comprehension skills:D While chilling around Lake Grenada in Mississippi, we were approached by a middle-aged Arkansas native who brought what Jeff refers to as ‘southern drawl’ to an entirely new level. The language he spoke could only vaguely be defined as English. In fact, it resembled a mix of mumbling and unidentified sounds produced at the back of one’s throat without any tongue movement. It took me quite some time to get over the initial shock and begin to fully understand what the newly-met redneck wished to communicate. And since he was obviously looking for some company, the conversation was far from brief. Although I was only obscurely interested in keeping it going, there was definitely one advantage to it. Talking to simple people frequently gives a hands-on insight into the habits and everyday lifestyle of a community. We found out that redneck southerners liked carrying hunting rifles around and shooting animals, including creatures as harmless as possums. Within over 40 years of his life, the guy has seen only 3 states. His idea of Switzerland was based on an area located in Arkansas, which he called ‘Little Switzerland.’ However, he admitted that the place didn’t look as awe-inspiring as that small European country he used to see pictures of while learning Geography at school as a little boy.

Chicago Party Room

We entered Chicago late evening to avoid heavy traffic and couldn’t help noticing, yet again, that everything about the US was XXL, not only 30% of the population. The area surrounding the city is jammed with numberless roads, exits and bridges leading towards various destinations and making it virtually impossible to realize where exactly one is headed. Had it not been for our Chaquida, we would have wasted hours figuring out which ways to take.

In Chicago, we were supposed to meet our next host. Not only did Brian turn out to be a great conversation-maker but he also did an awesome job making sure that the short stay would be an unforgettable one even though we successfully thwarted part of his efforts by spending far too much time purchasing a motorcycle u-lock and getting a flat tire. The latter was not much of our fault, though. Apparently, those who were preparing the architectural designs of Chicago road system, including curbs, did not take into account how many baffled tourists would be driving through the city. However, residents don’t appear to be any better. I don’t think they ever teach parking skills during driving courses here. Instructors probably assume that their students will never manage to find a spot to park in the city, anyway; if they do, it will be a privately-owned parking lot with exorbitant prices but relatively wide spaces. The ‘yield’ sign is frequently disregarded, as well. When you travel along the most attended streets downtown, it looks as though you had been miraculously carried into a third-world war country where traffic rules are non-existent and everyone feels free to do whatever they wish. If anybody complains about congestion, there’s an extremely easy way to resolve the problem. There are so many crappy drivers in this city that taking away their licenses for life would be both justifiable and beneficial for Chicago’s traffic.

I wouldn’t have complained about all the minor problems we needed to cope with (incl. a flat tire and a parking ticket) if I had known what a marvelous ending to that 2-day Chicago adventure was in store for us. Brian decided we should meet his friend, Debbie, who has a cool sense of style, a thing for Apple products and a generous hand when it comes to pouring vodka. We met Debbie in her apartment at the 58th floor of a condo in downtown Chicago. The view was absolutely overwhelming. Imagine waking up and seeing innumerable roofs of nearly all the surrounding skyscrapers. We also got a chance to visit the 60th floor which features a party room for the residents. That’s one of the best party-places known to man but it’s not advisable to approach the balcony barriers too close once you’ve consumed Debbie’s drinks. You might feel a sudden urge to leap across the fence in order to land on a roof of another building. In all likelihood, that would be your last jump on this planet.

Debbie and Brian wanted to take us to a typically American bar/restaurant for dinner although they admitted it was hard to pinpoint what the ‘American food’ phrase actually pertained to. We hit Miller’s Pub, which indeed looked very much US-style in spite of boasting some British and Irish elements, as well. Eventually, instead of going along with burgers or Canadian baby-back ribs, we opted for some Jamaican and Italian staff. And this is the best moment to mention the quality of customer service. I was blown away to see the involvement of the waitress who was serving us that night. She was cheerful, entertaining and didn’t have that ‘I hate my job’ expression you frequently encounter on the faces of people working in the catering industry. It seemed as if she had loved every aspect of her work even though she probably didn’t. Once the dinner was over, we headed back to Debbie’s apartment to enjoy the panorama of Chicago by night, for a change. It made an even greater impression that it did in daylight. Having seen that striking view, I felt ready to hit the road again.

Roads Less Travelled by

We traded the coziness and idleness of our Wisteria Lane holidays for the precariousness of the road. Sherry and Jeff were amazing hosts but the time finally came to leave comfort and set out on a journey, of which we didn’t really know what to expect. There was a basic itinerary but it was more than obvious that most decisions would be taken spontaneously and on the spot. Given the distance and length of our trip, everybody kept telling us that a GPS device was a must. Snubbing the majority’s advice may either coerce you to admit they were right or let you justify the claim that they are dopey and delusional. I hate to say that but in our case, the former has every appearance of being prevalent. On the very first day, we took one wrong exit, realized the mistake a tad too late and ended up traversing desolate roads in the Appalachians. Constructing them must have devoured loads of money but we were the only ones using them at that time. Instead of seeing other people, we were only encountering deers. Since it was getting late and dark, the situation grew somewhat hazardous. If you hit a deer while driving, it’s your hood and the animal that are going to suffer. If you do it when riding a motorcycle, you will probably share the deer’s lot and give up the ghost on the side of the road. The stars had already filled up the sky when we managed to find a McDondald’s and get connected to the internet with a view to going back on track. I had never expected to be that glad at seeing those chintzy yellow arches in the distance. Besides, it was vindicable to surmise that this country was crammed with WI-FI signals, from the most northerly fishing stations in Alaska to alligator swamps in Florida. Actually, we hoped that even the deers and skunks of the Appalachian Mountains would spread wireless network signals wherever they might move. The reality turned out to be slightly different, though. Having already figured out how to get back on our way towards Niagara Falls, we were looking forward to going past another symbol of American mass culture. Wal-Mart, that is. These stores have infested the American horizon nearly as successfully as fast food chains. Once in the shop, we swiftly directed our footsteps to the electronics department and left a couple minutes later with fewer dollars in our pockets and a GPS. Although Chaquida (that’s how the device has been dubbed) makes mistakes (after all, she’s just a woman;), she is still an invaluable source of road planning help. McDonald’s’ WI-FI comes second.

Pseudo-Political Activism and Obama’s Impeachment

In front of the MVA (Department of Transportation) building in Hagerstown, MD, there was a small stall full of pictures and posters animatedly calling: ‘IMPEACH OBAMA.’ An elderly guy standing next to it was desperately encouraging passers-by to listen to his less-than-impressive views on the American president. Since I needed to idle away some time, I approached him and asked what made him want to impeach Obama. He swiftly embarked on a carefully devised speech, providing numberless reasons why, in his opinion, Obama was not a good president. The talk teemed with references to the greatest moments in American history, the best developments and the most venerable country officials. The number of arguments didn’t correspond to their quality whatsoever. He was trying to persuade me that Obama was a puppet of the ‘British Empire.’ Once he finished his presentation a few minutes later, he quickly asked me to sign some papers expressing my approval of his organization and its lofty aims. When I said I wasn’t even an American, the only question that could follow was about my native country. In order to vex that old paranoiac, I said I was from Britain. His eyes grew larger and his face got redder than a beetroot. For a short while, I was gloating over his perplexity. However, he was quick enough to modify his strategy and deliver another speech, saying that his organization was actually fighting for the city of London. At the end, he asked if I could make any donation. That was the best part. Pretty audacious, isn’t it? After all, just a couple of minutes earlier, he poured heavy criticism on ‘my’ country and its incessant interference with American politics. It’s pathetic that people can go to such great lengths and don’t think twice before making total dumbasses of themselves to get some dough

American Red Tape

If you seriously think that the US is still a country where you can do anything, go from rags to riches and easily fulfill your dreams, I’ve got news for you. You’re wrong. Jay Gatsby-like rise from zero to hero might have been viable in the 1920s, but nowadays you would face hundreds of obstacles successfully deterring you from doing what you’ve planned. And if you are a tourist mercifully wanting to support the tottering American economy, don’t expect you’ll be welcome with open arms just because you have disposable money in your pocket. There is one item, though, which every retailer will be more than pleased to accept. A tiny piece of plastic with embossed digits, owing to which thousands of Americans face dire financial straits or even foreclosure. On the radio, you can frequently hear ads encouraging those who have fallen into a debt trap to call a special infoline and obtain help. Still, credit card is at times the only means of getting things done. Without it, I wouldn’t have been able to rent a car. Even though I was ready to pay a cash deposit and flashed the money before the car rental worker’s eyes, he seemed somewhat scared to see real banknotes. Apparently, the only payment method he has experienced in life is virtual money, whereas coins and banknotes look as obsolete as teenage virgins. In order to have the car, I also needed to log onto my bank account and check a couple of details. Since there was no WI-FI at the rental spot, it was necessary to take a shuffle bus back to BWI and get connected there. But I was faced with another surprise. There was neither free WI-FI, nor any terminal enabling you to insert a few coins and browse the web. The only option was to purchase a monthly subscription. Needless to say, I wouldn’t have done that, either if it hadn’t been for a credit card. In Poland, consumers sometimes say: ‘I pay, I demand,’ to which a car rental employee could potentially respond ‘No demands. You don’t own a credit card. You are a C-class citizen (worse than B-class horrors), the type our reputable company wishes to avoid. ‘

All our problems appear to be vehicle-related. Another emerged while trying to purchase a motorcycle. Of course, every seller is willing to deal with you as long as you have sufficient funds. However, certain institutions may turn out to be far more reserved. There’s a lot of talk about racial and gender discrimination in this country. In case of insurance companies, another category, that of age, comes to play. It would be perfect for these firms if you were an octogenarian, yet one who still boasts enviable mental and physical capabilities. If you are a young rider, getting an insurance policy, even a temporary one, will be both problematic and devastating to your bank account. Add to that being a foreigner and the situation can hardly get any worse. When we eventually managed to find a company from Arizona, which didn’t mind insuring non-Americans, it seemed that we were on the right track. That luck couldn’t last long, though. The first visit to the Department of Transportation put an end to any hopes we might have had earlier. Not only was it mandatory to have a permanent residence in the state where we wanted to register the vehicle but also the insurance company had to own at least one subsidiary in that given state. The first issue was resolved much easier than anyone could expect. American institutions require you to provide loads of info and dozens of numbers (perhaps in the future they will put barcodes on all the denizens’ asses and ask for them whenever some issue needs to be settled) but providing is not tantamount to proving. As regards the second matter, it turns out yet again that locals always know better and they should be your primary source of information. Google wasn’t much helpful when it comes to locating an insurance company in Maryland, which would welcome holidaymakers from abroad and insure them. What the search engine failed to do was quickly arranged by Dave, an easy-going smooth-talker who sold us the bike. Dave has a nice girlfriend and a thing for old vehicles. And by ‘old,’ I mean dating back several decades, not years. He drives a 61-year old Studebaker which must make a great impression on everyone whenever it goes along the roads. Unfortunately, I didn’t take a picture. Anyways, Dave went with us the firm which has been insuring him throughout his adult life. It took just a couple of minutes and a few relatively natural American-style smiles to get the paperwork completed. Still, I have to admit we were pretty lucky. By all accounts, Maryland is the only eastern state to register drivers who don’t possess a local driving license.

BTW If I were just slightly younger, I would have to pay $25 for each day of the car rental period. Stop giving me this racial and gender discrimination bullcrap. Start talking about age discrimination.

UPDATE: Obviously, I wasn't serious about lack of racial discrimination. A more serious post on ethnic (in)equality and relations between various groups coming soon.

Tempest in a Teapot; or City Boy Gone Wild

‘Bring back this shield yourself or be brought back upon it.’1

A detailed action plan had been devised the night before. The apparel was ready. I proudly zipped up my A&F hoodie armor which shone brightly, revealing the enviable rank of the warrior. Under the eyes, full of patronizing bravery, yet also disclosing barely discernible signs of anxious anticipation, there was some war paint which constituted a proof to the seriousness and pompous character of the mission at hand. We inspected our military equipment once more. The hoe was gleaming radiantly, its metal end intimidatingly twinkling in the sun as if to scare off any prospective opponents. The handle lied steadily in my palm and had anyone seen me then, they would have been petrified out of their minds to behold this powerful sword in a confident hand of a real American frontier warrior.

Having crossed the line separating our house’s backyard, the oasis of safety, from a forest, me and my young squire found ourselves in a mystical area inhabited by evil Puritan figures and haunted by the ghosts of the witches hung during the 1692 Salem Witch Trials. Reminisces of James Fenimore Cooper’s ‘Leatherstocking Tales’ began to cross our minds. In the spirit of the Pioneers, we were embarking on a challenging adventure – the pursuit of the wild, a journey into the unknown. Cicadas, usually filling the air with a deafening orchestra of ticking sounds, fell quiet on that remarkable day as if they had been aware of its unparalleled significance. That didn’t bode well for the upcoming few hours. However, raised to live a win-or-die lifestyle, we had no second thoughts about proceeding further. Like Hawthorne’s Young Goodman Brown, we aimed at penetrating the mysteries in which the forests were shrouded.

The day was incredibly hot, the clouds dispersed and gave room for the sun which generously illuminated every corner of the vicinity and even managed to find its way through dense treetops. We were striding proudly, yet simultaneously making sure that no malicious creature stood a chance of lunching a successful attack on us. Bravery, cautiousness and keen senses are indispensible to anyone who wishes to be considered a war-time hero. As we were getting deeper into the woods, there was an increasingly large number of venomous snakes hiding on the trees and patiently waiting for any sign of absent-mindedness on our part. The hoe I kept carrying matched the shimmering silver of my shield, showing those contemptible creatures that their destiny was still an open question.

In the distance, we noticed a colossus log lying on the ground. It might have seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary but the warrior instincts of the green knight and his staunch young squire were sharp enough to realize that something about that place spelt hazard and morbidity. We approached the old trunk slowly. Right next to it, there was a scintillatingly bright circular object whose dazzling colors beamed everything around like sunrays imperiously peeping through the trees. Apparently, it made an effort to blind us with a multitude of resplendent colors. The warrior and his squire swiftly slammed down the visors of their helmets and continued to act in accordance with a meticulously designed incursion plan. ‘The earth trembled and quaked, and the foundations of the mountains shook.’2 The trees were producing a rustling sound, awkwardly humming the American national anthem. Treetops moved, letting the sun irradiate the battlefield. The hoe gleamed overweeningly in the air as the warriors were struggling to capture that despicable creature which was making desperate attempts at killing them with its spike-adorned shell. The sounds of the weapons filled the woods, spreading a terrifying echo to its furthest located corners. The warrior ‘bore his round shield in the forefront, blazing out like the Dog Star through the clouds, all withering fire; then plunging back into the cloud - rack massed and dark.’3 The malicious turtle ended up on the hoe’s spade and was quickly put into a bag, one produced exclusively for military purposes.

We came back to our military base and crossed its threshold with our heads held high. To everyone’s enormous jealousy and amazement, we displayed the unique trophy.

And in case you haven’t realized yet, the description above pertains to the snake (turtle) hunting adventures of me and Tyler, our hosts’ six-year old son. Below you can see the turtle we managed to capture;D

1 a phrase traditionally uttered by Spartan soldiers’ mothers
2 Old Testament, Psalm 18:7
3 Iliad, Book 11, Lines 69-71