Musings on the way to and in Louisiana

March 16
On I-10, enroute to New Orleans
Our motorhome does not have a name. It’s a 2000 Newmar Dutch Star, and when we bought it, friends asked what we were going to call it, as if it were a pet dog or cat. Or maybe the thinking was that a motorhome is like a much-beloved car, and people often name their first or favorite car. My first car – shared with my sister, Laura – was a 1954 Chevy BelAir. We called it “the Purple Cow.” It was painted a dark maroon (the original color was the bland hospital green popular in the ‘50s), and was fat and tubby looking, hence the name.
Anyway, I made a few feeble suggestions for naming our RV – “Helga”, “Elsa” – but Steve didn’t like any of them, so our motor home never was baptized. (When it dies, it will go to RV limbo.) We just call it “the motorhome,” and so far, it hasn’t complained, and has complied with all of our requests despite our lack of personalization. Any problems we’ve had have been of our own making, and have been fairly minor.
We’ve discovered in our travels that there’s a motorhome caste system. At the bottom of the hierarchy are cabover campers – along with tents, they’re not even allowed in some RV parks. Slightly higher in the rankings are old gas or diesel RVs – Winnebagos, Pace Arrows and other models from the 60s and 70s. They usually look worn and forlorn; RV owners with recent models don’t like to park next to them.
As you go higher up the RV strata, vehicles are segmented by gas v. diesel, length, year, and model. Prevost and Marathon are near the top of the rankings – you can’t touch them for less than $500,000, and a fully-equipped new model may go for a million or more. These are the brands many rock stars tour in; they look like a large, (very fancy) bus and are usually decked out in brass, glass, rope lights, chandeliers and plenty of bling inside and out. There are even RV parks (whoops – they don’t call them that; they are “Motorcoach Resorts”) that won’t allow a motorhome of less than 38 or 40 feet in the gate. These upscale places specify “no bus conversions” as if the owners might be missing teeth and have pit bulls snarling and slobbering at the broken windows of their RVs.
Our Dutch Star didn’t cost us anything close to $500,000, and we’ve discovered we scored a coup in acquiring it. Newmar is considered a “premium” brand – sort of like the Lexus among the Chevies and Fords (Prevost and Marathon being the Rolls Royce) and the price we paid made it a bargain. Frequently when we get into conversation with other RV owners, they’ll comment enviously about our Dutch Star. “We would have bought one if we could afford it,” we hear. We tell them how we were able to purchase it – (it was a divorce sale; the RV had been on consignment with a dealer in Arizona for $25,000 more than we paid; the owners decided to sell it themselves after it spent 3 months on the dealer lot). It was a good choice, arrived at after we conducted extensive research on RV safety, gas vs. diesel, maneuverability, features such as storage, and reliability. The Newmar was rated at the top, especially for reliability and safety (my primary criteria) – but every used one we looked at was priced accordingly. We feel very fortunate to have found a diesel model with low mileage (37,000), and all the features we wanted at a price that was relatively affordable (although still somewhat higher than our original target of $60,000 or so). When we sell it at the end of our year on the road, we should be able to recoup close to what we paid for it.

Livingston, Louisiana
Once again, we didn’t quite make our destination. We left New Caney, TX this morning at a little after 12, intending to reach New Orleans by dusk. It’s 350 miles away, and by 6 p.m., we’re just outside of Baton Rouge, with still another 100 miles to go. So we shoot for Hammond, LA – another 30 miles – but when we spy a billboard for Lakeside RV Resort 10 miles further, we decide that’s our destination.
Louisiana is not as green as I expected. I think my mental image was of swamps everywhere, weeping willow trees (or is it cypress??) dripping with moss, and kudzu creeping up hillsides, fences and bridges. It’s green and swampy (in places) but to be honest I wouldn’t recognize kudzu if I saw it and there may have been a few moss-draped trees alongside the highway – but I wasn’t paying attention.
So tomorrow we’re off to New Orleans, and I told Steve I want to take a swamp tour (yes, they have them). I also want to see some antebellum mansions, eat beignets and drink café au lait. In other words, I want to act like a tourist. What else would you do in New Orleans? It’s a tourist town. . .

March 17 – St. Patrick’s Day

I’ve started running again. I don’t want to look like an RVer, and sitting all day (as we do when we’re traveling from one place to another) is not conducive to svelteness. This morning Steve and I were each grumbling about not wanting to do our respective exercise – me run, he ride his exercise bike to nowhere. But Steve reminds me that it will ensure a better quality of life when we are older, so I lace up my shoes and set off. Usually I run along the highway since there’s seldom anywhere else that’s flat and level. As I run I notice how littered the side of the road is. . . . cigarette butts and packs, pill bottles, fast food containers, paper and Styrofoam cups, tire tread and car parts, and beer cans and bottles. The latter far outweigh any other kind of litter, leading me to the inevitable conclusion that beer drinkers are the biggest slobs - or maybe just the laziest of the human species.

This morning as I was running I noticed more road kill than usual – and more unusual road kill. Of particular note . . . .an armadillo lying (dead) by the road. At first when I glanced at it I thought it was a piece of tire or some other automobile part, but then when I saw the blood and guts, I realized it was an animal, and although I’ve never seen a real (live) armadillo, this (or what was left of it) looked like pictures I’ve seen.