“The Gateway to Acadiana”

Thursday, August 9

I left Beaumont with no “Goodbyes.” I woke up, drove to the library, printed off the articles I needed, thanked the Slow Talker for his help yesterday, and left.

I’m working on my post about interstates. I say post; I mean rant. All that needs to be known now is that I don’t care for interstates. America cannot be seen from interstates. Or maybe, these days, it can, and that’s a sad revelation. From the beginning of this trip, I vowed to only take interstates when absolutely necessary or unavoidable. The road from Beaumont was both: necessary because of lost time, unavoidable because I-10 has swallowed a great deal of US-90.

Bienvenue en Louisiane!

Steinbeck talks at length about how each state is different and how each boasts about its individual beauty. I can’t say there are marked differences, say, between Alabama and Tennessee. Each are different at certain points, but so is north and south Alabama. Nature knows no political lines. East Texas looks a lot like the west side of Louisiana. However, there is a point on I-10 when Louisiana makes itself known. Before the Spanish moss haunts the oaks, there’s a point when the swamp creeps up under the tires. I stepped out of my car at a gas station somewhere outside of Lafayette and had no doubts about where I was. The air was thick with humidity. Whatever the etymology of the word “swamp” is, they had it right. I would bet  money that the sound escaped inexplicably from settlers’ mouths upon entering the Louisianan atmosphere. No other word carries the sticky syrup of the air with it. And I wasn’t even really in the swamp yet.

Prime real estate.

Before I got to Lafayette, though, I sat waiting to cross a bridge over Lake Charles for a long time. Exhaust and honking in front. Scenic oil refineries to my left. Lake Charles glittering in the noon-day sun to my right. “Up on Cripple Creek” by The Band (R.I.P. Levon Helm) was stuck in my head all the way to Lafayette, and I was content for the next 75 miles. It didn’t rain on me during the drive, but it had just finished raining in Lafayette. It was one of those sticky rains when sometimes the steam rises from the road in little columns. I think, because of the heat and my extended stay in Beaumont, I wanted a hotel. I found the nearest La Quinta Inn, but, since check-in time wasn’t until 4, I drove around town for a while.

What I was excited about in Louisiana was the food. It may be possible that the food is the biggest thing Steinbeck missed while cruising through the South. I’ve travelled outside of the United States, and even abroad they have heard of Soul Food and “down home cooking”–though they often don’t have the words to describe it. Louisiana, however, is an anomaly in Southern cuisine. It has the influence of French, Spanish, and the Caribbean islands which all blend to form Creole and Cajun. Of course, just as it is all over America and the world, there is no coherent, conclusive answer to cultural identity. If one were to use food as a way to report on Southern culture, eating in Texas, Louisiana, and North Carolina would render three different interpretations.

I stopped into Don’s Seafood and Steakhouse to get my Cajun seafood fix. As I walked up to the door, two older gentleman were parked against a post smoking cigarettes. One with rounded glasses and a big, grey-brown moustache said, much too casually, “Afternoon, monsieur.” I swear he did, and I knew I was in the right place. Looking back, I think it was a test. I think he knew I wasn’t “us,” but he just wanted to test it out. I’m totally okay with that and my failure to respond in French or some other Cajun greeting.

I forgot to mention that I’m a seafood junkie. There hasn’t been one thing that has crawled, slithered, or was hooked out of the ocean that I haven’t liked. I asked the waitress what the best thing on the menu was. She threw a few out there but said, “Now, if you don’t care what your cardiologist thinks, there’s the Shrimp and Oyster Brouchette. It’s shrimp and oyster wrapped in bacon, fried up and then grilled.”

Sold. I mean, really, how does anyone, ever, turn down bacon-wrapped anything?

“Do I look like I even go to a cardiologist?” I replied. I’m six-foot one and, in the vernacular, “as skinny as a bean pole.”

“No, but I’ve got to warn people around here,” she laughed. I looked around and, once again, I was the youngest person in the room, except for the staff, by a solid 30 years. I asked her about some good breakfast places in the area. This was the first time I heard of the French Press. Supposedly, it’s an amazing breakfast spot and a Lafayette classic.

The food was just as amazing as it sounded: bacon crispy, oysters lightly fried and juicy, shrimp succulent, all glazed over with a semi-sweet sauce. While it was great, it didn’t feel “Cajun” by the definition I had constructed in my mind. It had the French name, sure, but I felt like it needed some kind of kick to it. I’m no food critic or “foodie” by any means, but by my own–very likely false–definition, it missed something. Regardless, it was delicious. I was impressed and full.

The “Ouest” got me for a second.

I drove around town until check-in time. I have to admit, other than downtown and the University of Louisiana at Lafayette campus, Lafayette is not much to look at. It’s reached that “city of a certain age” status where many homes and buildings are in disrepair without much of an effort to restore them. Granted, old and dilapidated buildings have a lot of character and occasional charm to me. I always have to resist  the urge to go exploring collapsed barns, houses, or factories. There’s a mystery in decay.

Jefferson Street in downtown Lafayette.

I don’t want to misrepresent Lafayette though. It’s a beautiful place. The downtown has trees lining the corners at intersections, and the streets are clean and use the old French names. I walked around downtown, found the library and a few other shops I wanted to check out, and headed back to the hotel. I desperately needed a shower.