Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 7

Somehow, incredibly, we’d been on the road for a week at this point. In that time, we’d managed to get from one expanse of water to another. In the course of making it from the Northern Atlantic to the Gulf of Mexico, we’d sustained no casualties, which should be regarded as a major accomplishment. Why, we’d even gotten a plant – Rodney the Cactus, sitting happily unwatered in one of the car’s cup holders.

It was finally time to wander over to the great state of Texas. We were set for one last breakfast in the great city of New Orleans. This was our farewell to the town, and we had to do it right.

So naturally, we found the first restaurant with easily available parking. Its name? Daisy Duke’s.

Our waitress was Olga, who spoke only basic English. This English, unfortunately, did not extend to breakfast-speak, and she lacked the ability to comprehend words like “juice” and “eggs.” Alas. That said, she was a really nice girl, who had (very) recently moved to New Orleans from Russia to learn English. This led to the priceless conversation:

Dustin: So where in Russia are you from?
Olga: I’m sorry?
Dustin; What town in Russia are you from? What’s the name of your town?
Olga: Oh! I come from small town of Ghsnncvnvkemcxdwmn.

Seriously. That’s how she said it. She sounded like she was having a stroke, or, at the very least, had a huge hairball lodged in her throat. I was unaware that humans could emit such guttural sounds. It is also entirely possible that this was actually the name of the town.

Moldman, understandably frightened by the sound, then proceeded to knock over and spill the largest glass of water anyone has ever seen. I’m not exaggerating. It was ENORMOUS. It was like a small bucket. You could have drowned a cat in there. And Moldman, like a sailor is called to the sea, spilled all of it.

After getting free t-shirts from Daisy Dukes as an apology for Moldman's clumsiness, we bid adieu to New Orleans and began driving West with a destination of Houston, Texas. We stopped to refuel for gas somewhere in Louisiana and Moldman informed us that he had to go to the bathroom. Ok, we said, while we refueled. We finished. Moldman was still not back. We waited. Five minutes. Waited. Ten minutes. Where the balls is Moldman? Fifteen minutes. No, seriously, where is Moldman? Go check. I did. And? He’s not in the bathroom. What? Yeah, Moldman’s lost. Of course. He just went to the bathroom. I know. And got lost? Sure. Twenty minutes. Screw it. Let’s just go. Fine.

We were not really going to leave Moldman at a random gas station in the middle of Louisiana. I think. Just as we were getting back in the car, he reappeared. What on Earth happened? “I went to the bathroom over there, (points at wrong bathroom) and waited in line for ten minutes before I realized it was empty.” But you got lost for twenty minutes." Well, then I thought it was locked." So you just stood there and waited for someone to open it? (Shrugs).

To this day, I still don’t know if he actually went to the bathroom.

We kept driving, and promptly came to a traffic jam. The reason? A CAR WAS ON FIRE RIGHT THERE ON THE HIGHWAY. It was awesome! Everyone was slowing down to take a good look at this car that was completely engulfed in flames. We took fleeting pictures of it; it’s not every day you see a car on fire. I looked around vainly for Bruce Willis or Kiefer Sutherland, but to no avail.


Later on, we saw a sign for something called an “Alligator Farm.” Those of us who went to the Ag School immediately went apeshit. After driving through what may have been the nicest suburb in Louisiana, we came to this man-made swamp staffed solely by a fourteen-year old girl. Which was weird, but, you know, there’s something to be said when parents can tell their little girl that she’s in charge of the alligators.

The rub? We couldn’t see any alligators because a licensed adult had to be present when letting civilians caper around in the vicinity of lethal animals. I really wanted to pet one and tried to explain to the fourteen year old girl that we had three future lawyers in the crew and were willing to waive any and all liabilities and claims. Unfortunately, she was smart and demurred. Probably wisely. She'll probably get better grades in law school than any of us will.

After a meal in a Beaumont, Texas restaurant – which featured the worst food, the best rolls, and the only posted firearm warning of any restaurants we visited on the trip – we drove into the outskirts of Houston before deciding to call it a night. Beat from a week on the road that included two days in New Orleans, we went to a movie theater to watch Ocean’s 13 as Vegas research before retiring for the night. We immediately regretted the decision.