The Best Southern Motel - the story for this day. The ride itself went as planned but the motel experience was notable. We jumped on State Route 10 right out of St. Francisville, a straight shot to Franklinton. Dad offered to carry Chris's panniers to the motel and drop them off on their way north. We'd bump into them along the way at some point, Greensburg, Louisiana as it turns out.
We arrived into Greensburg before noon, time for breakfast number two. We fueled up, restroom break, then stepped outside and dad rang. They were just pulling into town. We told him there was a larger gas station 100 yards down where he could park for a bit. I took a pic of a crazy spider then rolled down the hill to where they were.
We climbed into the rig with our turkey sandwiches and juice, happy to get out of the sun for a few minutes. After lunch we hugged and said our good byes, wishing them a safe journey to their next destination. 35 miles and we'd be done for the day, so we kicked off past a huge group of assorted motorcycles parked in the station lot. The two-wheel traffic volume gets ridiculous on the weekends down in this part of the country.
State Route 10 bisects Franklinton with the motel a few miles south on State Route 16. We rolled into town early afternoon, found a Subway and did our eating routine. Subway never fails in that department, but it gets bland after too many visits. One upside is the ice machine and huge cups.
Finally, the Best Southern. Let us first say - this night's lodging cost $36.36 plus applicable state tax. Sounds reasonable. The problem is, sometimes you pay in other ways. We rolled up to the "office" which was actually a front room of what looked like a corner apartment. We noticed the no vacancy sign. Edna the motel owner told us she'd been booked solid since Katrina, and that had we not called several months in advance, we would not have a room - lucky us.
Chris checked in with Edna as I noticed several men standing outside the open door of a room with cars parked in front of it. What can only be described as Mexican Polka blared from a stereo in the room. I stood outside the office answering the same question over and over from a girl not much older than 4 years. She stared at my bike, pointing at each appendage attached to the frame or handlebars; "what's dis?" I'd offer a simple description, she'd respond with "oh." "What's dis?" "Well, that's the light so I can see in the dark." "Oh." The "what's dis/oh" conversation kept up for about 10 minutes. Finally, Chris came out with the key, I asked her what room we had. "Room 115." I looked at the room number right next to the office, following the numbers around the building until I reached 115, right next door to the Mexican Polka Party.
Do you like to party?
We cleaned up, grabbed the local phone book for take out or delivery. Two reasons: Town was about 4 miles from us, meaning we'd have to PEDAL there. Plus, each time we entered or left the room, the party next door would cease speaking and take a look. It was strange, not scary strange, just strange. Here was the perfect opportunity to speak Spanish. At one point I did explain in English why we were on bikes and why we were doing such a thing. I am not sure what part translated, if any.
Oh won't you please be . . . my neighbor? The dog is heading
to the kitchen to toast the one slice of white bread in his mouth
We didn't find delivery, but the Pizza Inn picked up the phone and that's where we were headed. Hunger and Mexican Polka competed for our attention and hunger won out. The music would be over by the time we returned from dinner, right? We ran the testosterone gauntlet outside the door (Chris, are you really gonna where that tank top? How about the black turtleneck?) and zipped over to the Pizza Inn.
First we thought, Salad Bar, then we realized where we were; The Pizza Inn. We did the Pizza Bar! The idea was simple; eat as much pizza as you can stand while not forgetting the dessert pizza bar. By the time we reached the cinnamon streusel pizza (minus the nutmeats; not to be confused with strudal pizza which does not exist, although the definition below sounds like fruit pizza) we still had room for more. We tag teamed six pieces of dessert pizza (they were small). Homer Simpson would have been proud:
streu·sel/Ger. Spelled Pronunciation[Ger. shtroi-zuhl; Eng. stroo-zuhl, stroi-] Pronunciation –noun a topping for coffeecake, consisting of crumbs of blended sugar, cinnamon, flour, butter, and chopped nutmeats.
[Origin: 1925–30; <>strew]
[Origin: 1925–30; <>strew]
stru·del (strōōd'l, shtrōōd'l) n. A pastry made with fruit or cheese rolled up in layers of thin sheets of dough and then baked. [German, from Middle High German, whirlpool.]
We flopped our bellies to the right side of the bike top tubes to keep them out of traffic, pushed off the curb and burped our way back to our garden paradise, the Best Southern. The party was going full force, and the music played on a repeat loop - we kept saying "didn't we just here this one" to each other. We found Edna doing laundry and casually asked if the music usually tapered off before dark, and please don't mention that we'd asked. Flashback to the film Barton Fink (1991). Barton (John Tuturro) calls Chet (Steve Buscemi) at the front desk of the seedy Hollywood motel, complaining about Charlie Meadows (John Goodman) sobbing in the room next door. Here is the dialogue from a scene near the end of the film, courtesy of
CHARLIE . . ."C'mon Barton, you think you know about pain? You think I made your life hell? Take a look around this dump. You're just a tourist with a typewriter, Barton. I live here. Don't you understand that". . .His voice is becoming choked. . . . "And you come into MY home . . . And you complain that I'M making too . . . much . . . noise. "
He looks up at Barton.There is a long silence. Finally:
BARTON . . . "I'm sorry." Wearily
CHARLIE . . . "Don't be."
Watch the film for this scene. It does not disappoint. John Goodman delivers this line so convincingly that you feel true embarrassment for poor, clueless, self-centered Barton. These men at the Best Southern Motel may have been day-laborers. The work boots and shoes lined up outside the rooms gave testament to their situation. I sit and write this and they are still there drinking Corona with a Polka chaser.
The room air conditioner
We rolled up to the room, said hello. One man said something I could not understand. He repeated it two more times, I still shrugged with an uninformed grin on my face. Chris said no thank you, we needed to rest up. He asked if we liked to party. Back in the room, we surfed cable while the music thumped our common wall. At 10 pm, like curfew, the music stopped. Exactly eight hours later at 6 am the next morning it kicked back on, same volume. Didn't we just hear this one?
over and out
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