Gatlinburg, Tennessee

The best way to describe Gatlinburg, Tennessee is to call it the Las Vegas of the South. At night the whole town lights up, with souvenir shops and (family themed) comedy clubs and Elvis impersonation venues and the Alabama (the band) restaurant and club and Dollywood close by and go-cart tracks and American flags and Christmas decorations EVERYWHERE. A and I only got to drive through at night, but it's probably just as well: Anything that glitters THAT brightly can't help but be a bit of a letdown when you get a closer look.

New Orleans, Louisiana

A and I stayed in the French Quarter. It was my first trip to New Orleans, and I fell completely in love with the city.

We went down for Halloween. A told me repeatedly that this was nothing compared to how the city was before the storm, as though New Orleans needed to apologize for a less than hospitable atmosphere. It didn’t matter; it was easy to get a feel for what the city (once) was.

We stopped by all the bars where A’s friends would be—drinking, working, or both. It was wonderful how all the bars had big French doors that opened out onto the street, as though you didn’t ever really leave one before you were in another. At several, A got drinks to go (to go!). I met all of her friends. At one place, I was given a sympathy card for being her new man. It was obvious they care for her intensely, all of them.

And the Quarter was just like “A Streetcar Named Desire:” The passionate life, the drunkenness, the drama, the eroticism, the dirt, and all the sweaty illicitness that Tennessee Williams play embodied. It was absolutely diluted, trampled a bit and unsure of itself, but it was still there.

And I hold an unapologetically romanticized view of the place—I think everyone there does--especially with only one visit. It was still a shell, and there were many walking around in the leftovers of the city, but the city was still there. The architecture still held it, the people still clutched it, and if you listened closely, and looked—really looked—you can see the New Orleans that is an idea. And that idea is still alive there. It is wounded, surely, but it is there still. And that idea is intoxicating.

—And then we took a car trip through the 9th Ward. One year after Katrina.

San Antonio, Texas

I'm sitting in my room in a Travelodge in San Antonio, Texas. I'm here manning a booth at the National Association of Local Boards of Health Conference.

It's hot as hell.

Just to paint a picture of this place: Today, during the complimentary lunch at the hotel—as though to not let anyone forget that we're in the deep south—we were instructed to stand as they had a color guard, complete with flanking riflemen, march the US flag and the flag of Texas into the banquet hall. After leading us in the pledge of allegiance, they brought a cute Southern belle up to the podium to sing an especially creepy a cappella version of the national anthem. And then hoping, I suppose, to show that Texas was not a state of only good ol' boys, they had a black woman preacher come forward to lead the prayer before eating. I've heard the expression "feeling like a whore in church" before, but I don't think I've ever embodied it so exactly.

It was especially slow today at the expo hall (a large room, really), as there is a concurrent conference going on down the street for NACCHO (The National Association for County and City Health Officials). Most of the events taking place today are at the other hotel. The big expo day for NALBOH is tomorrow (or so I've been told), so I left early to walk around the city.

San Antonio is a depressed, depressing town. The whole city revolves around the tourism of The Alamo: a monument to futility where 187 Texans held off 4000 Mexicans before ultimately being slaughtered. I think that may explain the feeling of utter futility and defeat that exudes from the city and seeps into you. The fucking oppressive heat doesn't help the mood either. I heard one of the women at the conference talking about trying to get her family to see The Alamo, and that her son said "Why would we want to see that? They LOST!")

Everywhere I walk, all I see (besides fat, ugly American tourists) are poor Mexican-Americans waiting at bus stops. All over. As though victory at the Alamo ensured their rights to ride public transportation 200 years later. When I walked past the big bus station on my way to the conference, I wanted to sing out loudly "The stars at night, are big and bright..." and see if a chorus of cowboys would answer, in song: "Deep in the heart of Texas!" with hand claps all around—just like in Pee Wee's Big Adventure. I have a suspicion they won't.

Next year's NALBOH conference is in Anchorage, Alaska. If we decide to attend, I think I should get to go after putting in my time in this purgatory. I am now sure that, if my sins are too great, and I get up to those gates to find Saint Peter with a look of disgust on his face, I will be going to Texas. I am now sure that is where my own personal hell is.

For now I've escaped to the air conditioning of my hotel room, with the TV, internet access, and take-out sushi. I plan to stay out of the ungodly Texas sun for the rest of the day—at least until I have to be back to the conference at 7:30 tomorrow morning.

And The Alamo itself is in no way inspiring. Yet I do feel as though it would be a wasted trip if I don't go and ask to see the basement...