Leaving Jacksonville circa 4:00 pm. Senator Barack Obama is no longer traveling with us, having set sail on a hound filled ship to the Westside. We will miss him terribly, and his presence will be a constant nostalgic reminder to us throughout the weekend.
In Memoriam:
Arriving in St. Augustine circa 6pm, after many hard travels,
honks, red taillights and two inflated full bladders.
We navigate the Red Pug into its dock and arrive at the one and only Pirate Haus Inn.
We are greeted by a litany of letters in the stairwell:
Our Current Navigator: Captain Conrad.
The Captain told us of various haunted spots along our way, and directed us to the arghably awful Chianti Room where we met up with the Linskey parents:
An early shot of my traveler and I.
Notice the Full-bodied Trash Dumpster apparition over Johnny's right shoulder.
Notably the second spookiest sight of this trip.
After sending the parents on their way, Yalla Habibi and I set out on the town. Hittin' The Sauce in St. Augustine. We found ourselves very early drunk and offering up dollars for further drinks, and the likes of a very bad reggae band. I saw many people who I had not crossed paths with in sometime, and I found that they remained the same.
However, St. Augustine had changed in small, dramatic ways. Shoppes I'd loved had disappeared.
It felt as though the St. Augustine of my earlier youth had been sucked into some time vortex, and replaced with an Amber-less, Tourist-filled series of small stores all catering to the same style T-shirts and Coffee Mugs.
We made the conscience decision then to take this town Siesta Style. Sleeping away the majority of the day, and making ourselves known only at nite.
We retreated back to the Pirate Haus where many a bourbon-inspired smooches were underway.
But not before Johnny Shitface left his MASSIVE mark on the cities historic grounds:
Wayfarers Correspondence: Saturday May 3rd:
In the morning, Captain Conrad blessed us with some of his extra-thick, extra awesome All-You-Can-Eat Pancakes. In honour of our time together he dedicated a particular pancake to the two of us:
A rather uneventful day. Antique eye-shopping. A tryst at the Mission de Nombre de Dios where Johnny got his very own bottle of Holy Water. Of which he proceeded to squirt me with throughout the day (and nite).
We also had our fortunes read by way of a quarter machine down a long, lovely air-conditioned hall. They were particularly (and eerily) on point.
( Yeah, try and read those. )
When evening came we found ourselves barhopping again, and dipping into the well stocked liquor and beer kitchen we had made earlier provision for and packed.
Plans were made.Dinner was spoken of, and forgotten about.
Drinks were made.
Food braised the conversation and slipped away.
More drinks were had, and finally circa midnite we made our way to the one and only still-hopping restaurant and discovered their menu had switched to the "Night Owl" selection. We were limited to A1A Ale House's appetizer selection of fried fish, fried fish, and fried chips.
Behold, the single most horrifying sight of the nite:
E
nough to send our Whiskey and PBR filled bellies into turmoil. What is it? You ask.Meat? Cheese? Chicken Wings? You don't know?
Well, Neither did we!
We went reeling down the darkened streets
and back into our aqua walled-room, surrounded
by pink-cheeked men waving steins of beer.
It Was Scary Sleep.
Wayfarers Correspondence. Sunday May 4th.
In the communal kitchen of the Hostel Captain Conrad gifted to me:
It was our final morning in the city I had grown up in.
We wrapped the Birthday pancake in plastic wrap and it followed us down St. George St. while we took our breakfast in the overpopulated restaurant "The Bunnery".
It followed us as we said our goodbyes to the dear Conrad, and our Jolly Roger themed room.
It followed us as we made our way down the sweaty, dark corridors of the St. Augustine Flea Market that stood watch on the edge of town.
It followed us to the Jacksonvillian Westside where we regrouped with our favorite small traveller, Presidential Candidate Barack Obama.
And finally, on to our home in our coveted Riverside.
Thus Marked the end of our travels.
The day your Humble Narrator, Amber Linskey, turned Twenty Five.
Thank You Johnny Shitface for your time. I certainly loved mine.
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