So, we awake to our first morning in Florence, AL. All is well for the moment. We head directly for the bar, The Smokehouse. A pitcher of beer and we are left alone for writing our thoughts. There will be pictures on my flickr shortly.

The Smokehouse left us good and moving in the writers’ mood. We stumbled down to the Salvation Army, took some funny pictures of me in hats, then sat down on a bench outside for a smoke. A man from the Salvation Army approached us, and joined in conversation about our trip. This town seems to love the idea of the traveling writer.

We walked down a block or so after this, stopping in a Chicago Deli, I’ll get you a name for this place soon. The owner was very nice, we discussed when he hitched across the country in the late 1960s.

This town loves the traveling writer.

At the moment, Scarab is taking a much needed nap in the trunk of my car, as my keys are locked in! I’ll be calling roadside assistance soon.

We were lucky enough to receive another donation from Gerald Parish. Gerald, if you see this, drop us a line or comment and thank you so much for the donation!

So here we are, lost in a city of marvels. You can feel the music and the river in this town, just by looking at the streets, the shops, the bars, the bridges. It’s all here. W.C. Handy had the right place for inspiration, I have no doubt. I can feel him watching over me as I stumble through the streets where he once stumbled. The blues is built in to north Alabama. I’m on the search for the Blues Devil. If he’s anywhere, he’s here. Maybe it’s Him I feel looking down on me. I’m not so sure.

So, in the mid afternoon, we wait. Searching deep into the souls of the people we encounter, looking for that American Dream. Have they found it? Have they lost it? Are they even searching?

-Jack.
I Listen.