Now to Natchez
The four-hour drive to Natchez threatened to be another exercise in endurance after yesterday’s Clarksdale marathon. But the road had more curves this time, which at least broke the monotony. Still, it was the kind of journey where you find yourself counting the miles and wishing them away.
Vicksburg
We stopped in Vicksburg, a small town that wears its history like a badge of honour. This place really leans into its Civil War credentials—the siege, the resistance, the whole “holding out against the Unionist forces” narrative. It’s clearly a point of local pride, though we didn’t actually see any of the relics or battlefields. Instead, we found ourselves in the quaint town centre, parked on a bench in the sunshine, eating our sandwiches like proper tourists.
Sometimes the best moments are the unplanned ones. The sun was warm on our faces, the town was quiet, and for a little while, the road trip felt exactly as it should. A pleasant break, nothing more, nothing less.
Natchez
We pressed on to Natchez and our BnB, which Maggi had specifically chosen as an antebellum home experience. Two nights in a slice of Southern history. We checked in early, and I immediately committed the ultimate travel sin: I sat down to watch football. Brentford versus Arsenal. In my defence, a man has his priorities.
The game was a disappointment. Few goal-mouth action, no scintillating football, and a thoroughly deserved 1-1 draw that neither set deserved to win. I’d carved out time from a road trip through the Deep South for that. Ah well.
After the final whistle, Maggi and I walked into the centre of Natchez, and the contrast with Clarksdale was immediate and striking. This town is in much better shape. There’s a sense of care here, of pride. That said, the retail premises tell a familiar story—many are permanently closed, their windows dark, their signs faded. The post-industrial malaise reaches even the prettier towns.
We wandered down to Main Street and then further, until suddenly the Mississippi River opened up before us. A beautiful sight at sunset, the water wide and dark, the sky doing its evening thing with oranges and purples. Worth the walk.
Frankie’s on Main
We chose Frankie’s on Main for dinner, largely on instinct. Shared some chips—fries, I must remember to call them fries—and followed with a salad each. Nothing to write home about. The food was fine, the setting was pleasant enough, but as usual it felt overpriced for what it was. Not every meal can be a revelation.
The Crisis
We returned to the BnB feeling content enough, only to find chaos waiting. Our hotel reservation for New Orleans had been cancelled by Booking.com. Just gone. Poof.
Maggi spent the next two hours on the phone, being bounced around to Singapore, where customer service representatives proved to be something between unhelpful and outright rude. You know that particular helpless feeling when you’re on hold for the fourth time, repeating the same information to a different person who doesn’t care? That was our evening.
We eventually fell asleep not knowing where we’d be staying from Monday to Thursday in New Orleans. Four nights, no roof, and a phone battery that needed resuscitating. Some problems can’t be solved at 11pm, so we surrendered to sleep and hoped the morning would bring answers.
Tomorrow, we’d figure it out. We had to.