st. francisville

Aug. 6, 2009

We rolled up to the library in St. Francisville, LA. The town glowed pink and warm. Local art galleries and independent coffee shops lined the two-lane “downtown.” Picket fences separated Creole cottages, and rocking chairs beckoned from front porches.

From the library, I called Eddie—a friend of my third cousin-in-law in Baton Rouge. “We’re at the library. How do we get to your place from here?” “Did you see the librarian who just walked in? That’s my wife. She’ll tell you.”

We biked down a shaded lane interspersed with green pastures. Eddie and Pam’s white house sat on 4 acres. Their son greeted us at the door, showed us our room, the bathroom; and after showers, Eddie offered us eggplant lasagna before leaving with his wife for a poetry reading.

In town the next morning, Bree and I parked our bikes at Bird Man Café. We ordered sweet potato and “heart healthy” pancakes, vanilla yogurt with peaches and banana, scrambled eggs, sausage, buttered grits, and a biscuit. With only half a plate left to clear, we broke out the Tupperware. A man in a suit approached us. “Where y’all from?”
After hearing our story, he turned to the barrista: “Did you know they’re biking to Oregon?” “Oh yeah, I know,” she said. “They stayed with Eddie and Pam last night.” We hadn’t told her that. When Bree went up to pay, Suit Man added our bill to his tab. The preacher at the next table over asked for our names and said his church would be praying for us.

We left Bird Man jaws dropped by the generosity, biked down to the ferry, crossed the Mississippi with wind in our faces, hit solid ground and continued pedaling west.