Gulf Coast: Part III/Final Installment

Zihuatanejo. Apalachicola. Homosassa Springs. Thanks to my travels these difficult-to-pronounce places now roll off my tongue.

Zee-wah-tah-NEH-ho, as you may know, is a Mexican town on the part of the Pacific Coast known as the Costa Grande, about 150 miles northwest of Acapulco. I was there 25+ years ago on a family Club Med vacation, courtesy of my Mom. Ap·a·latch·cha·CO-la (best not to visualize the spelling because you’ll trip up by saying “Appalachia” and from there it’s impossible to recover), is a charming town in Florida that attracted our attention when we spotted Hillary signs posted on its outskirts, a rare sight indeed. This was pre-election and before the impending apocalypse. Ho-ma-SAS-sah Springs is the site of a nature preserve that met all of Suzi’s deepest desires apart from her oyster ‘Po Boy. In the Muskogee language, “sassa” means ”some there” and Homo means “pepper” (or “whiskey,” depending on whether your source is the Chamber of Commerce or the Seminole Indians, descendants of the Muskogee tribe).  Cousin Suzi sought neither peppers nor whiskey, but The Dame refused to leave Florida until she saw alligators and manatees.

As you may recall, Suzi joined me in New Orleans and we traveled together along the Gulf Coast in Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama; and the Florida Panhandle. I accomplished my mission: Suzi liked Florida.


“Do not approach, frighten or feed the alligators”

After leaving New Orleans (Louisiana), then touring the Beauvoir Estate and eating at Slap ‘Ya Moma (in Mississippi), Suzi and I made our way to Gulf State Park on the Alabama barrier of island of Gulf Shore.  It was here that we spotted a sign warning us not to approach, frighten or feed the alligators. Since we wondered who in their right mind would do ANY of these things, we of course warned each other not to take these actions whenever we encountered a situation that could possibly involve an alligator. Although such occasions arose frequently, we never grew tired of the joke. Well, at least I didn’t.

The roughly 100-mile stretch of land from South Alabama to Panama City, Florida, is known as the Emerald Coast. It was along this section that we pulled in after-hours (not to worry, Suzi was driving after sundown) at a truly nice resort in Navarre, Florida, listed as a Passport America half-price park. Waking up the next morning I thought it was too good to be true.

It was.

For whatever reason — probably because it was such a lovely park — the resort was no longer part of Passport America. Suzi and I had been viewing Facebook photos posted by close relatives who were in Hawaii and other exotic locations. Not to be outdone, we stayed another day so we could post our own resort photos on Facebook. Then we stayed yet another day when my Smartcar battery died. Apart from being towed to a place that didn’t service Smartcars, the entire incident was nothing more than a hiccup. The battery was old and was considerate enough to die at a convenient location.

Once the battery was replaced, we continued driving, leaving Florida’s Emerald Coast and entering the state’s Forgotten Coast. The term “Forgotten Coast” was promoted by (who else?) the regional Chamber of Commerce. The Forgotten Coast refers to a relatively undeveloped section of coastline stretching from Mexico Beach on the Gulf to St. Marks on Apalachee Bay. Whereas the Emerald Coast is an unofficial name, the Forgotten Coast is a registered trademark. Some regions take designations more seriously than others.

Missy and me walking on Mexico Beach

Missy and me walking on Mexico Beach

We stopped along the Forgotten Coast to take a walk on Mexico Beach. I am fond of Mexico Beach because three years ago I stopped here for a night and ended up staying several days on a local resident’s private property. I had a logo’d Mexico Beach sweatshirt for a couple of years but it met the same fate shared by my shoes, socks and pants: bleach spatters. As I recall, the incident involving the sweatshirt went way beyond splashing. It was more of a deluge. Here’s a helpful hint: Use a funnel when pouring bleach into your water holding tank to deodorize.

We decided based on the name alone not to camp at “Tate’s Hell State Forest.” We figured with an appellation like that the forest would likely include something called “Mosquito Swamp.” We later found out we weren’t far off. Turns out that in 1875, Cebe Tate entered the forest swamp with his hunting dogs and a shotgun in search of a panther killing his livestock. Tate was lost in the swamp for seven days and nights, bitten by a snake, and drank swamp water.  When he emerged near Carrabelle, he murmured, “My name is Cebe Tate, and I just came from Hell,” and then died. In other words, we made the right decision to skip the forest, continuing on until we spotted the Hillary signs outside Apalachicola.

We stopped at the town’s Visitor’s Center and were directed to a parking lot under the Big Bend Scenic Coastal Trail Bridge (US Hwy 98) where RVs were welcome to dry camp for free. The following weekend Apalachicola was hosting the Florida Seafood Festival and our free camping spaces were going for $160 for three days. The bridge we parked under crossed the Apalachicola River, which emptied into Apalachicola Bay, which was created by St. George Barrier Island. Given its location along waterways, Apalachicola’s pre-Civil War economy was based on warehousing cotton.

We also visited St. George Island and swam in the Gulf.  The island is beautiful, with Apalachicola Bay on one side the the Gulf of Mexico on the other.



St. George Island beach on the Gulf side

As we continued along Hwy 98 we crossed the Suwannee River, at which point it’s traditional to sing, Way Down Upon the Suwannee River.  We also stopped at the Suwannee River park, where we examined the old Fanning Springs Bridge. According to local lore, people danced all night on this bridge when it was first constructed across the Suwannee.

We continued our tradition of stopping for lunch at local BBQs and I discovered that pork ribs in the South are far too fatty for my taste. How very odd to travel 2,000+miles to find out I prefer Phil’s in San Diego to Southern BBQ. Go figure.

We arrived at my destination in Central Florida as scheduled on November 1. Suzi, having seen her alligators and manatees at Homosassa Springs wildlife center, flew back to Los Angeles from Orlando a few days later.

A good time was had by all.

We made it to Florilows Oaks RV Part

We made it to Florilows Oaks RV Park

Actual alligators that we somehow managed to avoid disturbing

Alligators that we did not disturb, frighten or feed



So I had this idea to travel the U.S. in an RV, visiting new places. Not only are there a lot of places I’d never been, there’s also a lot I didn’t know. I’m writing Driven Crazy primarily to entertain, but if you learn something along the way, I’d like to think I’m responsible.

Friends and family are welcome to join me for up to a week. My RV is small!

Source: About

Gulf Coast Part II


Galveston is the source of yet another entry in my multi-volume book of “What I Didn’t Know.” Although I was vaguely familiar with the 1900 Galveston Hurricane, I wasn’t aware that this natural disaster is still ranked as the deadliest single-day event in U.S. history. A storm surge of 15 feet washed over this barrier island, knocking buildings off their foundations and destroying more than 3,600 homes. The death toll is estimated at  6,000 to 12,000 people. By way of comparison, disasters numbers 2 and 3 are the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and fire, with an estimated death toll of 3,000 to 6,000; and September 11th, with 2,977 dead (or 2,996 if you include the 19 hijackers, who I figure don’t count since they presumably went on to their rewards from Allah).


Ocean Star Museum

Of particular interest to me was the Ocean Star Offshore Drilling Rig Museum, a “jackup” rig that operated for about 20 years in the Gulf of Mexico and was turned into three floors of exhibits on the offshore oil and gas industry. Ironically, in light of the recent movie Deepwater Horizon about the April 2010 offshore (Louisiana) oil rig explosion that led to the worst oil spill in U.S. history, the Ocean Star exhibit emphasized the importance of safety.

I also took great delight in looking at the accommodations aboard the rig so as to feel smug about the comfort and convenience of my RV. I partook of this exercise at the Space Center in Houston, too.

New Orleans

My Cousin Suzi, an aficionado of hard-boiled detective crime novels, styled herself as “The Dame” when she took the Sunset Limited from Los Angeles to New Orleans to join me in The Big Easy. She posted a great film noir poster on Facebook to announce her trip. Cousin Suzi (oops, I meant “The Dame”) accompanied me along the Gulf Coast in Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Florida to my destination in Central Florida. Since we spent two-plus weeks together in a tight space, we soon came to an agreement not to take and post photos on Facebook of each other in positions that involved bending over, tempting though it often was. We stuck instead to postcard perfect scenes.

Now in the spirit of the new administration, I will note that I have heard some people say they do not trust Catholics because those who adhere to this religion can sin with impunity and then be forgiven soon after by going to Confession. I must say that New Orleans, with its multitude of bars and day-time drinking, and the spectacle of Mardi Gras, did little to dissuade me of this biased and possibly blasphemous opinion. On Bourbon Street one early afternoon I partook of a Mudslide on an empty stomach and greatly regretted it later that day when I experienced a blinding headache. Welcome to New Orleans.

In addition to the usual and sinful haunts in New Orleans, we visited the Ogden Museum of Southern Art. The highlight was an exhibit, “Southern Louisiana Landscapes” by Simon Gunning. Who’s he, right? Well Gunning is an artist from, of all places, Australia. He left Down Under 40+ years ago fully intending to attend art school in England, but first traveled throughout the United States. When he arrived in New Orleans, according to his website, he was “captivataed by the city’s urban landscape amongst a lush backdrop of tropical flora and cypress swamps.” He never did make it to England, settling instead in The Big Easy. 

In keeping with my tendency to seek out places from movies and television series I like, I took a photo from the Museum’s rooftop with the Crescent City Connection (formerly the Greater New Orleans Bridge), in the background. The bridge is featured in a favorite and relatively unknown movie, Deja Vu. 


Ask the Dame about the ‘Po Boy bread.

The RV Park we stayed in was (as always) close to a railroad. This time, however, we were behind a switching yard. Instead of waking to the sound of trains thundering through the park in the middle of the night, we were greeted in the midnight hours by trains colliding. It was a nice change. We were within walking distance of a terrific hole-in-the-wall restaurant (actually, it was more of a cafeteria in a convenience store) that served Suzi’s dream meal: an oyster po’boy sandwich. According to our tour guide and local lore, the po’ boy was created in 1929 by Bennie and Clovis Martin, former streetcar operators and owners of the Martin Bros restaurant, during a transit strike. They served the “poor boys” on strike free sandwiches full of meat on a new type of thinner and crispy bread that easier to cut into equal slices created by a local baker at their request. Suzi can — and does — wax eloquent about the quality of the bread, which she contends is related to the humidity  of Louisiana. 

From New Orleans, we followed US Highways 90 and 98 east along the Gulf Coast. The route is simply beautiful, with white sand beaches and dunes on one side (to the right, or south) and lovely homes built on stilts on the other (on the left, to the north).

As a side note, in addition to wildflowers and barrier islands, another interest of mine is American architecture. 


Southern style along the coast (NOT one of the prettiest) 

Much to our dismay and disappointment, my handy-dandy go-to reference book, A Field Guide to American Houses: The Definitive Guide to Identifying and Understanding America’s Domestic Architecture, had nary a single entry on this distinctive Southern stilt style. We concluded that author Virginia Savage McAlester is Yankee-centric.

Mississippi and Alabama

As we headed into Biloxi, Suzi exclaimed when she saw a sign for Beauvoir. I had no idea what it was but said I was willing to turn around and go back. Fortunately, Suzi took me up on my offer. Turns out the Beauvoir Estate is the post-war home of Jefferson Davis, president of the Confederacy, and where he wrote his memoir, The Rise and Fall of the Confederate Government. I had taken a tour of Jefferson’s home in Richmond, VA, and had no idea of his long history in the Mississippi, including stints as a Representative to the U.S. Congress and as a U.S. Senator. Beauvoir became a home for old Confederates and their wives and is the burial site of the unknown Confederate Soldier.


Buried at Beauvoir in Biloxi

Most important of all, Suzi asked our tour guide for recommendations to local BBQs, which is how we ended up at “Slap Ya Mama,” a place reputed to be so good that you want to slap ya mama.


Gotta love this place — and we DID!

At the aptly named BBQ we were served by a cute and lively little waitress who’d never been out of the state and refused to go into the Gulf because she didn’t want to be in water where she couldn’t see her ankles. Her dream was to go to California and swim in the Pacific Ocean. Suzi and I looked at each other and silently agreed not to tell her that you can’t see your ankles in Santa Monica, Malibu, La Jolla or any of the other well-known Southern California beaches, either. 


The Gulf Coast as seen from the RV





The beautiful beaches and homes continued as we drove through Alabama. We were rewarded with more breathtaking water views during our 10-mile crossing of Mobile Bay. Our route followed the Old Spanish Trail (OST) — whose existence I was not aware of. According to Wikipedia, the OST was an auto trail that once spanned the U.S. with 3,000 miles of roads along the southern U.S. border from ocean to ocean. It derived its name from the cities along the route, which shared a heritage of Spanish missions, forts and colonies. Also from Wikipedia: Preparations have begun for a decade-long (2019-2029) Centennial Celebration, called OST100, ending with a motorcade finale from St. Augustine to San Diego. OST100 volunteers are collecting oral histories, travel logs and news articles related to the Old Spanish Trail to conserve the roadways, businesses and historic sites of the original auto highway.

Once again, who knew? Not me.

To Be Continued


Gulf Coast – Mustang Island & Houston


Greetings from Florilow Oaks in Bushnell, Florida. What? Where? A singles (mostly) RV Park that describes itself as outside Orlando. The description is accurate up to a point, that point being how you define “outside.”  To me the term generally connotes a distance of 1 to 10 miles. To the copywriter for the park it is code for “the closest city is Orlando, which is about 60 miles southeast.” (This same copywriter wrote about the park’s “coy” pond. Seems there’s a body of water filled with teasing fish that act shy.) Here are some other “nearby” towns and cities for those who be may be familiar with Florida: Ocala (30 miles north); Gainesville (70 miles north); Tampa (60 miles south); St. Petersburg (70 miles south); and Daytona Beach (90 miles east). We’re also 15 miles south of a place called The Villages. Their copywriters describe the area as a “fun and affordable active adult community where everything you could possibly want, need or dream of doing in your retirement years is just a golf cart ride away.”  Here we just call it expensive.

Ah yes, I seem to have entered the land of the golf cart. They are everywhere and used as transportation, although not necessarily on the golf course itself. More like a smaller, open-air Smartcar, only without any safety features, such as lights. I learned right away to keep my flashlight on when walking Missy at night and jump to the side of the road when I hear anything coming my way. Other than the nearby train, that is. Remember when I wrote that RV parks are nearly always near trains or other auditory annoyances? Sometimes I hate it when my observations are true.


This is my second cross-country trip and rather than taking I-10 all the way from California to Florida, I opted to detour southward along the Gulf Coast. It turned out to be a great decision. From San Antonio I headed to Corpus Christi and from there traveled to Mustang Island, an 18-mile barrier island. One of my goals is to visit as many barrier islands in the U.S. as possible, in part because they are “foreign” to me. As someone who grew up in Chicago and then spent 40+ years in California, I had no idea of their existence. Yet more material for my “what I don’t know would fill books” reveals. In California we have the Channel Islands, which are so far offshore they’re considered, well, islands. Same for Washington State’s San Juan Islands. West Coast islands are accessible only by boat or plane. Barrier islands are so close you just drive over a causeway to reach them.

Mustang Island is simply beautiful. The weather when I was there in October was so hot and humid that I actually entered the Gulf water to swim. Now there’s another surprise: the water temperature. Entering the water was like getting into a tepid bathtub. Quite a contrast to the Pacific Ocean, where even in San Diego in August most people enter gingerly and once the waves have reached their tummy they finally work up the nerve to dive under. Once you’re in the water is fine, but I’ve seen even SoCal surfers wear wet suits in summer. Of course they are “summer” wetsuits, with short arms and legs. No one in their right mind enters the Pacific Ocean in the San Francisco Bay Area without a winter full-body wetsuit.  I’ve gone into the Pacific Ocean in San Francisco as far as my ankles, and my feet have promptly gone numb.

Missy, who has romped on the beaches of the Pacific and Atlantic oceans, really enjoyed the Gulf Coast. On Mustang Island she dug up sand crabs and, best of all, played with the large frogs that hopped around the RV at night. Well, at least they started off hopping. 


What astounded me about Mustang Island was the vegetation: sheaves of grass as well as colorful morning glories.  I first attempted to photograph the flowers at dusk and had to remind myself that they are called MORNING glories for a reason.

Not only are the grasses and morning glories gorgeous, but they grow in nothing more than SAND. Beautiful white sand. But still sand. How is that even possible? And oh that big blue Texas sky filled with large white clouds.


That blue sky, those white clouds, that beautiful water!

Following my GPS (when will I ever learn?) to leave the island, I was taken to a ferry that crosses the Corpus Christi ship channel from Port Aransas to the mainland. Much to my delight, the ride was free. It took all of 5 minutes. I noticed that the ferry service provides employment for scores of people, from the ferry pilots to the guys directing traffic. A local overheard me wondering why the ferry hadn’t been replaced by a bridge and he explained that the height needed to allow ships to pass under the bridge would require a span that would take vehicles past the commercial area — an idea vehemently opposed by the island’s merchants. I also read that it’s more economical to continue running the ferries than to build and maintain a bridge — and that’s before the cost overruns! I’m not being cynical; just realistic. I offer as proof the new eastern span of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. The project was projected to cost just over $1 billion and take seven years. When it finally opened in 2013, costs had risen to $6.4 billion and took 17 years to complete. Contributing to the cost overruns were relocation issues for the double-crested cormorants and other birds nesting in the original bridge. Should a new Port Aransas bridge run into similar aviary challenges, I can’t help but think that Texas wouldn’t be quite as environmentally sensitive as Califonia. I won’t even go into the fact that since global warming doens’t exist, environmental sensitivity will become an oxymoron under Trump. I promise to restrict politics to Facebook. 


View from five-minute ferry ride

While traveling the Gulf in Texas I stopped in Houston and Galveston. Did you know that Galveston is actually a barrier island? I certainly didn’t. As far as I can tell, neither does anyone else outside of Texas. Here are some other facts under the “Did You Know – Because I Sure Didn’t” column:

  • Despite the extraordinarily quotable line uttered in the movie Apollo 13 by Tom Hanks/Jim Lovell, “Houston, we have a problem,” Mission Control is not in what I would consider Houston proper but rather in Nassau Bay, a good 30-minute drive south of Houston and about half-way between Houston and Galveston. “Nassau Bay, we have a problem” just doesn’t have the same ring to it.
  • To further set the record straight (and this I DID know), what Jim Lovell said was, “Houston, we had a problem.” Apparently, Tom Hanks also says this. That the line is movie-posterrecalled in popular culture as uttered in the present tense is either what is known as the Mandela Effect, meaning what we remember as a certainly turns out to be wrong, or a vast Hollywood coverup. The term “Mandela Effect” comes from people remembering Nelson Mandela dying in prison in the ’80s. Mandela, who died only once, actually passed away in 2013. I do recall Mandela dying severall years ago, but then again I also recall Tom Hanks using the present tense. Internet conspiracies posit that the movie has been re-dubbed but said re-dubbing denied. This may not be a case of mass nerd paranoia since the quote is featured in the present tense in the original movie poster. Ah, the things you learn from travel.
  • Tom Hanks looks nothing like Jim Lovell. Not that Jim Lovell ever complained.



  • The Mission Control many of us are familiar with was closed in 1985. That means the technology is so outdated — for example, note the red land line — that tourists can take as many photos as they want. Back in the day, NASA used multiple $3.5 million mainframe computers, each the size of a car. Although NASA doesn’t specify the size of the car, I think it’s safe to assume the agency was not visualizing a compact. Think Cadallic. With fins. Total memory capacity of NASA’s Cadallic computers was in the megabyte range, less than a USB stick or a WiFi router, let alone an iPhone. Something I recall from when I visited Kill Devil Hills, site of the Wright brothers’ first flight in 1903, is that the time between the Kitty Hawk in December 1903 and the moon landing in July 1969 is 66 years. 
  • Understandably, the job of becoming a NASA engineer is highly competitive. But when the agency was first created the average age of those manning Mission Control was 26! Imagine being an astronaut and trusting someone in their early- to mid-20’s with your life. Talk about brave.

STILL can’t take a decent selfie!