I think this has been the most enjoyable journey I have ever had. First of all, Fikret is a wonderful companion. He is not only hilarious and smart, but also wonderfully compatible.

Secondly, the Blue Route is a magnificent route – not touristic at all, even one bit. We are the only “strangers” around, wherever we go. They keep coming around, asking questions wondering. And since these locals’ knowledge of the world is limited to the state they live in, they get stunned and shout out “All the way to Chicago!!!” However, none of them has said “All the way from Turkey!!!” yet. I know, I am being a smart ass, again. But this is the situation. The idea that we are going to Chicago confuse them more than the fact that we came here from Turkey. I think someone coming from Turkey is out of their perception limits. It doesn’t matter much to them because we are already here. But going to Chicago as they know is “Oooooh Gosh!” – how many more states to go! Whoa!

But for us, it’s just a road trip for I don’t know how many kilometers. So what? J We have travelled for 400-500 kilometers by now but the car says it’s been more than 1,000… So it means we have made quite a trip around the local places.

Anyway, what was I saying?

In New Orleans, after we shopped for extra t-shirts, underwear, etc., we went to St. Louis Cemetery 2. We had the idea of visiting three people. Danny Barker, who played with Cab Calloway, the famous R&B musician Ernie K. Doe, and Dominique You (1775-1830), one of the most famous pirates of the world. In short, despite our worries, we found Dominique You as soon as we got in to the cemetery. We did our ceremony. However, our lack ran out after that. In the cemetery, that was just the size of a football stadium, we kept looking for graves like counting sheepskin. And we couldn’t find the ones we were looking for. We asked the first person we could see, an old guy, where we could find these people, but he summarized our situation by saying “Ho?”

Then we stepped on the gas. Just like Fikret wrote yesterday, we finally threw ourselves on Highway 61, despite Teresa’s opposition, and the game began. Here is an advice: Don’t listen to the mainstream radio stations if you ever come to here. There are superb satellite channels. Especially Bluesville is great. That is what we listen to, anyway.

Like I said, Highway 61, “The Blues Highway”, is a magnificent route. Everything is picturesque. Everything is big, everything is gorgeous. Everywhere is filled with TIRs and traffic signs. On the roadside, there are roadhouses, shopping malls, repair-shops reminding of the movie U-Turn… And nearly all the people are Afro-Americans.

They are welcoming. Really welcoming. Just stand on a corner for three minutes, someone is sure to come around and chat.

Like in the place, Don’s, we came in to relieve our hunger. While we were filling our stomachs with shrimps and catfish, this guy, Mike, who picked up the certain names from our conversation in Turkish sat next to us and said “You’re going to Memphis? The Blues Highway? Excellent. I’ve been there many times.” Then he gave us a million advices. We thanked him, left the place kissing him goodbye… It’s not just him, you know. It’s the people in these places

We chose Natchez as our first stop. Natchez, founded by French colonists in the 1700s, is one of oldest cities on the bank of Mississippi, with the population of approximately twenty thousand. It’s the home of many notable bluesmen like Alexander O’Neil and Hound Dog Taylor.

A superb river, with fantastic boats on it, and big, flawless houses and roads… Everything is so perfect that it makes you think it wouldn’t take long before you got bored to death. But of course we couldn’t help hanging around in local bars, making a few more friends. Like, Amy. She’s a tremendous person. She manages a hotel.

However, we didn’t even think of offering anyone rakı. It’s not the Brooklyn Bridge. There is no one on the streets. To avoid dying of boredom, we hit the road after staying one night. By road, I mean Highway 61, of course

Listening to loud blues, again, on endless asphalt, with Fikret, Teresa, Atılgan, driving 70-80 miles per hour, going and going… Our first stop was Port Gibson. We entered a place where the locals call “Welcome Center”, for free maps and road instructions. The seventy-year old sympathetic woman welcomed us dearly like every other person we had met, and told us two million things most of which we were not interested in learning. So we took a trip around, and visited the Rabbit’s Foot Minstrels monument (I am not sure if it’s called monument, though – there are pillars like the kinds of this in all the important places on the Blue Route, with stories written on them).

The name Rabbit’s Foot Minstrels comes from the troupe that Ma Rainey, who is said to be the first famous blues singer, toured with at the beginning of 20^th Century. The first step of our pilgrimage ended there, and we set off to Vicksburg.

Vicksburg’s owes its fame to the role it played in the Civil War rather than to blues. We had a little tour and walked around Mississippi. We even went accidentally to the other side (despite Teresa, whom Fikret has been jealous of since she became more reliable with finding directions). This means we went to the State of Louisiana and came back. Never mind, the bridge was very beautiful

Pay attention now. The important part is about to begin

It was when we arrived at the Chelsea Hotel in New York that we said, “Now it begins.” Then we said the same thing in New Orleans, the cradle (whatever it means) of jazz, zydeco and blues where Highway 61 began. We didn’t get bored of new beginnings and when we first saw the sign “Blues Highway”, once again we said “Finally, it begins.”

Well, we found out that it was not true. The journey began in a town, small as an aspirin with the population of 2,500, called Rolling Fork.

Muddy Waters is from Rolling Fork. Even that is enough for here to be a pilgrimage destination. We took a fresh breath when we saw Muddy’s pictures on the walls, anyhow.

Then we asked Teresa for a place to eat. And stupid Teresa directed us to a supermarket called something like San Sin. All of a sudden, we noticed the café, right next to the supermarket. And guess what: It bore the same name with highway we are compulsively obsessed with: Highway 61. We rushed in like it was our home.

Angel is an Afro-American lady in her 50s. Of course we started chatting right away. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea about her looks when I say she’s in her 50s. She looks 40 at most and her oldest child is 35 years old. She had a good laugh when we congratulated her for breeding so young.

The locals show gratitude by hugging. After we chatted a little bit more, a shop owner showed up: Mica the magnificent.

Mica is a really magnificent lady. She’s 39 and pregnant with her sixth child. She’s an artist and she has beautiful paintings indeed. She painted the Muddy Waters on the wall…

Mica also makes pots. She tattoos as well. I asked her why she hadn’t tattooed herself, she said “Well I have one on my ass but my husband will chase you if I show it to you.” We became pretty good buddies. We even gossiped.

Then she surprised us by telling that Muddy Water’s brother still lived down the street. And she said it like it was just ordinary thing. As soon as we heard this, we jumped off our seats, and hurried to Mr. Morganfield’s house. The direction was easy: Go down this way, find the only house painted in pink. It was pretty easy to find.

Mr. Morganfield is a superb man in his 80s. And he welcomed us warmly. But he had his tie on, and was about to leave the house to go to a meeting. We fixed an appointment for the next day and left. But we didn’t forget to take some photos. Tomorrow, we will interview him exclusively. And hopefully, he will drink rakı with us.

After that, we went to Leland. Leland is another magnificent place. And we will take a long tour around tomorrow. We will tell about it.

Don’t get jealous, we are now in Greenville. This is why you may get jealous: There are five juke joints around the place we stay. They all have live music. And we already made friends with the owner of one. Tomorrow evening we will drink rakı in this juke joint before sunset. I took a few photos of the place while we ate.

In the Walnot Blues Bar, there were the posters of the past Highway 61 Blues Festivals hanging on the walls. We already knew that we had missed this year’s festival by three or four days. Nevertheless, we felt sorry about this unfortunate timing, once again.

Greenville is a superbly sympathetic place, with pictures of blues musicians even on the pavements.

Now we have to go. It’s time to hang around in some juke joints. Take care