In the autumn of last year, my husband and I became fixated on the idea of embarking on a road trip from Los Angeles to Florida in an R.V. Our imaginations ran wild with thoughts of picnics atop mountaintops in New Mexico, sleeping under the vast expanse of stars in Texas, and grilling prawns on a Mississippi levee. Little did we know that our 2,200-mile journey across America would turn out to be memorable, but not for the reasons we had envisioned.
“We cannot accept anyone over the age of 70 with a British driver’s license,” the woman on the phone adamantly declared. I may be 83 years old, but I feel like a sprightly 60 in my mind. My husband, John, is 76. No one had warned us about this potential obstacle. I couldn’t help but think that if they had the same age restriction for Americans, the R.V. business would surely collapse.
We decided to call another company. Their representative assured us that he had never heard of any age restrictions. “No problem,” he confidently stated. “We have the perfect R.V. for you.” However, the R.V. in question happened to be a whopping 45 feet long. The thought of maneuvering something the size of a London bus proved to be a daunting prospect, even for my adventurous husband.
In the end, common sense prevailed and we opted to rent a Ford Explorer instead.
Our journey began in New Mexico, where we encountered both salsa and sticker shock. We were in dire need of a break. Besides my day job as a judge on “The Great British Baking Show,” I had been tirelessly performing trial runs of my one-woman stage show in both Britain and the United States. It had all become quite exhausting. So, before embarking on our grand adventure, we decided to rent a mobility scooter for the two of us and take a leisurely stroll along the boardwalk at Venice Beach in Los Angeles. Unfortunately, the experience did little to re-energize our spirits. The deafeningly loud music, junk food, and stands selling tacky shorts with vulgar messages did not provide the rejuvenation we had hoped for.
On the day we left California, heavy rain poured down upon us. However, as we crossed into Arizona, the sun burst through the clouds, treating us to a breathtaking display of natural beauty.
Our journey took us to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where we encountered a charming hotel called the Vanessie. Sadly, like many other places, it was suffering from a shortage of staff. The lone employee handed us a laminated notice that read, “Our restaurant, room service, and bar are currently closed. A $30 service charge will be added to your bill.” Fortunately, Vara Vinoteca, a restaurant across the street, was open for business. We indulged in delicious padrón peppers stuffed with cream cheese and cumin, tuna ceviche with pineapple salsa, and a delightful bowl of warm, slightly curried mussels in their shells. These delectable dishes were accompanied by a flight of four different California cabernet sauvignons.
I would have been content to dine solely at this humble little establishment. However, Santa Fe is brimming with exceptional restaurants, unique architecture, art museums, and shops filled with desirable items. So, we set off to explore the city. My husband fell in love with a hatter’s shop and ended up purchasing two authentic Stetson hats. He also lavishly spent money on two baseball caps for his grandsons. Is there truly a significant difference between a $41 cap and a $5 one? Apparently, in his eyes, there is.
Equally bewildering was my infatuation with a mesmerizing necklace made from cut-up plastic water bottles, sprayed with red, black, and gold paint. It exuded vibrancy, bounce, and was as light as a feather. It was truly a work of art. Unfortunately, it was a piece that, at least for us, money couldn’t buy. The shop’s credit card system required a U.S. ZIP code, and cash was not accepted. We reluctantly gave up on the idea of owning that beautiful creation.
Throughout our journey, we were consistently astounded by the prices we encountered. The exchange rate made the U.S. shockingly expensive for us Brits. Adding taxes and tips on top of that seemed almost offensive. I found it absurd to be expected to leave a tip when simply buying a cup of coffee at a counter. With the touch screens now suggesting tips of 15 percent and higher, even a latte felt like a major expense. The only thing that seemed reasonably priced was gasoline, which was roughly half the price we were accustomed to in the U.K.
Contrary to popular opinion, we found Texas to be far from boring. In fact, we fell in love with the state. Perhaps it was because I grew up in the vast open spaces of South Africa that the small towns with nothing more than a windmill and a church resonated with me.
During one of our stops in Lubbock, we stumbled upon Dirk’s, a bustling local diner where people were indulging in chicken tenders, sticky ribs, and burgers slathered in barbecue sauce. The waiter seemed puzzled when I inquired about any green vegetable options. Eventually, he smiled and said, “Oh yeah, we have green beans.” To my dismay, the so-called green beans turned out to be canned beans swimming in a cloying liquid.
Another puzzling aspect of dining in America was the routine practice of waiters congratulating customers on their menu choices. The common response to questions like “Do you want fries with that?” would be an enthusiastic “Awesome!” By the time we reached San Antonio, we were in need of a refreshing beverage. We found ourselves in a waterside cafe, where we were served top-notch margaritas and warm tortilla chips. Watching the waiter expertly prepare guacamole with fresh ingredients was a true delight. I savored each bite, savoring the flavors as long as possible.
Unfortunately, we experienced our worst meal of the entire trip in Fredericksburg, a tourist town in the Texas Hill Country known for its German heritage. After a delightful morning exploring the town’s shops and galleries, we settled down for lunch. However, the food turned out to be a massive disappointment. The pork chops were ruined by overly sweet gravy, the sauerkraut lacked flavor, and the red cabbage was both sweet and vinegary. The potato mash was obviously made from a powdered mix that hadn’t been properly prepared. We left our plates untouched and resorted to microwaving emergency rations of Campbell’s tomato soup upon returning to our motel.
As we made our way to Houston, we passed a church with a massive sign that read, “Give Up Lust – Take Up Jesus.” Little did I know that this sign would become one of my most enduring memories from the trip. That is, until we visited the Space Center Houston. I never expected to be so captivated by topics like lunar geology and NASA astronaut training.
However, it was the cafeteria at the Space Center that truly blew me away. It was, without a doubt, the best cafeteria I have ever seen in any public building. The menu included brioche and sourdough sandwiches, homemade soups, hot roasts and grills, fresh tortillas, and a salad bar so enticing that even the most dedicated carnivores would be tempted. There was not a trace of junk food in sight. It was a world away from the usual freeze-dried food in pouches and tubes that one might expect at NASA.
Our journey eventually led us to Louisiana, a state renowned for its gumbos and étouffées. However, I was sorely disappointed by the lackluster gastronomic experiences we encountered. On our way to the Rural Life Museum at Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge, we stopped at a cafe hoping for a delicious taste of Cajun cuisine. Unfortunately, the jambalaya and blackened fish we ordered were bland and dry. I have honestly had better Cajun food in London.
One of the highlights of our time in Louisiana was exploring Plantation Alley along the Great Mississippi Road. The grand “Gone With the Wind”-style estates, now open to the public, left me in awe. Oak Alley, with its magnificent avenue of 250-year-old Southern live oak trees, was particularly breathtaking. The lush green tunnel created by their branches was truly a sight to behold. It was fascinating to learn that these oaks were originally scattered all over the estate. However, when the house was built in 1836, enslaved workers were forced to uproot 28 of these enormous trees, with root systems equal in size to their canopies. The workers then replanted them in an avenue leading down to the Mississippi levee.
As our journey neared its end in New Orleans and the famous French Quarter, we were surrounded by the vibrant atmosphere for which the city is known.
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