My wife and I are going to San Antonio this weekend, and we’re looking for fun things to do while we’re down there. When traveling, we love food, art, old buildings, and people-watching. We know about the River Walk and the Alamo. Stuff off the beaten path. If you have suggestions, please leave them in the comments below or drop me an e-mail!

It’s 11 o’clock Texas time, and we’re chilling at the LaQuinta Inn in Greenville, Texas, 45 minutes east of Dallas. In Greenville, they used to have BLACKEST LAND, WHITEST PEOPLE, painted on the water tower. Luckily, that isn’t the case anymore.

We swam in the pool, grabbed warm chocolate chip cookies at the front desk, now we’re watching some cable. Today we drove to Memphis and did something I never thought we’d do.

We went to Graceland.

Fun facts about Elvis that I did not know, and did not learn from the Graceland tour, but from my mother-in-law: that Priscilla was 14 when she met Elvis, and that “the king died on the throne.”

Here’s a fun sign on Vernon Presley’s (Elvis’s dad) office door:

I couldn’t get a good picture of Elvis’s office, but there were books about football, karate, World War II, and, oddly enough, Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha.

We drove out of Memphis, through Little Rock, and ate at the Whataburger in Texarkana:

The drive from Texarkana to Greenville was gorgeous. Meg saw her first armadillo by the side of the road.

Tomorrow, we’ll be Austin, in our new apartment. Unbelievable.

We’re alive and well, about 30 miles outside of Nashville at a Hampton Inn in Dickson, Tennessee. There’s free wi-fi and a pool. Life is good.

It was an easy drive, minus the traffic in Louisville, KY and a close encounter with a T-Rex:

If all goes well, tomorrow night we’ll be in Dallas.

For New Year’s, our friends were nice enough to invite us up to their place on Lake Chautauqua in western New York.

“You can stay in the boathouse,” they said.

After two hours on the highway, they drove us to this boarded-up shanty.

“Here’s the boathouse!” they said.

Then they laughed at our horrified faces and drove us to the real boathouse.

On the way, they told us “Chautauqua” means “gunny-sack-tied-in-the-middle” in Indian.

Stupid Indians, I thought. Who knows what a gunny sack looks like?

It occured to me over breakfast that this would be a great place to write a book. I could sit at my desk and stare at the lake, white as a virgin sheet of paper, just waiting to be defiled with ink.

Here, some ice fisherman are defiling the lake with drills.

What a pretty scene for a defiling!

The Famous Fish Platter at GUPPY’S is outstanding. There’s a reason it’s famous: the fish is flavorful, and the french fries are crispy, with just the right amount of seasoning.

The decor was tartar sauce on top of the fish: above our table was a Christmas wreath decorated with a golden Budweiser sign.

It was my kind of restaurant.

No New Year is complete without a game of Drunk Scrabble. Drunk Scrabble is played after at least four glasses of wine. Proper nouns, abbreviations, and acronyms are all welcome and encouraged. Proper verbs, are included, too, like Google, even though it’s damned near impossible to end up with two Gs and two Os.

I am pleased to note that I came up with the evening’s top score: a whopping 33 points for “feat.” (The F was on a double-letter score, and the T ended up on a triple-word score.)

Happy New Year!

LONDON, PARIS, & ANY PLACE THEY DON’T SPEAK ITALIAN

London is my least favorite city on the other side of the pond. Everything is expensive, the food isn’t all that great–it’s basically a big American city with a funny accent. Paris is beautiful, and despite people who claim otherwise, Parisians are friendly and smell just fine. But I haven’t seen nearly enough of either of them to claim any kind of authority. In Paris, I remember loving the Left Bank, near Notre Dame. Read Let’s Go, or Lonely Planet, or Rick Steves, and figure out what you want to see. For hotels, you can’t go wrong in any city using TripAdvisor.com. My heart, and my good advice, lies in a magical country called Italia.

ROME

Rome can be done in two days. Start out by checking into a place called the HOTEL DIPLOMATIC. Good price, huge bathtubs and clean rooms. Then spend the rest of the day and the evening walking the main strip of Roma, seeing the Colosseum (I never went in), the Pantheon (glorious), the Spanish Steps (good place to sketch), and the Trevi Fountain (watch your camera). Drink some wine, eat some gelato, and get a good night’s rest. In the morning, you’re within walking distance of the Vatican. Hit St. Peter’s at 7:30 in the morning, when the nuns are still out. Say hello to the Pieta for me, and then head over to the Vatican. Now, what follows is controversial: it’s totally acceptable to race straight through the huge Vatican museum to get to Michelangelo’s Last Judgement and the Sistine Chapel at the end. Afterwards, there’s a lovely little cafe run by a family nearby, but I’d have to close my eyes and let my subconcious take me there. Walk down any street and when you find a small, bald man smoking a cigar, with black socks and sandals, you’ve arrived.

FLORENCE

I want to die in a cottage built in the hilly suburbs of Florence. Florence can be done in one day, but it would be criminal. Give it at least two, and I highly suggest three. Meghan and I cut a day off Venice just to spend a fourth in Florence. The city is small enough that you can walk anywhere, so stay at a place called the Gould Institute (Instituto Gould), south of the Arno. Ask for a room away from the street, preferably off the courtyard, where you can sometimes see small children playing. The magic room is #249. Do the art-seeing and the touristy stuff north of the river, sleep, loiter, stroll, and eat south of the river. See as much Renaissance art as you can–hit the Uffizi and all the churches–but be ready to pay for it. You absolutely must walk the Boboli Gardens, take a hike up in the hills past the Fort Belvedere over to the Church at San Miniato al Monte to the Piazza Michelangelo (with the David replica statue) just in time for sunset. Breathtaking.

VENICE

The thing about Venice is…it’s sinking. I personally think Venice is max-ed out after a full day. My advice is to stay one night and splurge on a fancy hotel room: everything in Venice is expensive, so even the dumps cost 90 euros a night. An overlooked part of Venice is the Jewish Ghetto. This is where I like to eat. There’s no real hope of navigating Venice by map, memorize a few landmarks, and then use the signs around the city to navigate the labyrinth streets. Hold hands and get lost: it’s the best way to do it. Watch out for gondoliers: when I was there the first time I ended up getting drunk with three of them. Also: if three drunk gondoliers offer you a free gondola ride, go against your better judgment and TAKE IT!

You are in search of pumpkins. In the cold October rain, you head out of Mordor south on 71, the trail of tears and construction. Southern Ohio greets you with water towers, trailer parks, and Adult! Video signs. You pick up old friends, and head for the show.

The clouds part for the smell of fried food. You eat pork tenderloins. You eat breaded cheese on a stick. You go thirds on a blooming onion, but insist on your own piece of pumpkin pie.

You run into people you thought you’d never see again. You ask them what they’ve been up to.

“Just workin’,” they say. “Just workin’.”

You live in a city with many immigrants. A man sells t-shirts that read, WELCOME TO AMERICA, NOW SPEAK ENGLISH!

Your protest is a chuckle.

A woman in a scarf buys a Fried Twinkie. She shares it with a man wearing assless leather chaps and white tennis shoes. You are too busy gawking to notice the carnies are heckling your girlfriend.

Who are these people? you think. What is this place?

Once upon a time, I spent six months in Cambridge, England, living in a closet-sized apartment, reading Shakespeare and Dostoevsky, missing a woman with whom I’d just fallen in love, sketching a world that was 5000 miles away, and losing twenty pounds to a culture of bad food and worse weather.

Around my second term of study, and at a point when my mental health was slipping, I wound up playing keyboards and singing backup for a singer/songwriter named Jeremy Warmsley. Jeremy was rounding up a band to play a series of shows for the May Balls at the end of term, and our mutual friend Mike set us up. We got along nicely: I introduced him to Toots and the Maytals; he introduced me to Kate Bush. J’s songs were straightforward pop songs with a lot of chord changes and complex vocals. Our band consisted of a good bloke named Bob on guitars, two interchangeable drummers who looked about 12 years of age, and a pudgy, pathological liar named Dan on bass. (Dan claimed to have lost his virginity to two 18-year-old lesbians.) Once, we found an old Roland Jupiter-4 synthesizer in the Churchill College practice room–it weighed about 40 pounds and made wild, orgasmically phat sounds until it crapped out on us. We had a punk song where I jumped into the audience banging a cowbell. At one of the May Balls we drank beer until 6 a.m. and took turns riding a mechanical bull. At a time when when I had almost abandoned playing music, it was an escape that I desperately needed.

A year and a half later, across the pond, I got an e-mail from Jeremy: “Long time no hear from. how are you. i am about to sign my record deal. fame and fortune.” I checked out his new stuff on his website, and was pretty blown away: those straightforward pop songs were still pretty straightforward, but the band had been replaced with a backdrop of cut-up drums and Bjork-like arrangements. Not to mention, J. had a fantastic animated video done for his new single, “I Believe In The Way You Move.” Turns out his new EP is coming out in England in a few weeks, and is getting a pretty good amount of buzz.

But Jeremy isn’t the only amiable spector from my Cambridge days that is having good success: my buddy Dave Mitchell has just had an article published as the lead in the DUKE JOURNAL OF COMPARATIVE & INTERNATIONAL LAW. He slaved over this opus in Cambridge many a night that could’ve been spent in the pub. Dave’s not only an academic, he’s also an All-American cross country runner who has a great chance at the Rhodes. Dave was in Cleveland this weekend, and Meg and I met him and his girlfriend Michelle in Coventry, where he presented me with a signed off-pressing of the article.

The moral is this: keep in touch with the people you’ve known–they might be headed for great things.

Outside the OceanView Community United Methodist Church, the message board asks: WHO ARE THE MEEK?

The meek are either working construction or hanging out in the shadows of Palm Beach: the bus boys on break outside the cuban restaurant, the valet checking his cell phone, or the lost, local skater boys watching the tourist girls from the shade of a park restroom overhang. (Historical fact of interest: West Palm Beach was founded in 1894 as a community to house the servants of the hotels over on Palm Beach island.)

You wonder if you’ll ever get a chance to shack up in a town like this. Your best bet is to join the Romanians and get into a nine-month hotel management program, waiting tables at one of these Old Folks Homes. On your day off, you could traipse down Highway 1 and hit the duck pond, where the deformed ducks chase you around for bread. Visit Burt Reynolds park and the Burt Reynolds (and Friends) Museum. Put a fiver through the barbed wire fence around the Turtle Museum and try to bribe the curator to open up for a few minutes on Monday.

Pass PGA National and remember to call your dad and ask him how he did in the annual amputee golf tournament. He’ll say, “Did pretty good with four guys who only had six legs between them.” Don’t forget Christmas is coming, and stop at the Pro Shop.

For a real peek of Florida, check out the Grassy Waters Nature Preserve. After walking around in this beautiful swamp, the lizzards and grasshoppers scuttling at your feet, (disappointment: no alligators) with the dull roar of the highway in the background, it hits you: Florida began inhospitable to humans, and fifteen bazillion tons of concrete later, remains so.

On the way home at the draw bridge, the landscapers, delivery trucks and the rest of the 9-5 Joes wait and wait, while Jocko the Republican sails his yacht out to port. And Jocko thinks, “Well, the world stops on my very whim, therefore, I own the world, so why not steal an election and loot the country and send the sons of the schmucks up on the bridge to war?”

The meek shall inherit thy costs.

Welcome to JebWorld, USA: land of concrete, swamp, and palm trees! For maximum enjoyment of your fall vacation, we suggest the following:

Fly the Continental Geriatric Flight #1446 in from Cleveland, OH. Your life vests are located under your seat, and expired last month. (No matter–if the plane crashes on an island in the middle of the swamp, the elderly demographic will make for a poor network drama.) For your in-flight entertainment, Continental has provided SkyMall catalogs containing page upon page of worthless junk (our favorites: an inflatable hot tub, and a dress shirt with chunks of fabric cut from the collar to “show off that expensive tie”) and the latest Box Office Flop.

At the Palm Beach airport, you’ll be greeted with parque floors and a fleet of wheelchairs. Why not stop at the gift shop and buy a set of golf clubs? Take it all out to the shuttle on a baggage cart tagged YANKEE EXPRESS with permanent marker.

At a busy railroad intersection, Burt Reynolds might give your Grandma the bird. (Burt Reynolds drives a white Cadillac and smokes a cigar while driving.)

For accomodations, stay at a Retirement Community nicer than any hotel you’ve ever been in. Take a stroll on the grounds and follow the alligators from pond to pond: you might see a small dog get eaten. On your way back to the room, admire the ceramic pet replicas that guard the hallways.

For dinner, you can’t beat the Cuban food. It’s paradise on a plate. Try the fried grouper, black beans and rice, and sweet plantains:

If you’re headed to bed and your room’s by the dance hall, you might want some earplugs: those square dancing classes can get pretty rowdy.

1. Pack half the stuff, twice the money. (Rick Steves)

2. Check at your bank about getting an international ATM card. Getting cash through ATMs is quick and easy.

3. You need a suitcase (or backpack) and a daybag. The daybag stays with you at all times (NEVER LEAVE IT FOR ONE SECOND), and includes your passport, your money, and anything essential that you couldn’t live without if it got stolen. (I’ve found most moneybelts to be cumbersome, inconvenient, and uncomfortable.) I use a Gap messenger bag: it was big enough for a guidebook, camera, bottle of water, and my identification. I could also wear it in front of me through crowds. It had a zippered pouch on the inside, which was where I stashed passport/money. No gypsy can get their hands in your bag, unzip your pouch, and steal your stuff without you knowing it. A backpack for clothes and toiletries is great, but totally worthless for day to day travel: thieves can access the zippers, and everything is behind you.

4. Keep small bills in your pocket for small transactions. You don’t want to be rummaging in your daybag for 2 euro at a bottled water stand.

5. Pretend like you’re back in elementary school, and cover any big guidebooks or phrasebooks with paper from a Kroger’s bag. That way, you can access your guidebook in public, but it’s harder for people to know what you’re looking at.

6. Your main goal is to look as little like a tourist (or American) as possible. NO windpants, net shorts or T-SHIRTS WITH ENGLISH WRITING. In American terms, comfortable business casual is probably the way to go. Dress in muted colors. Browns, khakis, blacks. If you’re in Paris, you can’t go wrong with black–especially leather. I travel in a leather jacket: it’s an extra skin, it looks badass, and it always makes people think I’m a local (and I feel like Indiana Jones.)

7. At the Eiffel Tower, you will get swarmed with North African peddlers and gypsies. They will get in your face, and might even thrust roses into your hands. They are aggressive and unrelenting. Here’s what you do when you see one: you look them right in the eye and you let them know they’re not getting a damned thing from you. You hold onto your bag with one hand, and with the other hand, you point to your eyeball or point at them and wave your finger, as if you were saying, “Naughty, naughty, nasty gypsy.” You firmly, and meanly, say, “no,” and you keep walking. Shout it if you have to. When a gypsy realizes you’re no kind of target, they will move on to some other clueless American with a fanny pack speaking English loudly and gawking at some attraction. Be mean and direct to the gypsies. And be prepared to have them put a hex on you. It happens.

8. Don’t go to see stuff just because you feel like you’re supposed to. Comb the guidebooks and find the places that look interesting to you.

9. Don’t talk loudly. The French despise stereotypical, loud Americans. Learn as much language as you can and try to speak it. They appreciate the gesture.

10. Take plenty of breaks and don’t wear yourself out. Don’t feel guilty about having lunch and going back to the hotel to take a nap. It’s your vacation, enjoy it.