It wasn’t the first time. Directions. Given in good faith but frequently flawed. Lefts and rights confused. Crucial twists and turns missed. Helpful landmarks omitted. The odd phone call to remedy. Assuming there’s cell coverage. But, as darkness approaches, in the cold and wet, less than amusing. No matter how well intentioned the advice may be.
I’d reached Poplarville, my first town in Mississippi. Following notes scribbled on the map to find the small apartment Margaret kept for passing cyclists. Quickly finding them to be flawed. Soon heading out of town. Never a good sign. Fortunately I’d a cell signal and was able to call her. She was very apologetic.
I’d not exactly known what to expect of my ninth State. Mish-mash of mostly film and television influences. Late 70s US drama Roots. Gene Hackman in the film Mississippi Burning. Scribbled in my pocket book Klu Klux Klan. And mud pie. Imagined it to be mostly flat and swampy. Instead gently rolling green fields. For the most part at least. And still the loose dogs, free to chase passing cyclists. Defining feature of both Louisiana and Mississippi.
