Cameron’s importance before September of 2005 centered around shrimping, the petroleum industry, and being the seat of the parish of the same name that abuts Vermilion to the west. While all three still play their essential roles, the wind-driven destruction of Rita lends to Cameron an ominous sensation that the storm struck its lethal blow only three weeks ago. Cameron is the swamp version of a ghost town whose primary sign of life is connected to the grey angular monsters of natural gas platforms rising from the Gulf. Cameron is still reeling. Dangling pieces of rusty sheet met [View Full Entry]

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Louisiana highway eighty-two slopes south of Abbeville to the Gulf of Mexico. The raised and shoulderless byway uncovers a lifestyle, dramatic recent destruction, and geography that the parish seat quietly conceals in its more densely populated setting. It is the gateway to the expansive wetlands where waterfowl and fearsome reptiles far outnumber human inhabitants. “There’s a gator!” cries out Alison, my newly-acquired guide from the Chamber of Commerce. I am too busy keeping the car on the two-lane road, knowing full well that any significant error will land us in a wat [View Full Entry]

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“I think I’ll pass on the alligator bites for today, sweetie.” People here refer to pretty wait staff as “darling”, “sweetheart” or some other term of endearment. The pretty twenty-year-old leaned towards me at the counter and offered another suggestion from the menu. “Our oysters on the half shell are just the-” “No, thank you.” Just the thought of the slimy raw arthropods getting near my throat causes me to involuntarily gag up one of my lungs. Seated ext to me are Mom, Dad, and son enjoying three dozen of them served on [View Full Entry]

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Abbeville’s unique and elegant downtown should be an icon for Main Street America. Founded by Père Antoine Désiré Mégret in 1843 as La Chapelle, Père Mégret designed Abbeville with two connected central squares around which traffic flows counterclockwise. The manicured grounds of St. Mary Magdalen church anchor the western square at the center of which is a tastefully designed park with benches, a white gazebo in a corner, a gurgling fountain, and a statute of Father Mégret. Behind the rectory’s framed flower beds and palm plants rests the remains of Abbeville’s ancestors [View Full Entry]

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Resigned to a quiet and solitary Christmas Day, I went to the only place in Abbeville I was I could get a meal. All the restaurants, even the fast food outlets, are closed; Abbeville hasn’t enough traffic to merit anything else open but the convenience store at the Valero gas station. Undaunted, I bought some coffee and a pre-packaged three-day old sandwich. I carried it over to the counter by the front window to enjoy my Holiday breakfast. On the third bite, someone inserted his hand in front of my face, between my mouth and my meal. “How ya doin’! Merry [View Full Entry]

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The bar-fenced Texas ranches of sharp defoliated bushes along I-10 enclose lethargic cattle grazing on dry vegetation. Little changes on the horizon to keep the mind occupied on any highway in East Texas. The broad plots of land are replaced first by oboe-like towers of petroleum refineries in the Houston area. On the far side of the Sabine River, swamps and canals welcome motorists far more appropriately than even the signpost that reads Bienvenue en Louisiane. Vermilion Parish lacks color and is flat, dry, and shapeless in late December. The heat is unimaginable in the summer, they say. [View Full Entry]

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From the moment I stepped off the plane in Bangkok to the last call for passengers to board back to JFK, I never heard a single Thai, Laotian, or Cambodian complain much about anything. It’s not in their Buddhist nature to raise a ruckus. Of all people, Cambodians have the right to a long list of grievances and I would not deny them the opportunity to express them every hour of the day if they so chose. No country’s people have been screwed over more than the Cambodians and deserved it less. At no point have I seriously questioned my safety [View Full Entry]

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You know you’re in a third world country when… 1. You ask the taxi driver if the police are honest, not the other way around. 2. No one can make change in a shop for the equivalent of $10 at nine in the morning. 3. The welcoming committee and your favorite restaurant or guesthouse is a sleeping dog. 4. The taxi fare to the bus or train station is far greater than the one you’re about to pay for the eight-hour, overnight journey. 5. Backpackers haggle over fifty cents on a taxi fare. 6. A bitch in heat keeps you up [View Full Entry]

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The junior archeologist from the English Midlands has never toed the line. Conventional wisdom turns him off; he prefers to shake things up. Being at a crossroads, he has come to Cambodia for the third time, but not to excavate temple foundations. Instead, as with so many other of his compatriots, he has left his office-based job to spread his wings in ways that the confinement and conformity of the United Kingdom will not permit. He does not fear failure. He has already attempted to live in Peru, but a business deal fell through at the last minute. He seeks balance [View Full Entry]

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No matter what type of soup it is, I always down the broth first, then I go for the main ingredients after which it is named. At a pasta meal, I put aside the spicy sausage until the linguine is finished. I savor each bite until my plate is empty; it belnds quite well with wine. In the classroom the most engaging or entertaining lessons are left for right before the end of the unit, a day or two before the exam. I hold the game, activity, or interactive video as a reminder of what is to come when and if [View Full Entry]

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