Funny thing about Alabama. I didn't think it was so bad. But everywhere I went people asked where I was from (Ducati motorbikes are not so common). When I responded that I was on a road trip seeing the country there was a unanimous reply: "so why are you here?" Well, Barber was fookin' cool. And if you're living in a place you hate so much that you question why strangers are visiting I'd suggest you either get the fuck out or suck it up and realize it ain't so bad.
That's what I thought before Mobile. I'd driven through Mobile before, but never stayed. I had fond memories of Malbis, AL, (your narrator says with a grin), so thought a night in Mobile would allow me to meet up with my dad (who lives in the FL panhandle), and give me a taste or real Alabama slamma living.
Slamma it was. Anyone who's been waiting with baited breath for fortuitous experiences to turn bad turn the pages no further. This is where the chimera breathes some nasty fumes into the R/R.
I've stayed in some shitholes. One unmentioned goal of this journey of mine is to look at the world through Iris-colored spectacles (never done that before), which means I've glossed over a lot of the bad parts of this journey. There's no fun in reporting sandy beige or salamander experiences, and there's no fun in renting headspace to boredom. Dr. J's yacht in NY, the tranquility of Colorado, a drunken sofa in MN, sublimity in Martha's Vineyard--all of those are far more worthy of QWERTY attention than the finger-down-the-throat experiences I've devoted no time to. But Mobile was so bad it demands documentation.