Biloxi Blues

Fort Walton might be one of the gorgeous sugar sand beach resorts but it is not called Fort for nothing. No sooner are we on our way, sad to leave, than we pass a big Airforce Airport, a huge complex with Special Ops Command. Navy seals etcetera train here, says Bruce. The property goes on and on behind a high cylcone fence, veritable suburbs of residences rather like the ones Bruce lived in as a “Marine brat” boy. There on a sports field are the forces families picnicking and playing sport.

Well, this place explains the exotic aircraft flying over the Nautilus.

This area seems to be called Florarosa.

We’re on a busy highway heading west along the Gulf coast. There are cheap fibro homes, humble homes, some with faux brick facades. There’s a trailer park.

And here come the lawyers beaming down from the giant hoardings.

Hang on. This one is rather stern-looking. Zarsaur legal firm.

Simpson is smiling, however.

We’re still in the watery coastal country. I can see sand dunes in the distance and new developments upon them And lots of hoardings - hair salon, accountant, restaurant.

Oh, and Ron the Sign Man with a very big Ron the Sign Man sign.

The roadsides out the window alternate with stunted pine scrub and commerce. A lot of cars and pawn, which seem to go together here in the Deep South. And churches.

For the road trip passenger, all these things are the flavour of the culture. Literally, a window on America. The country puts it all out there for the traveller - and this is a country of people on the move. Hence the busy roads. Hence the emphatic marketing.

Wow, but here comes the tiniest airstrip I ever saw - just a field with a short runway out over water. And tiny, tiny planes. Well, I never. I wonder who uses them and why.

I’ll never know because they are past us now and I’m looking at a beaming financial advisor up there on a huge hoarding.

This is hoarding territory. They grow them big, too. Lucrative cash crop, I bet.

Bart Pullum the Realtor is giving me a conspiratorial look from one of them.

Good heavens, There’s a Seashells Supermarket. There’s something sad about the idea of buying one’s shells in a huge retail environment rather than finding them on a beach. We don’t stop.

There are more high rise hotels ahead. Navarre Beach. Fabulous sand dunes around them and lots of fancy houses. I bet they’re all decorated in marine theme with shells from the Seashells Supermarket.

More retail. Publix supermarket and vape shops, nail parlour, mattress warehouse. Oh, and here is Weaver the lawyer on his hoarding. What a cheerful fellow. Commerce is broken up by a length of scrub, then more business. Hotels, car yards, petrol stations.

Sign: No perfect people allowed. Hm. That’s for the Monumentum Church, whatever that is. We will fix you. The landscape’s getting swampy now. Perfect for lawyers. And there’s Jennifer Byron with an extremely come-hither look on her face. And joy of joys,

our old friend smiling Alexander Shunnarah, Attorney. Haven’t seem him since Alabama and don’t we need him now. A new housing development comes with a hoarding showing a plump and contented family and recommending one votes for Sam Parker as Commissioner. That must be the dad up there.

A couple of churches further on,

there’s Alexander Shunnarah again.

Then, just a gun range, pawn shop, and a couple of mini storages later, there he is again, still smiling. This man is a serious hoardings star and isn’t he trying hard?

A water tower, a phone tower, a thrift store and a bit of scrub later - guess who? Yes, our Shunnarah.

Past the Natahala Beach road and a Spanish-style church, there he is again. Not once but twice. Bruce is making cracks about Better Call Saul.

With that,

we hum over an absolutely fabulous and huge new bridge with signs pointing to Alabama. And we have to pay a toll. It has been a while since we paid a toll. I scramble for change. It’s $3.75, accepted by a lovely old toll booth lady in a very vibrant Miami shirt.

It’s pine scrub country, straight road. There’s water in the distance.

And then we hook onto the big Interstate Highway 10 West. And then 59, the road to Mobile. Trucks, roadworks, scrub and another bridge undulating elegantly over Escambia Bay and into Pensacola. Ugh. This is an ugly, rough road cursed by roadworks. Eternal road works beset this country. Bollards and barriers. Bruce mutters as we bump along, passing lumbering trucks and exit signs announcing lodgings and food. When the road improves, guess who is there to share the joy?

Yep. Alexander Shunnarah. It’s a last ditch hoarding for the next one thanks us for visiting Florida.

And now a sign says Alabama - Sweet Home.

Our first Alabama road since Montgomery before Florida is pinkish, winding and lined with pine scrub and a soft long grass verge. At first it seems as if it has no lawyer advertising, just food outlets and a big fireworks store. It is very big fireworks store. But I have seen bigger on these roads. It is a bit of a let down.

Then Maloney Frost appears. I will personally return your call, he promises. He is holding a phone.

Here comes Mobile Bay with another bridge over swamps and a skyline. The road is heavy with massive trucks and those huge five-star RV home travellers with their motorcars on trailers behind.

I’ve always heard of Mobile, Alabama but never in a good way. Bruce says it was a strategic Civil War site. There was a big naval battle here to enforce the strangling Union blockade of the Confederacy. As in the many strategic engagements of the Civil War, the South lost the battle and the port of Mobile.

Modern Mobile seems to have just one skyscraper and lots of cranes. The road in is quite pretty with marshy lakes and complex waterways. I see herons nesting out there. The waters are dead calm.

It is a beautiful day.

We weave our way into town with Google’s advice on where to eat.

Red Hat ladies brighten one street as we zig zag through one-way back streets, some of them, so many of them, unnervingly down at heel. And then, suddenly, we are in a pocket of arty chic. There’s a sound stage being set up for a festival. People are dining at sidewalk tables. There’s an interesting art shop with some rustic repurposing artwork on the pavement.

Our restaurant, Wintzel’s Oyster Houe, takes up a lot of verandah real estate. Fried, Stewed, Nude, its sign brags. Inside it is a zany wonderland of posters,photographs and signs. Very colourful. Years of work. They all seem to be aphorisms of one sort of another: You can’t climb the ladder of success with your hands in your pockets; Ice is one of the few things which is really what its cracked up to be; The best way to

get a wart off your hands is to marry him.

There is years of reading here.

There’s an oyster bar along one wall with a bent and elderly African American man grumpily opening oysters. I go for a closer look and ask about the oysters. He is not forthcoming. Hmm. So I read the poster behind him. "Be Kind to Oysters Week", it says. There’s

another cook behind a glass wall throwing things into a deep fryer.

The waitress is perky, however. I order iced tea and fried oyster salad, which seems to be one of the myriad specials. The oysters are warm moist centres in a fairly heavy blob of batter. More batter than oyster. They looked so fat when raw on the bar. Are these the same oysters?

It is a fairly unremarkable meal.

Google can’t help us out of Mobile. There are road blocks manned by police everywhere.

Something to do with that sound stage and an impending festival.

Finally, we make it back to the busy open road, turn on some music, and hurtle down the big Interstate. It is pretty intense driving. The traffic is hard, fast and aggressive. I distract myself by looking out for Shunnarah signs, pondering just how much it must cost Shunnanah to advertise his services.

Luckily, it is not a long way to Biloxi, our destination for the night and with much relief and slightly dyspeptic tummies, we unload the car at our Country Inn and Suites by Carlson which turns out to be nearer to Ocean Springs than to Biloxi.

We are liking the Country Inn and Suites hotels and are now card-carrying members of their club. The beds are fantastic, the rooms are airy and well-equipped and the pools good.

We check the place out and then go to check out Biloxi.

Biloxi is important to me because of the Neil Simon play, Biloxi Blues.

A couple of decades ago, my son Ryder was cast as Eugene, the lead in this play when Peter Goers, under his banner of Jimmy Zoole Presents theatre, produced it in The Arts Theatre, Adelaide. Peter had talent-scouted Ryder at a La Mama production and saw his potential. Ryder was only 16. I was a nervous mother at this huge responsibility for one so young but Peter’s confidence was well placed. The show was a triumph and so was Ryder. And what was to be a very close and precious

lifelong friendship was to be established with Peter who remains as close and beloved to me as the soulmate brother I never had.

Well, there are absolutely no signs of anything Neil Simon in this tough little coastal town.

It once had a lovely old historic district, I read. But what we see is all casinos. Massive casinos. A great towering glut of casinos. The Hard Rock stars with a high-rise sized guitar glinting out the front. This could be Las Vegas or Atlantic City. I had no idea.

We explore up and down the beachside drag. There is a fabulous structure which says it is an art museum. Oh, yes. Something of interest. We park and go in. It is casino-sponsored African American art. It is shut.

Oh well, the live oak trees outside are glorious and the I see my first drapes of Spanish moss on this trip. We drive the rest of the main drag and find the Biloxi Tourism Centre in a handsome old ante bellum style building, set high up a stately staircase with a broad porch and rocking chairs.

It is cool inside and interesting. There’s a museum and a terrific little shop. I buy postcards and trinkets and have a wonderful chat with a very personable gay young shop assistant who

has visited Australia and dreams to live there. We sit outside on the rockers in the limp-making heat and look at the lighthouse and the beach-goers across the road. There is a pole showing the depth of the floods here when hurricane Katrina came through. Wow. We stand under it and quake.

One last drive the length of Biloxi. It just seems to have been eaten alive by ritzy casinos. It struggles to find character.

Ah, Biloxi Blues indeed.

Ocean Springs, on the other hand, turns on the charm.

It is just gorgeous, its narrow main streets lined by quaint and interesting little clothing and art stores and shaded from side to side by a great arc of ancient live oak trees.

We park the car and stroll, admiring handsome old houses and the gnarled beauty of the trees.

The main street is a charming walk beside sweet old homes and idiosyncratic small businesses.

A couple canoodling on a bench beneath the moss-draped live oaks. Those marvellous gnarled old trees embracing the street. Live oaks are a joy and so is the Spanish moss they accommodate. I am just loving being here beneath them, very conscious of how old is the settlement of this country.

Ocean Springs is not on the tourist map. It is one of those glorious secrets... Just saying.

Walking and revelling in the character of this place, the bookshop with its witty invitation, the fellows passing the time on the streetside bench, fanning themselves with old-fashioned southern belle hand fans, one of them so obese his loose layers hang from the seat...

With help from dear old Google, we scope out places to eat and decide that the Pho House is us. But it is too early. We stroll some more and

then find a breezy table at a rustic-style and very busy bar. I order a margarita which comes in a big plastic glass with a salt rim and a straw. Not exactly elegant but who cares. We enjoy watching the locals, lots of whom seem to be army lads, black and white, drinking shots and getting rowdy. There’s a pretty girl using her dog to attract a a pickup - and failing. Only an old drunk at the bar seems to want to talk to her.

The Pho House turns out to be decidedly idiosyncratic. A very grouchy Asian woman tells us what we may and may not have. There is nothing off menu here. She is very strict. OK, she will ask for some extra beansprouts.There is only one other table of diners here. Bruce orders a pho and I order a catfish hotpot which is salty and intense but the catfish is delicate and lovely. Bruce enjoys his pho. The beansprouts come raw on a saucer.

It seems to have been a massive day.

Sometimes, there are so many experiences and impressions on this adventure that one feels one’s head will burst trying to tuck them all into memory. One fails, of course. We struggle to remember which hotel we were in three weeks ago - and bless the effort of this blog to have it on the record.