Clarksdale - Second Week

Walking home in the sticky heat of the end of another day, crossing the long bridge over the sluggish green waters of the Sunflower, the sun a fiery red glare in my eyes.  The pavements are all cracked and broken, like someone’s attacked them with a sledgehammer, grass and weeds grow up in all the countless cracks.  The lawns are all perfectly manicured and most blocks sport little ‘for rent or sale’ signs, the numbers to call all long since washed away by time and rain.  Big old trees line much of the street, providing sweet dappled relief from the sun.  Two young girls play on one of the lawns, spinning and laughing, their tightly braided hair shining.  They stop as I pass, point with eyes wide, ‘Momma, momma!  That’s a white man!  A white man!’ and from the porch behind them, a deep and tired voice says ‘Yea, but he also a man.’  And I laugh and continue walking.

Clarskdale - First Week

The plane trip was like any other trans-Pacific flight – long, boring and left me with a neck that felt like it had been put through a wringer and then driven over by a car.

The uniformed gruffness of the customs officials, all para-military machismo in their crisp blue uniforms, but smiling warmly when told by the gangly Aussie that he’s off to Graceland.

Beers at LAX – quaint, faux-bar bars with grid iron on countless flatscreens so that you can’t but watch the heavily armoured men dashing back and forth on the neatly measured green fields.  Talking to a few friendly American commuters, learning their life stories over just a few pints and having the minutae of NFL rules and strategy served up in a concise and enthusiastic manner.  The college team from New Orleans has golden helmets, what a sight!