Despite having seen pictures of this event for years, I didn’t have any idea how magical the Albuquerque Balloon Festival would really be. 

Honestly, I had been a little ‘meh’ about the whole thing, partly because I’d heard how immensely crowded the annual event can get– I mean, it is the LARGEST balloon festival in the world, with over 100,000 people on the grounds each day of the event. Over a million folks attend the 10-day festival each year.

That’s a lot of people. So, I’d assumed it would be a bit of a zoo, and never went.

Until my van club sent an email saying they’d secured VIP camping at the grounds– meaning we’d be super-close to the balloon field, and if I got overwhelmed by the amount of people, I could find some peace back at camp. I put aside my reservations, and signed up.

When we checked in the day before the festival, we had a little section of the campground (OK, dusty parking lot) to ourselves– and because our vans were a great deal smaller than typical RV rigs, we had plenty of space.

It was fully 20 degrees warmer than a typical balloon fiesta– with temps soaring into the 90s, Mac was demonstrating the proper way to keep cool above– staying fully in the shade of the van, as much of the day as possible.

The thing with Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta is: it’s not for night owls.

Wakeup is at the inhumane time of about 4 AM– that’s when the balloon “load-in” happens, which involves hundreds and hundreds of vehicles making their way into the grounds (noisily). With about 500-700 balloons per event, this is not a small operation– so they get started early.

Being in the campground, this woke us up– like it or not. No matter, the event got started before dawn anyway, so getting fed and getting inside was a priority anyway.

What struck me immediately about the Balloon Fiesta grounds was how open they were– one could simply walk up to the balloon teams that were assembling their baskets in preparation for the day. In fact, most of them didn’t mind (or even welcomed it) if we chit-chatted with them as they did their work.

These people– above all– were NERDS.

Aviation nerds. Balloon nerds.

They couldn’t WAIT to tell you about the conditions for flying (this morning, they were not particularly good, as it was windy AF), how they got into ballooning (seemed like lots of ballooning runs in the family), and how much a balloon costs ($50,000 new, $25,000 used).

This was the very first day of the event, and there was an “Opening Ceremony” of sorts. It was at this very moment that I should have realized what an awe-inspiring experience this would be. After the playing of the Star-Spangled Banner, the balloonists all triggered their propane burners: and BAM!

The sky lit up with flames, like a huge and beautiful set of signal flares.

This created an amazing effect! Seriously, watch the entire video below– which shows the ending of the anthem, followed by the bursts of flame into the pre-dawn sky.

I was awestruck for the first– but not the last– time at the festival.

But back to that weather concern: the pilots we spoke to mentioned there was a “hold”– which is when we noticed a yellow flag was flying above the control booth. Due to high winds (reportedly, 25 knots at 1,000 feet)– the launch was in-question. Nobody knew if they’d go up in the sky that day.

Which reminded me, the wind doesn’t care if it’s the opening day of the annual balloon fiesta– the weather was gonna do what it wanted to. And that might mean all the anticipation was for nada.

Everyone waited. And wondered. The pilots were in a meeting.

And after what seemed like forever, I heard the crowd erupt in a cheer– “Green flag!”– and sure enough, the Yellow Flag had been replaced by a waving green one. It was time to fly!

In the distance, I could see a row of balloons begin to inflate among a flurry of activity.

Fascinatingly, these massive balloons had to be held in place and anchored from the top by a human. As we watched the fills happen, one of the balloon crew would inevitably grab a rope and walk out and hold tension on the line– which attached to the very top of the balloon!

Watching the balloon teams handle the fillups was intriguing– these massive balloons were so large that humans fully walked around inside them while they were being inflated! The exacting nature of the tasks were clear– just a few people on each team were making this giant feat of aviation happen despite the sub-optimal weather conditions.

And did I mention the incredible proximity these teams were working in? See the below snap to get a sense of the tightness of the space– the amount of control these teams exhibited was insane.

(The balloonists below were one of the only all-female teams at the fiesta).

When the balloons began to lift off– and I gotta say, I was surprised at the speed with which they took off! After the slow filling process, once ready– they seemed to rise as fast as helicopters.

Don’t believe me? The video below will give you a sense of just how fast they released.

The “shapes” balloons were charming as all get-out– from wolves to foxes to Frankenstein to dinosaurs, these balloons were almost too adorable. The fox balloon was my absolute favorite of the fiesta.

As the balloons took off, the effect in the sky was pretty magical. The colorful balloons dotted the sky like fireflies in the morning sky. Their slow ascension seemed to make my mind drift upward with them.

It’s impossible to describe what was so compelling about this mass upward balloon drift, so perhaps this video will help crystalize it: watch until the end.

Now that I think of it, there really aren’t a ton of apt words to describe the Balloon Fiesta. So, I’ll try to let my pictures do the talking. The morning Mass Ascension continued…

And the shapes continued to get more and more interesting– culminating with Steggy, a delightful dinosaur, and two rescue pups with names on their collars.

And for all of you wondering if that balloon above is Jesus? Why yes, it is! “The Risen Christ by the Sea” specifically (looking a little too much like “Buddy Jesus” from the movie Dogma, if you ask me).

Now, for all those wondering about everyone’s general lack of sleep– this is the good news. There’s a huge hiatus in every day at the balloon festival, because the balloon teams have to go chase their balloons down. Literally. Teams speed away in their “Chase Trucks” to find where their pilots had landed, then disassembled the balloons again.

During this time, the rest of us napped back at camp.

As evening struck, we were back at it again, and so were the faithful balloonists.

The evening event at the fiesta started the way the morning did– with the balloonists jetting off their propane in bursts in the air. The effect of which was just as stunning as before.

The evening portion was made possible by a balloon team that first figured out how to light their balloons to be visible in the night– a technique demonstrated below. Watch as this balloon fills, and the impact of the light in there (you’ll see it switch off at the very end, so you can see what it looks like both with and without the additional light).

This night portion was pretty stunning– the way the light engulfed people surrounding the balloons, as well as lighting the balloons up like lanterns– was just stupendous.

I can’t say what I was expecting when I signed up for the Balloon Festival– but I knew by the end that whatever expectations I’d had were exceeded by a million percent. Perhaps the photographs and videos don’t do this justice– after all, hasn’t everyone seen a hot air balloon at some point?!

But there was something truly mind-bending about the balloons when all together.

The end of the festival featured fireworks– right over our campsite (which Mac was really unhappy about, for the record). This felt like it made the “VIP” campsite live up to its name, and was a lovely way to close out our time there.

Which brings me to a final tip– CAMP at the Albuquerque Balloon Festival if you can! I spoke to another woman who lived locally, her house being only 1.5 miles from the balloon park– and it took her nearly 2 hours by car to get into the grounds that morning. The traffic is REAL for those who stay in hotels or AirBNBs– so do yourself a favor, and save yourself hours of headache– and camp if you go.

There’s very few places I went in the van that I was keen to go back to– but I plan to return to the Albuquerque Balloon Festival in the future (if plans work out). It’s an experience that made me feel small in the very best way– the same kind of goofy awe one gets when staring into the cosmos.

I can’t wait to return and see it again.

I was sidetracked, and got to Selma late— but what happened when I arrived became emblematic of all that was good about van living. It was quite literally, one of my best days in my entire two-year stint. 

I got waylaid on the road by attending a roadside gun show in a small municipality in Louisiana, and ended up spending several hours talking with the patrons that manned each booth. 

So now, I was heading into Selma in the early afternoon rather than early morning.

This story is really about serendipity— the kind of auspicious day that could result from having the equivalent of a turtle shell on one’s back to travel. So pull up a seat, and let me spool this story out. 

I had planned to stop in Selma primarily to pay respect to the Edmund Pettis Bridge, the site of the famous “Bloody Sunday” march and subsequent police brutality that played a massive role in defining the civil rights struggle in the 1960s. As my van approached my destination in downtown Selma, I noticed barricade after barricade blocking off streets, meaning Google Maps was forced to re-route me again and again.

I was within a few blocks of the bridge, but was having trouble parking— it seemed like every spot was taken. I was strange to have this much activity downtown on a Sunday— but finally, I found a parking spot. 

I popped out of my vehicle, and asked a cop standing by a barricade what was going on. 

“Ma’am… the Vice President is here— it’s the anniversary of the Bloody Sunday march,” he said, looking incredulous that I didn’t know. 

Holy cow, that was news to me. I silently gaped, so he continued:

“She’s giving a speech in about an hour, and they will be leading a march across the bridge.”

I went back to the van, still a little surprised at my good luck, and made Mac as comfortable as possible given the rising heat— I put up all the window shades, turned on the fan, and as I was doing this, thought to myself: ‘there’s no way this event is open to the public, right?’. 

Once my dog was plenty comfortable, I hit the street and looked around. 

The entire historic downtown was overrun with folks out and about — people waiting in line at restaurants, standing at booths set up on the street with merchandise, and generally participating in a high degree of revelry. There was music blasting, played by the speakers near tents where Black sororities and fraternities had set up— recognizable by the finery they wore, the sorority sisters and fraternity brothers were decked out for the occasion. 

This is where— as a conscientious white person, you gotta ‘check yourself’ to be sure you aren’t an interloper in a space not made for you— so, I looked around to observe whether or not this event was ‘for me’ or whether it was an event that was not exclusive to Black folks, but intended to be an expression particularly for them. 

To confirm, I did a quick spot check— there were other white people scattered throughout the event, and they were seemingly welcomed there— and thus, I pulled up to a line in front of a Philippine restaurant. It had been a long time since I’d eaten, so since the line was long, I stuck with it. I was glad I had: the cabbage and rice they served was buttery and delicious, in addition to coming in clutch. 

After my quick bite, I walked to get closer to the bridge— and given the presence of the Vice President of the United States, security was tight. I passed through a series of metal detectors (think airport security-style) and walked into the event— a blocked-off long section of the street that stretched just a few blocks from the bridge itself. 

Seeing the bridge for the first time was enough to bring tears to my eyes— I’d seen the steel-framed bridge and its domed girders in every history book I’d read since I was a child. Its spans were so recognizable to me, that it felt overwhelming to see them in three dimensions. This famed bridge was a crucial piece of one of the most hard-fought rights movements in United States history, and its status as ground that was hallowed with the blood of peaceful protestors was not lose on me. 

I’d been traveling the “Civil Rights Trail” in the southern United States for the past year or so, which had taken me everywhere from Tuskegee to Memphis to Montgomery to Birmingham— and the significance of being lucky enough to be here on this day as a cap to this hard-but-moving travel, was just sinking in. 

As I walked forward to take my place in the forming crowd, I heard a speaker say, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the Vice President of the United States: Kamala Harris!”— and realized my timing that day could not have been more incidental— and also could not have been more perfect.

Screens that hung along the street showed a smiling, confident Madame Vice President as she strode to the podium that awaited her. Dressed in a brown suit, she struck me as looking both strong and radiant, wearing a determined, solemn, half-smile as she began to speak (that’s her on the screen above).

She talked about the struggle for rights, and the pain protesters experienced on this bridge. She also spoke of the late John Lewis, and his bravery on that day leading the march— I saw plenty of signs in the crowd praising Lewis and calling for the passage of the voting rights act named after him, which contained funding and a plan to make voting more accessible (it cannot pass without Republican support, and thus has not).

It was in this speech that a she called for a ceasefire in Gaza— marking the first time an American official so close to the White House had done so. It would later make the top of the New York Times homepage, but for now— the crowd erupted in stunned cheers at the unexpected calls for peace. 

As she closed her speech, the assembled crowd cheered excitedly, especially the Black sorority and fraternity members (as VP Harris was famously a vociferous member of one). 

Her speech was captured by CSPAN and a few other outlets— if it interests you, it’s HERE in its entirety (YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BRRm_q3uBS8)

Madame Vice President’s next step was going to be to lead us across the bridge— but first, the press had to get their photos of the leaders of the country and the community joining hands to in solidarity. This took far longer than any of us anticipated, but gave the crowd plenty of time to chat among ourselves and reflect on the speech she had given. 

After over an hour of waiting in-place, there was a very loud cheer that made its way from the front of the huge crowd to the back— almost in a wave of sorts. This signaled it was time to move! The front of the group was stepping forward to ceremonially recreate the march, and we watched and whooped as they took their steps to begin to cross the bridge. 

But very quickly, that initial cheer was replaced by a somber tone— a low and baleful hum began as the group around me started to sing in a near-whisper the tune “We Shall Overcome” as they stepped forward. And then a few feisty folks clipped in with the former Obama slogan “Fired Up! Ready to go!” — which provided a contrast.

I felt solemn too— I remembered the images from my history books: and you likely do, too. Because having seen them, it is difficult to forgot them— of cops decked out in riot gear, crashing their batons onto the skulls of protestors, who were badly beaten for peacefully walking from one place to another. The cruelty of the beatings was ultimately deemed ‘Bloody Sunday’ due to the injuries and deaths brought via the bludgeoning.

As I walked ahead, I remembered the young John Lewis dressed in a formal trench coat, striding with his head held high, walking ahead of the group as its co-organizer— before falling under the blows of a white police officer’s nightstick.  

That day was as bleak as could be, and that generational trauma and sadness hung over the crowd as we stepped further forward. Though I was feeling resolute, I wondered if I would have been so brave on that day decades ago— if I was marching towards kitted-out police officers mounted on horseback and with riot shields and helmets.

Though we numbered in the thousands of people, we remained largely quiet as we walked, shoulder-to-shoulder. Occasionally, a song would begin or a rallying cry chanted (about the rights of the people NEVER being defeated)— but mostly, people just walked and reflected.

There was real diversity in the group assembled— unions, youth groups, trade groups, elks clubs, the Black sororities and fraternities, Black motorcycle clubs (recognizable by their leathers), nurses organizations, social justice organizers, and so on. And yes, there were people of every race marching.

After walking across the bridge, many dispersed for the day, while others continued on toward the celebrations further along. Since it was fast approaching sunset, this is where I took my leave from the group and doubled-back to the van, almost disbelieving that I literally stumbled into one of the more meaningful experiences of my travels. 

I still had many miles to go to my next campsite, and arrived near dark. But as I tucked into bed that night, I had an absolutely huge smile on my face— as I felt I’d been there for the a tiny act, but one that was part of a story of the history of our nation. 

As I pulled up the covers to finally sleep, I called up the New York Times, and the Vice President’s visage was emblazoned on the top accompanying an all-caps headline reporting her surprising call for a ceasefire. This, I realized, was also its own kind of history that I’d witnessed. 

I knew this day had entirely been made possible by the way that living on the road could sometimes just WORK OUT— and nearly two years in, I also was well-aware of all the days and ways in which it failed to work out– when everything seemed to backfire, break down, or never come to fruition. 

So, I didn’t take for granted that THIS day had been one in which the magic of road living had been with me— the timing had been auspicious, and the result was a near-perfect– and downright historic– day.  

Billboards are STILL one of the best ways to find cool stuff to do in new places. Period-full-stop.

A billboard is how I ended up stepping foot on my first offshore drilling rig.

I arrived at “Mr. Charlie” around lunchtime on a weekday, and phoned the random telephone number posted while standing on the grass that served as a parking lot. 

“Uh, I’d like to do a tour.”

“When?”

“Uh… maybe right now?”

“Great. I’m currently giving a tour. I’ll be right over to get you, just climb up the stairs.”

THOSE stairs? Those metal stairs with nothing underneath them but hundreds of feet of air dropping into the Atchafalaya river?

Let’s just say I held onto the hand railing when climbing up to the metal door (resembling a submarine door) that the tour guide opened. 

He was a grey-haired man, a veteran of drilling rigs, and he was already about 10 minutes into his introduction about oil rigs when I joined. Standing in front of various scale models of drilling rigs, he was explaining the history of offshore drilling— and the technical advancements made over the years as rigs advanced (basically, better tech meant deeper drilling). 

Turns out, “Mr. Charlie”— the very rig I was standing on, was the first-EVER offshore rig design. 

It could only drill to about 40 feet deep— but it revolutionized the oil industry to be able to dig underwater for oil, economically despite being miles from shore. Housing its crew entirely onboard (Mr. Charlie had a crew capacity of 58), this storied rig had served for 38 years.

In its nearly 4 decades of service, Mr. Charlie drilled between 100 and 200 wells— from the Mississippi River to out into the Gulf of Mexico. 

Explaining the basic anatomy of an oil rig, our guide talked about the floating barges underneath the platform that made it seaworthy, and then giant metal ‘legs’ — which are full of conduits for utility use like water and power— also connect the barge and the platform.

The next stop was the mess hall. Workers would work 12 hour shifts on Mr. Charlie, and food would be served all day in the cafeteria for 4 meals a day (!!)— as the workers needed huge amounts of calories to keep going. 

The guide shared that if an employee was sleeping at breakfast time, that person would likely still wake up to eat and get their meal in before going right back to bed. The rig served red beans and rice on Mondays, and tacos on (say it with me!) Taco Tuesday.

Then, we headed up to the drilling platform itself. Walking past piles of pipe, and lengths of drill bits, the scale of this operation was hard to fathom. The sheer engineering and mechanics required to extract oil from underwater locales was something I just hadn’t thought that too hard about before— and the logistics of that task, piled up on this floating deck, was something to behold. 

The guide stopped at the massive crane to explain how the pipe and drill bits would be assembled, lowered, and then winched back up to lengthen with new pipe, once maximum depth had been reached. The actual drill dropped through a tight valve the guide stood above while explaining the huge amounts of manpower required to raise and lower the drill. 

Nothing about being exposed on this deck felt the least bit cushy— rusted metal surfaces surrounded me, and each task described seemed to have a thin margin for error. On all sides, barely a railing was there to keep one from falling down into the river— or worse— bouncing down the metal rails of the legs en route. 

Even the way employees arrived onto the rig was daunting as f*ck, if I’m honest: the “elevator” to transfer men from a ship to the rig was basically no more substantial than a few poles to hold onto, while dangling in the actual wind during transfers. This shaky contraption looked like it would barely pass a basic safety test— and yet, for the entire 40 years of its operation, everyone who stepped on or off Mr. Charlie had to hang on for this wild ride.

LOOK AT THIS THING (on the left)!! AHHHHHHH!!!

If one was hoping the living quarters were more plush than the working deck— nope, not so. 

Granted, this rig was built in the 1950s, the living area very much matched that era aesthetically. Lots of stark lines, and loads of browns and whites and tans around the interior. The functional, structural vibes were utterly devoid of creature comforts or any sense of ‘home.’ These guys were here to work, and living on a moving structure meant everything had to be bolted down (even their tiny desks were connected to the walls). 

I sincerely hope the beds were more comfortable than they looked. 

The guide took questions from the group— one of whom asked about ‘blowouts’— like what happened to the Deepwater Horizon rig. He acknowledged that stuff could easily go wrong given the number of elements at-play on any day— which is why most rigs kept emergency crews right on-hand on the rigs, rather than take the chance of losing days to transit. 

The engineers who fixed broken drill bits always had to be on-hand to keep things running, since the rigs were so profitable and key to maintaining supply— that even a single “down day” while helicoptering a technician out to the rig was untenable.

One of the questions directed at the guide was about whether he believed what he did was also contributing to the harm to the planet— and his answer surprised me. 

He was quick with his response, but gentle— he said, “I believe God gave us our resources.” And then even disputed the source and origin of oil— saying that some drills were now capable of drilling over 40,000 meters down, where “no fossils are.” 

He was defiant than the planet would ever run out of oil. And honestly, based on his life experience, I could see why he felt that way— he’d seen the industry grow capable of reaching ever-further-and-ever-further deposits of newly-discovered oil sources for his whole career.

Why would he NOT think there were yet-more deposits to be found, and yet-more technologies  to reach and extract from those spots?

I thanked him, and tipped him for his expertise (always tip your tour guides!), and departed. DOWN that same terrifying ladder, folks.

One of the interactions I had with another of the guest on the tour stuck in my brain. After learning I was a “van lifer,” he said, incredulous: “Why’d you come here?”— almost surprised that I would find any value in Morgan City, Louisiana. 

I fobbed off the comment, saying I was passing through, but later— when exploring Morgan City a little further, understood his query. 

The poverty in areas of the American Southeast can be crushing. If you’re a reader of this blog, you know I refuse to participate in “poverty porn,” and thus, I will only post a few photos below of what I saw, and won’t include photos of people in them. 

Being from a Rust Belt town myself, I am familiar with the sight of towns that were left high and dry after being bypassed by highways, or forgotten once jobs were outsourced in the 90s, or got laid-into by the scourge of fentanyl. Morgan City might have been all of the above— a once-proud hamlet that led to the Gulf waters, this town seemed post-industrial in every way. 

In Morgan City, my van was literally turning heads— being a fairly sweet ride, this van looked every bit out of place in a town that clearly made older cars run for as long as possible. The van got gawked at quite a bit as I drove around town to find lunch and get some supplies. 

Which got me thinking… in general, even I was more likely to see fellow vans in areas that were wealthy. I once had a van lifer tell me they ‘stayed away from New Mexico’ because they felt it was too impoverished, and therefore, somehow desperate or unsafe (?). Associations between poverty and danger are simply associations I choose not to make. 

And yet, in Morgan City I remembered that in a van like this, it’s impossible to be inconspicuous where people have almost never seen something like it before. The more people gaped at the sight of the van, the more I realized their town was not one of the towns people in “fancy” vans generally came to or thorough. 

Because those vans are likely to be at a mountain biking trailhead in Boulder, or staying in a campground in Yellowstone, or even parked in a ski resort parking lot— “van living” is a term we assign to the privileged few who have hideously-expensive vans and drive them to some of the most iconic wild lands and cityscapes in the country. 

And it occurred to me that spending time where I DON’T see other vans actually meant getting closer to reality and away from the fantasy-vacation-life that van people have who don’t venture out to the places where no other vans plan to go. 

For so many van Instagrammers, it’s the remote location in a national forest with a view. Not a bypassed town in Louisiana whose best days were not only behind it, but well behind it. 

It turns out (I researched a bit later), that about 21% of Morgan City’s residents fall below the poverty line, and the per capita income in the city was about $14,000— household about $36,000. Our vans cost several multiples of that. I wasn’t worried about my van, or my safety— I simply had concern that my conspicuous consumption was quite rude to display. 

I had lunch at a small cafe in town called Rita Mae’s, named after the mother of the current proprietor. The menu board was one of those black-and-white signs with stadium-concession lettering, and lots of Gulf seafood was rightly on the menu. 

Being vegetarian, I couldn’t sample the local Cajun fare, but I got some vegetable soup and a scoop of potato salad. This meal was not award-winning, or Zagat-rated, but was wholesome, home-prepared, and filling. 

The restaurant was a family affair— with a young kid taking my order who appeared to be the kiddo of the second-generation owner and cook. There were prayer cards framed throughout the restaurant, which was a space that contained chairs and tables that didn’t match, but had been hodgepodge-d together over the years. 

The entire thing was the kind of business politicians talk about— and during election season— go eat at for a photo opportunity. But of course, nothing about Morgan City implied that restaurants like these actually benefit from the kinds of proposals these politicians tend to support. 

I can’t imagine many politicians would post-up in Morgan City— safely ‘red,’ Louisiana does not get the kinds of attention that Pennsylvania or Michigan get— but for all the ink spilled about the “Rust Belt,” there’s a thousand other industrial towns (in this case, fishing and oil) that got the short end of the stick as CEO-pay rose, jobs were outsourced, and the previously-solid promises of pensions and healthcare by corporations were snatched away. 

I left Morgan City wishing we paid more attention to states not in the electoral line-of-sight, and wishing that we cared more about our small towns on life support. I also remember thinking that I would have liked to have seen more places like Morgan City in my travels— had I not prioritized the ‘epic’ over the regular lives of people, who were just living another day in a former paradise gone sharply south.

The original Louisiana island— Avery Island— that produces Tabasco sauce has been churning out the same product — made the exact same way– since the 1800s. 

How about that?! Not too many American businesses founded during that time are still active, let alone— are still producing the exact same recipe that made them an institution. So, I was inclined to check it out.

This intrigue made me to drive to the very bottom of the tip of Louisiana— which, if you’ve looked at a map lately (or heard about the devastation of Hurricane Katrina)— you know is mostly low-level marshland, and not much else.

Before you get too exited, I’m going to cut to the chase: this destination wasn’t actually worth the roundabout trip to get there. Unless you are a serious lover of Tabasco brand hot sauce, it’s kinda a dud. NOT because it couldn’t be cool, but because they kinda insisted on making it really boring. 

I wish I was kidding. Look, the SPAM Museum in Minnesota was pretty epic— so it’s possible to make a cool and entertaining experience out of a consumer product. But alas, Tabasco did not do that.

On arrival, the first thing I noticed when climbing out of the air-conditioned van was the oppressive heat and humidity. Mind you, it was March. (I literally cannot understand how people survive in southern Louisiana in August).

I spied a bunch of historic buildings, including the original factory (above) where they still make and bottle sauce today. Neat, but on a weekend, it was not running.

I paid for a ticket and was given a map of a few buildings around this historic part of the original factory area— and was instructed to download an app to listen to an audio tour. This would have been much more workable if I had a lick of cell phone reception (I didn’t). I began the world’s slowest app download near the gift shop to use their WiFi, and then after what felt like an eternity of waiting— set off. 

Here’s why the Tabasco tour wasn’t awesome— there just isn’t much but a series of signs in each of the buildings. And those signs were pretty darn dry in their content… not ‘spicy’ at all!

Perhaps the most illustrative signage of this snore fest was in the museum area, which deigned to celebrate the family-run nature of the business. The McIlhenny family has owned the brand since its inception— something that I’m sure they were hoping stirred some kind of American ‘bootstraping’ story in the minds of their visitor. But, in that special way that brands absolutely cannot help but be infatuated with their own leadership— the museum’s footprint was largely devoted to the “family” men who ran it during various years. 

To which I thought, ‘Who gives AF?!’— and reader: I did not.

These portraits of rich, white, American men were likely attempting to make these guys look like Everyman (*note the shirtsleeves), but revealed themselves pretty quickly to be patrician blue-bloods through and through. For example, this sign about a grandson named Walter: “A renowned gourmet, Walter enjoyed entertaining guests in his stately Avery Island house or on his 85-foot (26 meter) yacht, ‘The Heron.’”

As a friend of mine would say, ‘get f*cked, Walter.’

The real work of producing Tabasco is of course, done by the factory workers— not the chief executives, but there were very few placards celebrating the workers. The ones that did talked about the nice amenities they were offered ‘living on the island’ which to the careful eye, read like the Company Towns that famously entrapped and bankrupted workers— but no matter. 

The pictures of historic Tabasco workers were largely Black or Creole — and I don’t need to remind you that leadership was not, given their McIlhenny roots. This got me wondering if Tabasco sauce ever used slave labor or sharcropping labor to produce their product— something these jovial displays were probably hoping I would not ask out loud. 

But I did. 

Turns out, the McIlhenny family supported the Confederacy (surprise, surprise). Avery Island was a Confederacy salt mine in the Civil War that employed slave labor. After the Union destroyed it (it was a target), the family bought the land and began using it to grow peppers. They used the salt from the salt mound nearby to cure the peppers in barrels (which has never changed to today). While the Tabasco brand clearly benefitted from Confederate property, there’s no evidence they hired slave labor– though I did wonder what the working wage was for factory workers (weirdly, the signs did not say).

The ACTUAL best part of the Tabasco Factory Tour was when they didn’t take themselves so seriously. A section of the museum devoted to Tabasco pop-culture references made me chuckle.

That said: the gosh darn gift shop was the sh*t. Not because I needed some of the following apparel or trinkets: honestly, though, the Tabasco boxers at least had some real charm to them, but because EVERY Tabasco hot sauce EVER MADE was there to sample. 

HECK YES!

I have to say, I do seriously love hot sauce (but not always the primarily briny taste of vinegar-based sauces like Tabasco). So, my expectations were low for my sampling. But turns out, there’s some amazing varietals of Tabasco rolling around out there: case in-point, the Scorpion sauce— if you can find a retailer that carries it, GO GET IT. (Bottle in the picture at the lower right).

It’s one of their actual hottest varietals, and it’s just delicious to-boot. I quickly scooped up about 3 bottles for myself and my family, it was so tasty.

It was at this point that I noticed 3 plain-looking bottles, and asked about them. These were unreleased test products were there for guests to try and rate. 

F*ck yes. 

I tried one with the working name “Red Jalapeño”— and holy nuts, it was divine!! I rated it a ‘10’ and was astonished to see it for sale, exclusively at the Tabasco store. No-brainer to purchase! It’s still in my fridge, as I am savoring it!!

I guess that means that IF you’re ever in the Louisiana marshes for some OTHER reason, the gift shop might be the place to go and load up on hard-to-find Tabasco types. 

As I exited the store, I headed out feeling pretty disappointed, and passed a sign for the “Jungle Gardens” on the way out. Weirdly, a lot of the draw to Avery Island is actually the “Jungle Gardens”— a very manicured botanical garden that the McIlhenny family cultivated over the years. Given this was walled and only available for a $25 fee, I passed— I’m not sure I needed to see the non-native plants these rich people imported and planted on their grounds to entertain their other filthy-rich friends. 

In fact, I know I didn’t. 

I hit the road, happy to have a stock of interesting Tabascos to last me a year. But overall, I was wishing I wouldn’t have made the detour.

I had been to Savannah, Georgia years ago, but was eager to go back. I remembered it as a singular place.

The allure of Savannah has been well-documented by writers and photographers over time— the low-hanging Spanish moss draping through the branches, the brightly-painted Victorian-style railings, the historic bricked and cobblestoned streets, and the gentle breeze to take the edge off the heat when down on the riverfront.

And the green beer, too. Wait. What?!

Turns out, Savannah has the 3rd-largest Saint Patrick’s Day parade in the country— after Boston and Chicago. And had been grand-central-station for St. Patty’s Day for over 200 years!

Weirdly, I found this out at the gym in Savannah, where someone mentioned the massive revelry that would be taking place the next day. Given that tips from locals were behind my best travel decisions in the van– I listened, and adjusted my travel plans to hang back a day and attend the parade. 

I had no idea what I was in for. 

As Mac and I headed toward the parade route the next day, just about an hour before the parade started— we realized we ought to have arrived MUCH earlier. Or at least, everyone around us surely had. 

People’s preparation and setups were out-of-this-world. There were tents, tables, and coolers set all over the public sidewalks and sides of the streets— there were decorations, costumes, huge amounts of food and sweets, and of course— beads. Folks had commandeered porches, porticos, and building entryways to get a better vantage point for the parade. 

And there were styrofoam and red Solo cups, and shiny beer cans. EVERYWHERE. The whole thing had the feel of a big tailgate party for an SEC football game. 

People were shades of tipsy, drunk, and absolutely blotto— despite the fact that it was just before 11 AM.

I nudged in next to a few folks who had tall boys of Guinness in their hands. They were running out, they lamented, or they would have shared (thanks, guys).

I have to say, the parade itself was pretty impressive— lots of floats. Curiously, most of the floats were created by several “clans”— a word that is neutral to see in Ireland and alarming to see in the American South. Surely, these were the family-style clans, but still, stuff in the South hits different if you’re from a Northern state. 

Anyway, Mac was focused on getting some beads for himself, which he achieved by just being the adorable boy he always is— in no time, someone handed him a shamrocked set of green beads, which he wore proudly.

It seemed the floats were also full of people who were either 1. Drunk, 2. Members of the Irish-Catholic clergy, or 3. Drunk members of the Irish-Catholic clergy. A big “yikes” to the latter.

I have mentioned in previous posts that as a single woman living alone in a van, drinking during my travels was just not something I ever felt super-safe doing. And spaces in which thousands of people have consumed outer-space-levels of alcohol were no more inviting to me, accordingly— so I watched a few hours of the parade and broke away. 

As I walked a few blocks to get clear of the throngs, I happened upon one of the famous historic squares that contained a fountain— and in the spirit of true St. Patrick’s Day idiocy, someone had dyed the water a dark, forest green. 

Classier, perhaps, than the neon green tinge the Chicago river takes on. TAKE THAT, Chicago. 

I had a campsite just outside of town, in a very groomed and well-appointed RV park that contained plenty of huge oaks and cypress, draped with Spanish moss. It was pretty beautiful at sunrise and sunset, as the beams of light shone through the branches. 

I was just happy for some quiet.

Back at camp, I looked into tour options for the next day— some kind of architecture tour seemed right to do in a city so well-known for it. But these could be lengthy, up to 4 hours— and Mac could probably not join for them— and the heat and humidity in March was going to be a lot for him to take if he was cooped-up in the van. 

Just then, a pamphlet in the RV park office caught my eye, and I realized I’d found my solution: Oliver Bentley’s Tours. 

You see, Oliver Bentley was a dog. A Very Good Boi, most likely. 

And his dad decided to start a dog-friendly walking tour that would weave the history and architecture of the city together— I signed up immediately. 

The next day, I got to one of the downtown squares to meet our group— and was so pleased to find a Basset Hound, a spotted mutt, a white Labrador, and a Boxer mix waiting there with their owners, whose names I forgot as soon as I learned them. (Yes, I retained most of the dogs’ names: PRIORITIES).

The tour was extremely informative— starting with a fact I never would have learned had I not specifically done the dog-friendly one. The guide pointed out metal discs that looked like lids, painted green, that were located around the squares on the ground— they had a white dog outline on them, and a foot pedal.

He explained these were dog waste receptacles— and demonstrated pushing on the pedal with his foot— the lid shot upward, and he disposed of his dog’s waste. This begged the question from the group about why these existed. 

“Savannah takes its squares really seriously, and it’s really hot and humid here all the time. So, they don’t want people to dispose of their dog waste in the trash cans, or it’ll smell.”

This was the most genius invention— perhaps of all time (?)— and it was ONLY in Savannah. 

Onward the tour forged, though everything we learned from here was bound to be a disappointment. 

Luckily, it was not. (THE LUCK OF THE IRISH MAYBE?!)

The first stop was a culturally-significant one. The grave of William Washington Gordon, which was — as our guide carefully explained— literally built on top of the grave of Tomo-Chi-Chi, perhaps the area’s most significant native American leader. 

No, this wasn’t even symbolic. It was just literal colonialism at-work. 

Tomo Chi-Chi was a tall man for his time, nearly 6’5,” and created the circumstances in which his tribe could live in total peace with the white settlers who came to Savannah. He negotiated treaties and trade that benefitted his people, and was mutually adored by both native members of his tribe and the white Spaniards and Englishmen who vied for control of the area. 

There are legends that Tomo Chi-Chi was responsible for the English prevailing in the conflict between the two, knowing that the Spaniards would have made absolutely everyone worse off.

Now, I’m not going to spill a lot of ink here about William Washington Gordon, the rich, powerful, white man, whose ugly obelisk of a statue dominated the square that previously belonged to the body of Tomo Chi-Chi. But if you know Savannah, and you recognize the surname ‘Gordon,’ than you know this guy’s lineage eventually produced Juliette Gordon Low, the founder of the Girl Scouts. 

So, your beloved Girl Scouts cookies are basically colonizers. You’re welcome. 

Anyway. 

Each of the squares in Savannah contains a sculpture, and I learned on this tour that those sculptures contain multitudes, as it were. The historical clues left within the artworks could send important meanings out to the viewer, and later, helped historians identify the key themes that sculptors used to get their ‘Easter egg’ messages across. 

Take this sculpture of this important guy in a coat. 

He’s wearing a coat, a military coat (but not a dress coat). He’s got his sword drawn, but down at his side, and he’s got one hand on his hip like “try me, b*tch.” The lions around him— on all four corners— had their mouths slightly open, to imply ferocious readiness. 

Though, to me, it looked like they were so bored, they were just yawning.

Mac was NOT bored by this tour of the squares one bit. Why? There were squirrels— his arch nemesis— the Spanish to his English— EVERYWHERE. Occasionally, I would snap off his leash just to watch him tear across the well-heeled squares after his prey. 

No, he did not catch one. But the entire tour group got excited for him every time he tried.

One of the squares contained a sculpture of a young man in breeches holding a flat aloft, seeming to charge forward with it. This depicted William Jasper, a young sergeant that TWICE in battles with the Spanish insisted in keeping the battle flag aloft, thus ensuring surrender would not be assumed by the reinforcing armies. 

The first time he did this, he was grievously wounded as he charged across the battlefield holding the flag and swinging it around like a man possessed. This earned him an increase in rank, a folk song, and the respect of pretty much everyone who sided with England. 

The second time he did it, he died. 

There’s a lesson there folks: don’t try to relive your former glory. Shit never works out the second time around. 

Though, everyone was really sad when he died. So. There’s that. 

Speaking of death, there was another symbol about status that I was pretty tickled to learn on the tour. If you see a mounted rider on a statue, look at the horse hooves— they are telling you something. 

Are all the horse hooves on the ground? The person depicted was unscathed in the battle. 

Is ONE of the horse hooves lifted? The person depicted was wounded in battle, but lived.

Are TWO of the horse hooves lifted? That man got really dead in that battle. 

Which brings us to the Pulaski monument in another square — a courageous Polish guy that came to America to fight for the Americans in the Revolutionary war for… reasons. (Think, kinda like Lafayette in the Revolutionary War). Pulaski supposedly invented the idea of calvary, so the deaths of thousands of horses over time are on his shoulders.

Using our previously-learned skills, we learned that this man was killed by the horse hoof evidence in the statue— turns out, he died of grapeshot to the groin. OUCH.

These squares were all beautiful, and were all historically significant. It was a lovely tour, and once the dogs all said goodbye, I was on my way to explore the rest of Savannah. 

Having been to Savannah a few times, I was able to mostly avoid the tourist trap of River Street and its surrounds. 

BUT, that said, I had one ‘museum’ near there I had wanted to visit: The Prohibition Museum. 

Was this bound to be a gimmicky museum-in-name-only experience? Absolutely. Did I want to do it anyway? Yes— while the topic would no-doubt be sensationalized, the era of prohibition is an almost unbelievable spate of history, and one worth looking at. 

This museum was made up of a surprisingly informative set of displays—  and while the wax figurines were absolutely cheesy, and the material most often reproductions— there was some quality information to be discovered within. 

For instance, 40% of all alcohol was homemade during Prohibition — and women often would “run” their homemade liquor to others by stowing the bottles into baby carriages covered with blankets, often for pay. Grocery stores straight-up sold liquor-making kits (not illegal).

Another fun fact? Walgreens basically built its business on “Medicinal Whiskey”— taking the operation from 20 stores in 1919 to 525 stores nationwide by the end of prohibition. This was nearly entirely based on prescription whiskey sales. 

The sport of NASCAR was born from bootlegging and specifically, rum-running to avoid the cops. A factoid I just loved. 

And lastly, it was a hoot to see what the liquor companies did to survive during the ban— Budweiser made frozen egg products, Coors made malted milk, and Pabst made cheese. Anything to do with fermentation, I suppose?

Of course, no visit to this era would be complete without the Women’s Temperance Movement. Carrie Nation— who carried a hatchet to crush liquor casks— had a crusade that was no-doubt fueled by her own relatives’ addition to alcohol. She and other women, who were often victims of abuse and neglect brought on by the alcohol use of husbands, banded together to “cut out the evil” and get rid of alcohol. 

Her methods were extreme, her Biblical rationale was a bit foolhardy, but her quote “No working man ever drank a glass of rum who did not rob his wife and children of the price of it” was not wrong— men who dumped wages into alcohol often deprived their families of food, warmth, or other basic necessities.

The Prohibition Museum finished in a cute speakeasy— a slat featuring video eyeballs asked each guest for a password, and behind the big metal door was a bar. Not a bad way to end the tour, but I also figured the cocktails wouldn’t be any good there— so I departed.

After all that material about drinking around me, I was in the mood for a very good cocktail— enter Peacock Lounge, a bar that was underground (not unlike a speakeasy) and extremely beautiful. Art-deco style, they had classic cocktails served up by knowledgable bartenders. 

I only wanted to have one drink, but they were so delicious— I had two. 

During which, I chatted up the queer-leaning bartender and asked her about living in Savannah. And readers, she spilled the tea on the tyranny of SCAD. 

What is SCAD? For those familiar, you know the Savannah College of Art and Design is an art school institution, one that ranks up with RISD (Rhode Island School of Design) as being one just about everyone has heard of. 

SCAD, the bartender explained, over the decades — had bought up 51% of ALL buildings in downtown Savannah. Giving it basically a majority share in the real estate of Savannah proper.

WHAT?!

She went on to talk about an ordinance that city council recently passed, forbidding SCAD from buying any more buildings or land in the city. This sounded like a scandal, to be sure— but wasn’t SCAD well-regarded, I asked? 

Not anymore. She referenced a 2017 Atlanta Journal-Constitution article (support your local newspaper with a subscription and get high-quality journalism, folks) in which local journalists deep-dived into the SCAM that was SCAD (sorry, the pun was right there). 

The full article is a fantastic read, and is here (might be paywalled!):

https://www.ajc.com/news/special-reports/selling-dream/VVfRSVilHliyrTe9LAd5hN

If you don’t want to pay, it was stashed on the internet here:

https://pastebin.com/sds8mND1

The gist of it: Paula Wallace, the President of SCAD, paid herself a record salary (nearly $20 million a year), and the school charged 14,000+ students $50,000 a year for the acclaim of attending the university— most of whom go into debt to the tune of $37,000 for the privilege. 

Through the article, I came to find the school whose prestigious name I thought went hand-in-hand with selectivity was NOT at all selective: at 94% acceptance (!), few students were ever turned away (if they could pay!). Leading one former professor to say: “We’re getting anyone and everyone with a pulse and a bank account”— yikes.

Wallace bought and sold property from her personal life into school possession at a large profit. Once, an outside law firm was hired to study the President’s salary— and was fired just a few hours after their hiring. 

Also, these quotes from former employees and board members were wild: 

“Something was not right. The school was rotten to the core.”

“It’s run on fear and loyalty. Everybody knows you can be fired pretty much for any reason.”

I’m always interested in where seats of power lay in new places I travel to— and this article was a fascinating one. This reporting was not alleging malfeasance, per se, but also painted the institution as one totally unconcerned with student success, only with its own finances. 

And while that might sound like most colleges to some, it was still a long fall from grace for an institution I swore was a chapel. 

Inspired by this read, I headed to the SCAD store. In years past, the SCAD store was a place to find works from new and emergent artists— some as small as a postcard, and some large-format works. All were edgy, providing a point-of-view that was far outside the norm, and was daring work that inspired. 

But this time? I walked through the store fairly quickly, and walked right out. 

“Art that could be in any tourist shop” might be the best way to describe what I saw in there. From very typical prints of Spanish moss, to lots of fairly conventional portraiture, the art wasn’t what it used to be at SCAD. Not by a country mile. 

Along with some mediocre merchandise (that frankly looked like a poor take on Meow Wolf), the whole thing was pretty underwhelming. And most of the stuff wasn’t even made in Georgia, let alone at SCAD. I wondered where the more indie art could be found in town—but sadly, was hardly there long enough to find it. 

I finished my time in Savannah by bopping around to try a few shops I’d heard about. The entirety of Savannah seemed to be quite obsessed with Leopold’s Ice Cream, and so I went mid-day on a weekday (only to find a substantial line). 

I don’t love waiting for food, but the hype was strong, so I got a scoop of the “Chocolate Chewies and Cream”— a blend of homemade cookies with fresh-roasted pecans in the mix. It was absolutely divine. The wait was actually worth it (shock). 

Our doggie tour guide from Oliver Bentley’s had recommended a dog-friendly restaurant that also contained a menu especially for dogs. And so it was, that I ended up at J. Christopher’s, an otherwise nondescript cafe a few blocks from any famed square. 

I ordered a Benedict (which was very good), but who cares? You’re here to know about the dog menu and what Mac enjoyed. The “Doggie Bags” section contained two breakfast meals that looked pretty legit— I got him “The Bulldog”— which included skillet potatoes, bacon, ham, sausage, turkey, and chicken with scrambled eggs. Hilariously, they also crumbled up Milk Bones on top. 

Mac lost his ever-loving mind. 

He never ate anything so fast. 

My last stop in town was to pick up a few cigars at the Ye Olde Tobacco Shop. Located down near the touristy area, I had no idea if the place would be any good, but I knew it was quite historic— having been in Savannah for ages. 

I was thrilled to find they had hand-rolled, hand-dipped cigars in bourbon. Called “Savannah Twists” these were labeled ‘Quickie’ since they were the size of cigarillos. 

I cannot tell you how delicious these cigars were. I bought them in spring, and smoked one as late as fall— and it was still on-point. If you’re curious to try them, they DO ship.

Savannah is a city that’s charming on the face, but is also extremely interesting to dig into. Sure, most likely come for the squares and the Spanish Moss, but the people, the spots, and the history are intriguing far beyond the superficial. 

Sometimes, you visit a place when you’re young, and then it fades through time. Savannah was a place that held up — the memory of the place was actually exceeded by revisiting it. If you haven’t been to Savannah, or haven’t been in a hot minute, it’s time to go. 

As a reader of this blog, you know that one major goal of being in the van was to spend more time in places with people I didn’t necessarily agree with. 

Though it was an undoubtedly ambitious (perhaps overly-ambitious) goal, I used this ethos to guide me towards some experiences I normally would have an instinct to avoid. I knew that at-times, I had to make myself uncomfortable to experience something truly different than our typical bend toward centering our own world and values.

I was rolling through Mississippi on some back roads when I came upon Laurel, Mississippi, a town of 16,000. I saw an opportunity to get far outside my ‘comfort zone’ via tons of large signs advertising a Gun Show. And while that wasn’t in my plan for the day, and was hardly the place I most wanted to go, I decided to check my bias— and check it out. 

It didn’t open for a few hours (I had an early start), so I elected to go into town for breakfast. The town of Laurel was an odd mix of dilapidated and resurrected— clearly, there was a mix of people with plenty of resources, and some with nearly none. 

I crammed as many biscuits as possible into my mouth during my spring in the South, and today was no exception. I got a delicious 2-biscuit breakfast at a place called Grits & Some, which was counter-serve but had some of the charm of an old diner. 

The food was simply delicious— especially the biscuits and grits. Though, I have some questions about why ‘cheesy grits’ came with shredded cheese thrown on top, rather than mixed throughout— but I wasn’t complaining. The texture of the grits was spot-on. 

It was then that I saw one of the oddest things I’d seen in my time on the road. Being curious, I always pick up the local newspaper when I arrive in a town— and there were several copies of the ‘Laurel Leader Call’ sitting around to peruse. 

The headline “Sick Puppy” caught me— so I asked the lady at the register what it was all about. And she turned her voice way low, and whispered to me that a local woman was caught having sex with a dog for a SECOND time. And as that news didn’t much jive with keeping breakfast down, I left that particular article unread.

As I could quickly tell by perusing the other articles, this newspaper wasn’t even making an attempt at impartiality— it was biased as hell, and NOT just in the Opinion section. Although the Opinion section was full of hot takes like “Dads are the best crime antidotes” and “America Last agenda sickening to see in current budget talks” (about Joe Biden, of course)— this particular Opinion section seemed designed to embrace the patriarchy, the conservative movement, and torch absolutely everything (and everyone) else. It was a reminder that ‘local news’ churns out this stuff to millions every week.

I finished up my plate and headed for the door— I wanted to be to the gun show early.

When I arrived, I was stunned by a sign near the door asking for ‘clear bags only’— it would seem that even at a weapons show, security was tight for… firearms and weapons. This was a head-scratcher for me— I’d assumed advocates of Open Carry would have wanted gun shows to be a loaded weapon free-for-all, but this was not the case.

I showed my ID at the door, received a stamp that said “Ammo” — I’m assuming because at my age, I was legally allowed to buy it. And into the venue I walked. 

I’ve shot a gun on multiple occasions before, so weapons are not entirely foreign to me. But there’s something about being surrounded by hundreds of working weapons and people who are dedicated to using them that was a bit unsettling. EVERYONE was packing.

I’m sure that for others, the feeling is the opposite— but I felt my heart palpitate a little faster as I moved throughout the tables. My “you’re really not in Kansas anymore” moment was one that distilled just how deadly this merchandise was— a purveyor of field medical kits was one of the first tables I sought out. 

But these were not typical first-aid kits, they were trauma kits. Talking to the gentleman who ran it, he and his wife were former EMTs that developed first aid kits for life-threatening gunshot wounds. 

Basically, they created kits to have on-hand in case anything catastrophic happened with one of these firearms— a clear reminder these were weapons, not just entirely capable of— but designed to— explode, rip apart, and tear through flesh.

The proprietor described the kits in detail— which to have on-hand for what kind of injury. I was flabbergasted– here was an entire science devoted to saving a life from the harm caused by the weapons laid-out all around me. I moved on to the next booth.

Spaces that cater to second amendment supporters tend to become spaces for some pretty radical right-wing sentiments. And this was no different— from patches saying “Make America Straight Again” to “Pedo Joe” to “Amateur Gynecologist”— it was all the same terribleness I would have expected.

But the humans at the gun show were not terrible, no way. They were far more kind than this hard-nosed, a$$hole persona displayed by these patches (which left me wondering why this amount of posturing was really required, for God’s sake).

I spoke with many of the sellers, asked about their wares, and found them to be affable, even sweet. A handful of the older men at one table talked to me extensively about the elder scams they experienced, as I mentioned my own dad’s concerns about these scammers.

One of the folks who stuck with me was one of the only female proprietors of a table– calling her business Mermaid (with guns!) Security, the logo was charming. She sold a combination of kevlar vests (see the right side for results of bullets stopped in their tracks), and RUBBER DUCKIES.

Yes, she also sold rubber duckies for $1 apiece.

There’s no spectacular arc to this post– I didn’t have a Hallmark Movie moment and hug the people I spoke with, and of course– I didn’t solve the divide between left and right in America.

None of that was my intention, anyway. I had intended to come and spend time in a space that wasn’t one I would typically seek out– and talk with people to understand their perspective a little better. And I did that. Having put 60,000 miles on my van in the previous two years– Gun Shows were some of the most common ads I saw on the road… so I felt that visiting one in a small town would be a requisite for TRULY traveling in America.

I want to start this post by saying that I’ve never seen the show “Fixer-Upper.” Not once. 

So, no— I didn’t go to see this branded wonderland in Waco, Texas out of some kind of fandom for Joanna and Chip Gaines, the insufferable, unavoidable HGTV-hosts-turned-super-couple-brand. 

I went to Waco to see the city-inside-a-city of “The Magnolia Silos” because I was curious to see a popular cultural phenomenon in-action. And I’ve always been interested in brands— and Chip and Joanna Gaines are not just any old brand, they are a $750 million dollar brand (!!!).

People flock— and I mean FLOCK— to Waco to see the Magnolia Silos. Tourism to Waco increased 165% after the Silos opened in 2016, and property values went from $18 per square foot to $300 per square foot as regular people moved there in droves, ostensibly inspired to live the ‘dream’ of the life the couple portrayed on the show. Today, ’Waco’ is still one of the top five searches on home websites. 

If I was planning to see America in the van, what better way to do that than to see a true American phenomenon— reality-TV-stars-turned-mega-celebrities is kinda culturally, sadly: what we do best here in the States.

When I arrived, I was hungry. I passed by several cute diners in Waco on my way toward the Silos, feeling bad for eschewing real local businesses for the branded Magnolia eatery— but this is exactly what tourists likely do all the time, and when in Rome…

Turned out, the queue to get into Magnolia Kitchen was 1 hour and 15 minutes long…. on a Friday at 10 AM. YIKES.

In my commitment to the bit, I decided to wait it out, and browsed some of the terribly boring merchandise at the attached store (MAGNOLIA branded WATER?!). This was going to be a long day.

Once they called my name, I was pretty ravenous. And here’s where I’ll admit something nice about the Gaines’ operation: the food at Magnolia Kitchen was tremendously well-seasoned and well-executed. I feel like a dupe saying this, but I’d count it in the top fifty or so of breakfast meals I’ve had on the road in the past two years. The housemade pimento, specifically, was peppery and deep in flavor, and was delightful on the just-flaky-just-moist-enough biscuit. 

I generally hate breakfast potatoes (hash browns 4-eva), because breakfast potatoes are generally mealy and bland. But these potatoes were so well-seasoned (and NOT too salty) that I didn’t even end up missing the hot sauce I had asked for (but never came). (It’s clear no patron of the Silos ever asks for hot sauce, as the request confounded the staff). 

Looking around, it was hard to remember that these celebrities were designers– as the interior of the restaurant struck me as utterly banal. Sure, it was nice enough– black and white and simple– but was it a kind of interior genius I had never seen before? Hardly. And yet.

I assessed the rest of the restaurant crowd as the HGTV-watching type: lots of long sweaters, knee-high boots, and floppy hats. It was March, but it could have been autumn, as it was clearly Autumn Girl Season at the Silos every day. 

I began to realize if Instagram and Pinterest birthed a baby, it would be exactly this.

I paid the bill, which was actually a reasonable price— and headed over to the main attraction: two, 120-foot tall refurbished silos, and the 5.3 acres below them which contain Magnolia’s main retail stores.

Yep. There’s over 5 acres of retail therapy at “The Silos.”

I stopped at the Magnolia Bakery and… waited in another line (sensing a theme?), this time for a cupcake. I got the vanilla with buttercream, to try the simplest thing. It was disgustingly named “Shiplap” after the wall decor that made Joanna famous. 

And yet again, I’m sad to report that it was f*cking delicious. The icing wasn’t too sweet, a common trap of cupcakes— and the buttercream was perfectly-creamy but not heavy. 

I overheard a woman ask one of the employees, breathlessly: 

“Do THEY ever come here?” (Ostensibly, meaning the Gaines’).

“Not really. Though her mother comes fairly often, they don’t come much, and when they do— I hear they wear disguises.”

“Oh” (disappointed lady).

Employees of the shops around the silos said this was one of the most common questions they got asked— that, and where the Gaines’ lived. I don’t know which is the creepier question, though probably the latter. 

The resident-employees were also clear about the damage the Gaines’ had done: their property taxes had increased — looking it up later, taxes have gone up between 10%-40% A YEAR since the “Gaines Effect” has taken hold. That’s a real bummer for locals, who reported being thrilled to be gainfully employed, but also had to spend way more to afford daily life.

All for that coveted selfie.

I drifted into one of the main retail spaces (there were many), I was struck by a pretty consistent portrayal (of a  kinda idea) of ‘farmhouse chic’. Refined far, far too much to actually be called “rustic,” these commercially-clean home furnishings had a ‘Boho-chic’ vibe. 

The color palate was muted, even a bit boring. Beige and white and beige and white and beige and white were very popular. But the thing that struck me was how the brand name was pasted on everything– roughly as-subtle-as-a- baseball-bat-to-the-head on each piece.

“MAGNOLIA”… “Magnolia”…. “M A G N O L I A!!”— this was not a brand that wanted bystanders to have to guess where, in fact, the owner purchased this throw pillow or tumbler. 

IT WAS MAG-f*cking-NOLIA, d*mnit. 

This was the most literal merchandise I’d ever seen, but hell, here we were. 

Several men around me were clearly questioning their life choices, shuffling behind their girlfriends and wives, looking like prisoners of war. They were not doing a great job of ‘faking it’— only the ‘Instagram Boyfriends’ tended to look happier.  Look at this poor wretch.

That said, I suppose I shouldn’t feel too badly about the misery of men— perhaps it was deserved for all the times their women bought a jersey, or went on a fishing trip, and did a way better job of faking enthusiasm for whatever their men found interesting. And likely did it with huge smiles on their faces, compared to the downward cast of these ‘bring-along’ guys. 

I spoke to a woman in line who had driven 12 hours to come to Waco for her love of the show and the Gaines.’ She was with her husband, who she explained, had elected to wait in the car. She mentioned that her friend told her, “Next time, come with your friends instead of your husband, and you’ll have more fun.” 

Real. 

I was getting thirsty, and sought out one of the trailers scattered about with food and drink. Seeing “The Alabama Sweet Tea Company” truck, I took a gander. Sure enough, they had an unsweet iced tea called “The Yankee”— and served it in a giant Mason jar. 

It was literally the most delicious cup of iced tea I ever tasted. And I drink iced tea nearly every day.

D*AMN, Magnolia. While the merchandise was overpriced dreck, the food and drink had proved to be really spot-on, every step of the way.

Wandering out onto the grounds, I was confronted with… more stores! And an open ‘lawn’ that was literally astroturf– and if that doesn’t contain symbolism, I don’t know what does. People were milling about, waiting for food trucks and presumably resting between shops.

I found the ‘man store’— a space called “No. 16” (because that was Chip’s baseball jersey number in high school: atta way to tell everyone that’s when you peaked, Chip). The lazy “guy merchandise” inside was just terrible— leather ash trays with inane ‘Chipisms’ stamped into them. I had no doubt that thousands of men would get this “gift” for Christmas. 

The books that both Gaines’ had written were everywhere— and while Joanna looked pristine and beautiful in each photo— the hilarious contrast between the preparation levels required of men and women were on-display in the cover photo for “Capital Gaines.”

Chip’s photo on the front was so terrible, that I remember thinking if Joanna ever looked so disheveled in a photo, it would spell the end of her career. 

As I walked around, I saw that for some reason, Magnolia had decided to plant 36,000 tulips around the area— why? Who knows? Perhaps that was the reason that DOGS WERE NOT ALLOWED ON THE GRASS at the Silos. Please note: this grass was astroturf, and still– no dogs allowed.

Look at this picture of Mac voicing his displeasure. Let me remind you, this boy was entirely on-leash, he just wasn’t allowed to touch grass. 

While walking around, I accidentally let Mac set one paw onto the grass — and I was immediately reprimanded by a huge security guard. In fact, several security guards foisted themselves on us to enforce the ban on dogs on the… and I’ll say it again… GRASS (astroturf).

There were 3 of them within a few moments— reiterating the policy of the place. I wish I was exaggerating. Texas men through and through, they were firm but considered themselves kind. They invaded my space and Mac’s for the slightest of infractions.

And this interaction kinda said it all about the fake paradise that Magnolia created with The Silos. There was even a ‘baseball field’ that mostly sat empty, unused and sad— more of a symbol representing a homey kind of place than a real gathering space. 

With banal truisms posted like “we believe in home” and “everyone has a story worth telling”– it seemed like this experience was almost trying to convey nothing at all.

The entire place was so polished that it was devoid of any real humanity. Nothing messy, nothing so unkempt as to be real (well, except for this recall notice for one of the Magnolia products, which I guess by law they had to post). Oops.

Of The Silos, a female writer from Buzzfeed said “it’s difficult to shake the feeling, walking from shop to shop, of being haunted by the physical manifestation of a targeted Instagram ad.”

Never has a statement been more accurate.

If you want to see a true mecca of American branding, check out The Silos. If you want to keep your sanity, then just remember– I visited this hell so you didn’t have to.

“I have a Biblical question,” someone on my tour asked the park ranger. 

The ranger on-duty patiently waited…

“If the Earth is only a few thousand years old, how do you explain these skeletons?”

The ranger gave the most diplomatic answer I had heard in some time, saying that he didn’t know his Bible very well, and instead pivoted to the facts at-hand. These mammoth skeletons beneath us were between 10,000 and 1 million years old, likely living 68,000 years ago. 

It may not surprise you, based on this opening, to hear that Mammoth National Monument is located in Texas— Waco, specifically. I dropped by to see this small site on my way through the area, and hoped to see the largest intact dig site for mammoth skeletons in the country. 

Discovered flukily in 1978 by a few teens out for a walk to search for arrowheads, this site was literally stumbled upon. The teens ended up pulling a bone that was 3 feet long out of the ground— and realizing it was too big to be bovine, they took it to Baylor University to assess.

A student at Baylor asked for permission (it was found on private land) to do more discovery, unearthing 5 skeletons in his undergraduate work. More bones were to-come! The 5-acre site took until about 1997 to fully excavate, given the treasure trove of bones inside (16 total mammoths were found: bulls, juveniles, and females).

There wasn’t a ton to see at Mammoth National Monument— the site essentially consists of one main building (above) that covers over and protects the dig site. Not unlike Dinosaur National Park, many of the skeletons had been removed to send to other institutions, so just a few remained onsite. Those that DID remain onsite were shown right where they were found, to give the viewer a sense of how these digs progressed.

As we entered the building, the ranger explained the mass of skeletons found here— in such close proximity to each other— was an indication of a mass extinction event. While science has not yet determined what caused the 16 mammoths here to suddenly perish, the site’s proximity to a river suggested a flash flood might have taken them by surprise while in the river channel. With the channel sides getting muddier, they might not have been able to scramble out in time, succumbing to the rising water.

Interestingly, Columbian Mammoths— the sub-species— was an incredibly rare find. This site became the only site of their remains in the country, and while the differences to typical mammoths would not be discernible to our eye, one would be obvious: they weren’t furry.

Most of us picture a “wooly” mammoth when we think of mammoths— but because this site in North America would have been quite warm back then, the Columbian Mammoth would not have needed all that insulation. 

The other main difference was Columbian Mammoths were actually LARGER than other mammoth species— averaging about 14 feet tall. That’s much bigger than an elephant. If you look closely at the photos of the site in which a painting is on the wall— that painting represents the actual size of a Columbian Mammoth (peep the chair and doors for scale).

As part of our brief tour, we got to touch some replica mammoth teeth (purely grinding teeth, as evidenced here). And then, as quickly as it started, the tour was over.

Walking into the Texas spring day, I was struck by the new growth in the area. Winter was not over in the rest of the country yet, but here— the leaves were already sprouting. And I mused about how this all could have remained hidden, if teens hadn’t been out hunting arrowheads in the late 70s. 

Originally, Mammoth National Monument was just private land, that was then put into trust by the property owner when he died, and was subsequently run by the state park service. Only in 2015 was National Monument status sought and received, making this one of the newest parks in the system.  

For such an ancient site (60,000 years old!) to be so newly-discovered gave me a bit of a thrill. Clearly, it’s never too late to make an epic discovery. 

As a longtime women’s sports fan, I had been hearing about a new league recently: Athletes Unlimited. 

Founded in 2022, Athletes Unlimited aimed to change the economic model of sports, tipping the power structures in favor of the athletes themselves (rather than say, billionaire team owners and bazillion-dollar leagues).

While I’d seen Athletes Unlimited online (they have a YouTube channel), I had yet to see them in-person. Luckily, I happened to be in Dallas for opening night of Season Three.

Athletes Unlimited hires female athletes in basketball, softball, volleyball, and lacrosse, for short, 6- week season bursts of activity. And because there are no team owners, athletes have FAR more say in the structure of the league, and the way they play the games. 

Reportedly, Athletes Unlimited athletes make about $10,000 for the 6-week season they participate in, and have $25,000 additional up for grabs if they have individual performance feats. Now, this might not sound like much to you men’s sports fans— but given that the league minimum salary in the NWSL (a much longer season of three months) can be only $25,000, it’s a good amount of money for a short commitment. 

The lack of centralization means Athletes Unlimited has a more progressive approach to the games they play. It’s an entirely different structure than typical team sports.

• Firstly, teams are organized under a specific athlete rather than a ‘coach’ or an owner— this means athletes are in charge of setting the pace and plays (see above: roster says “Team Gray” for instance, as the player in charge has the last name of “Gray.”)

• Secondly, games are scored a bit differently— there are INDIVIDUAL points as well as TEAM points. For instance, in basketball, the scoring team nets 3 team points when a player makes a ‘3,’ but so does the individual who hit it— moving them up an individual ‘leader board’ that is right alongside the overall team score.

Here’s more on the Points System (conveniently, they gave out a flyer to all fans): 

You can see, there’s not just offensive points for individual efforts (+20 for a made 3-pointer), but also defensive points (+10 for a block), too. Interestingly, there’s also negative points— such as committing an offensive foul like a charge (-16 points), and turnovers (-10). This further disincentivizes dangerous play, which is just smart business. 

The games were incredibly dynamic.

See below for what the ‘leader board’ looks like— you can see the Orange vs. Blue team points by quarter at the bottom, but then up the left side is the individual stats— in this case, Allisha Gray was stomping the nearest competition with 409 points (the second-place person had just 247).

You’ll also note that each QUARTER has a score, but also a quarterly WINNER— a quarter win is worth (+60) points, and an overall game win is worth +180. This keeps games tight, as teams are interested in winning each quarter, not just the overall game. 

And without actually increasing the pace (the clock still counts down the same ol’ way), it definitely increases engagement from fans— instead of waiting until the end of the game for the outcome, there’s outcomes happening ALL the time. 

A block is an outcome. 

A three is an outcome. 

A turnover is an outcome. 

A quarter-ending is an outcome. 

You get the idea.

If you’re a WNBA fan, you’ll recognize some of the names on the scoreboard— Natasha Cloud, Allisha Gray, Sydney Colson, and Sylvia Fowles all played in this series of games. Some retired after illustrious careers as WNBA ballers, and others could not make squads after a few years. Given the WNBA only has 144 players within it, there’s a lot of very talented women who don’t get to suit up for one of the 12 teams in that league. Thus, Athletes Unlimited is there to give more great female athletes a chance to ‘play pro ball’ for money— just in a different format. 

This game I got to see felt so action-packed— so nail-biting, with so much back-and-forth, it was well (well) worth the modest entry fee. 

And yet, somewhat unfortunately— there was a couple hundred fans in attendance, in an arena that could have held so many more. A song that female athletes unfortunately know all too well, though notably, those present were super-engaged. How could you NOT be?!

The “video gameification” of basketball was happening right in front of us! 

I loved the evening I spent watching the brilliantly-talented women of Athletes Unlimited basketball. And now that you know this league exists— no excuses, get out and see a game: you can find total ballers in their sport for a fraction of the price of the bigger leagues. 

Also, the athletes were super-accessible to the fans, signing flyers and merchandise right after their games. They were so gracious, and signed stuff for every person who waited to meet them.

Athlete’s Unlimited is a really cool concept. And in buying a ticket, you get to support an athlete-run, athlete-centric sports league that pays women well and most importantly– takes care of its athletes. Not to mention, you are giving MOST of your money right into the pockets of the athletes themselves: can the NFL say that? 

Um. I think not. 

In 1991, a small team of humans entered a bio-dome named the Biosphere 2 in Arizona– and sealed it from the inside completely for a two-year-long experiment.

It didn’t go as-planned.

The drama that ensued was absolutely bonkers, from severely depleted oxygen levels to a low food supply to interpersonal flameouts, to the attempted firing of the head of the team inside it to Steve Bannon *(yes, the political operative Steve Bannon)— but, I’m getting ahead of myself.

When I first rocked up to the Biosphere 2 (outside of Phoenix), I wasn’t aware that during my lifetime, it had housed two of the most important experiments in human survival in history. But I WAS vaguely aware of the 1996 Pauley Shore film “Biodome,” which was (EXTREMELY LOOSELY) based on these events. 

The Biodome— I’m sorry— the BioSPHERE— was constructed between 1987 and 1991, as a closed ecological system. Meaning, there was an entire world (of sorts) contained within that dome… I mean, sphere. A rainforest, a desert, a grassland, and an agricultural area — you could see the plants literally smashing into the glass from the inside. The sphere even had a functional ocean and coral created within it for key algae biomes! Look at it– pretty magical.

If you’re guessing this all somehow had to do with the viability of humans living in space, you’d be right— learning if the conditions of Earth could be reproduced to sustain elsewhere was stated goal at the time of the 1990s experiments. But today, the Biosphere functions as a learning tool for the University of Arizona– closed ecology that allows for the various biomes within to be changed as part of other purely ecological experiments, without manipulating conditions on the actual planet we live on (any more than we already have, of course). 

Entering the building through the same airlock door that had not been opened during the two-year experiment in the 90s– visitors were asked to download an app, which served as the “tour guide” for each individual visitor. Knowing this, I had brought headphones— some, less courteous, people did not— and playing their audio from their device at a very high volume (eyeroll). Now, I’m not knocking the videos– there was some cool content on there: like the participants lost 25% of their body weight during the experiment, and they used bananas to make wine (you gotta do what you gotta do).

The walking tour had a few stops outside the sphere itself to give a lay of the land. There was something space-like about the architecture of the collected buildings, looking a little like futuristic renderings of space stations on Mars from the outside. And Lego-engineering-set interiors.

This series of structures were truly architectural and engineering marvels. One of the outer structures the tour specifically called attention to was the “Lungs” of the dome (pictured to the right below)— because of the sun’s heat accumulating and being trapped in a sealed environment all day long, the air would expand greatly. Without the lung— this building which drew out warm air and cooled it— the glass would have shattered outward daily from accumulating pressure.

Scientists and experts had been called in to determine which biomes were most important to sustain life. The different biome areas were fascinating to walk through— each section was unique, and one could feel the moisture in the air and temperature changing in each we reached. The plant life changed completely over to reflect the simulated environment, from cacti to ferns. The “ocean” area contained a living coral reef, and was by all accounts, the hardest area to manage. 

Trees stretched upward toward the false sky– the domed roof made of panels that did not let much UV light through (to reduce heat buildup in the Arizona desert). One of the 8 participants wrote about how when they departed after the 2 years, it was delightful to see the sky WITHOUT white girders running every which way through it (I could not imagine this ceiling being my only “view” for 2 years).

The living quarters for the original experiment inhabitants were fascinating— looking like regular 90s apartments, these little apartments contained boomboxes, books, all the essentials (Compact Discs!!). Rejiggered for tourists, they’d added large glass windows in front of them (which had the actual ‘guinea pig’ affect), but rooms were originally closed. Weirdly, since this was both a bio and human experiment, participants later found out their phone calls were being tapped and recorded– creepy.

Interestingly, there were some displays of notes that participants kept about their experiments and their respective responsibilities within the biosphere (e.g., Jane Poynter was in charge of insects and butchering animals, as well as agriculture, etc.). The participants each had an area they were in charge of, but helped each other on rotational duties.

While efforts were made to stock the Biosphere with insects and animals, the pollinators all died, and the invasive insects (e.g. ants and cockroaches) thrived. Many animals did not make it. Despite the poor results with the fauna, the flora did well enough— most of the ecological zones survived and thrived. (*Though for those who enjoy an invasive weed, it’s worth noting that bindweed choked many of the plants as it also exploded within the environment). 

The idea was that the human team would be able to live entirely on what was produced within the sphere— a good idea in theory that was much more difficult in practice. For instance, despite having the right tropical biome to grow coffee beans in, the process of harvesting, roasting, and making coffee was such intense work— coffee became a once-in-awhile luxury (once every two weeks or so).

It meant that this small team ate mostly this for two years: sweet potatoes, cowpea beans, rice, beets, peanuts, and papayas. They participants even said their skin tinged orange thanks to the amount of sweet potatoes they consumed! Bananas were their treasure for their sweetness and nutritional value, and were so coveted they were kept in a LOCKED room– the only food to be locked away.

Now, I want to express that nearly everything covered from here in this post was NOT a part of the tour. Currently owned by the University of Arizona, the tour was nearly entirely about the different biomes in the dome— desert, rainforest, ‘ocean,’ and so on. The signposts were purely scientific, and somewhat interesting— but I was far more enthralled with the human-experiment-drama I had read about before showing up that day. But of course, I wanted to know the whole story, so went to Wikipedia and devoured a book on the subject…

The humans sealed inside the sphere did not exactly thrive. Oxygen levels were falling steadily over time in the structure, which meant O2 saturation was low– close to levels equivalent to breathing at approximately 14,000 feet— and CO2 levels would fluctuate wildly in a day thanks to photosynthesis. 

On a long-term, high-nutrient, reduced-calorie diet, the team began to lose weight, and hunger was near-constant. Most of the participants lost 20% of their body weight, though their vitals remained strong thanks to the nature of their body’s adaptations (e.g. their metabolisms got much more efficient at nutrient extraction). Doctors found them to be healthy, but not necessarily happy (though it’s worth noting that none exhibited symptoms of depression, just that of the same terrible mental state observed in winter at Antarctic bases).

The team did not get along once sealed inside— before the first year was out— two separate factions developed between the small group. They differed on nearly every point of order, from how the experiments should go forward to what should be eaten. They were livid with each other most of the time, with stories about spitting at one another and refusing to make eye contact.

One of the warring groups decided to eat seed stock that specifically hadn’t been grown inside the sphere— causing a kerfuffle that resulted in the attempted firing of one of these human Guinea pigs. Except, that particular person knew that unless they left voluntarily, the folks doing the firing would have to come IN (and thus, breaking the seal of the dome and ruining the experiment) to get her— so she just stayed put. Refusing to leave, she completed the mission.

The drama continued through to the end of the two-year mission, as the public and the news drummed up some stories about tampering with the experiment, once learning an injured team member left the sphere to receive treatment before returning on Day 12 (which was confirmed by the team, but was a minor treatable injury for which she returned nearly immediately). The public and press seemed intent on calling the experiment a failure, based on scrapes between the scientific oversight board and the management team for the Sphere– which was partly why it was forgotten

Despite all this nutty human-generated nonsense, and the shadow it cast on the project– the crew did finish the experiment two years after beginning it. They emerged exactly 2 years and 20 minutes after entering, and went on with their lives– most never associating with the Biosphere team again.

Not too long after, a second mission began— 7 people over 10 months— and that’s when things really went off the rails. In 1994, after their entry, onsite management was served a restraining order, as financiers and bankers fought over the financial decisions regarding the property (which reportedly was mishandled and losing money quickly). 

That’s where Steve Bannon (then operating a financial company called Bannon & Co.) was called in to help run the place. This set off a firestorm— including a protest by two members of the first crew, who showed up to throw bricks through the glass of the greenhouse building, and opened all the airlocks overnight, in an effort to disrupt the entire experiment. Which worked.

Due to all the insanity, the second experiment was halted. 

I bought a book in the bookstore about this titled “The Human Experiment” by one of the actual folks in the first Biosphere seclusion— and if you are curious to know even more about this beautiful mess, a documentary about the Biosphere called “Spaceship Earth” is out there for consumption online. The book is pretty wild– I could not believe this feat was pretty much discarded into the dust bin of history.

Today, the Biosphere is being used by the University of Arizona as a simulation system of sorts— manipulating the elements within (e.g. rainwater levels, humidity levels, heat levels) to be a ‘testing ground’ for changing conditions on earth. There is probably a lot of literature about these current tests out there— but I couldn’t get my focus off the human experiment of the 90s that inspired so much attention at the time: then seemed to disappear entirely from the narrative about the vaunted 1990s.

The awful Biodome Pauley Shore movie cannot be the only artifact of history devoted to the grand idea of the Biosphere— this seems like a travesty. 

And yet.