Mobile, AL

Leaving Mississippi, still whirlwind touring the South, we went to Mobile, AL.  We wanted to see the gulf coast.  Other than its geographic location, all I really knew of Mobile was Dylan’s “Stuck in Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again.”  We actually had Memphis blues in Mobile: we missed Aaron.

On the way to Mobile, we stopped at Waffle House, a southern breakfast chain.  Alexi, lover that he is of the Belgian waffle, asked the waitresses if they had ever tried the delicacy.  Upon learning that they had not, he ran next door and purchased a pint of ice cream.  The waitresses loved it.  The old, growly dude in a cowboy hat and boots loved it.  Even the manager was a fan.  We make so many friends in the South.  In a land where even pickles are deep-fried, we were rather surprised that these folk hadn’t added ice cream to their waffles earlier.  We felt like missionaries spreading a delicious gospel.  We also felt like those colonial missionaries who contributed, in one way or another, to mass-death of native populations.  But we brought diabetes instead of small pox.

Talking to the black waitresses at Waffle House reminded us of how white our southern experience has been.  CouchSurfing is mainly composed of white, liberal twentysomethings.  Seeing the South in this way has been eye-opening.  But surely we’ve had a limited view.

In Mobile, we shot guns with a wonderful man named Kenneth and a Finn named Ila.  Then we befriended an Indian (like, from India) sailor and seriously contemplated joining the shipping industry.  We also ate gulf shrimp.  Score.


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