Houmas House, Darrow, Louisiana

Festivals, weddings and history live at Houmas House in Darrow, Louisiana. Bette Davis slept in an upstairs bedroom while filming “Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte”. Jeff won the Quickfire Challenge during a 2009 taping of “Top Chef”, and a number of TV ads have been made on the lush grounds of this, the largest American sugar plantation of the 19^th century.

Phylicia, a tour guide dressed in authentic period costume, rings the garden bell signaling the start of the 23-room Sugar Palace tour. Grab your camera - this is one museum where visitors can linger and take as many pictures as they want.

The three-story Greek Revival mansion is filled with artwork and antiques, each with its own history.

Wander through the foyer with its hand painted murals reflecting a sugar cane motif. Is that Marie Antoinette’s mantle clock in the sitting room? In the game room just off the library, entire fortunes were won or lost on a single game of billiards.

At the foot of a freestanding, three-story helix staircase, a silver fruit server holds an array of apples and pineapples – symbols of opulence and welcome. But, did you know that placing a pineapple at the foot of a houseguest’s bed was a polite way of letting them know it was time to go home?

Centuries old oaks (some over 450 years) dot the grounds, along with the main house and a garconiere (bachelor’s quarters).

Chef Jeremy Langlois serves a delicious lunch at Latil’s Landing Restaurant near the original kitchen, built in the 1770’s.

Located on Louisiana’s River Road at 40136 Highway 942D Darrow, LA, Houmas House is open for tours Mon & Tues 9 – 5, Wed – Sun 9 – 7 (except for Christmas and New Year’s Day). Admission is $20 mansion and gardens tour,
$10 gardens and grounds only.

Visitors aren’t just tourists, they are welcome guests. Stay all day at the plantation, strolling through 38 acres of gardens and ponds, and an extensive gift shop.

Mt. Takasaki National Park, Oita City, Kyushu, Japan

This mountaintop monkey preserve is home to over 1,700 Macaques. Not a zoo, there are no cages or restraining bars. Creatures run freely in their own natural habitat, and visitors can wander through the grounds just inches from the little fellows, clustered in twos and threes.

Every day, just before 2:30 pm, the groundskeeper uncoils a green hose, and begins to spray down the dusty yard. That’s the signal for the monkeys to climb down from their perches and scamper to the center of the yard.

Suddenly the park explodes in a frenzy of fur, chatter, and the thunder of little feet. A simple 2-wheeled metal cart is dragged across the court, spilling potatoes out of its hinged back.

In its wake, Macaques shove and snatch, shriek and claw. Competition is fierce. The oldest and strongest grab handfuls of potatoes, while juveniles and females fight for the smaller bits. Babies, who suckle for over a year, cling to their mothers’ backs, lest they get trampled in the fray.

Suddenly, its over. One blink and you would have missed it. Before the sprayed pavement dries, monkeys begin to disappear into the forest, treasured spuds in hand

Not found in many guidebooks, Mt. Takasaki National Park lies in the northeastern part of the island of Kyushu, Japan. The park is open from 8:30 am – 5:00 pm. Feeding time is at 2:30 pm. Admission is 500 yen (about $5 US) for adults and 250 yen for children. Tel (097-534-6111). To reach the park, cross the walking bridge that connects the island to the town and then board the monorail to the feeding area.

Vermilion Ville, Lafayette, Louisiana

It takes 5 balls of homespun cotton yarn to make a single woven shirt. Armadillo tastes like pork. Older boys would climb a narrow outside staircase to reach attic sleeping quarters in a garconniere.

Visitors can learn this and more at the outdoor museum of Cajun and Creole heritage on the Bayou Vermilion, 2-1/2 hours drive west of New Orleans.

In the village visitors experience Acadiana culture dating from the 1760s. Spend the day wandering through the 18 historic buildings made of colombage (half-timber) and bousillage (mud and Spanish moss) in a park like setting. Once inside, meet costumed craftsmen and musicians.

There’s Daphne - quilter, basket weaver and storyteller. She sits by the open window welcoming guests, giving a glimpse of Cajun life and crafts.

In the next house, her mother Geraldine talks about her childhood memories growing up in bayou country. Seeing hogs butchered as a little girl, or bread wrapped in a flour sack, hanging from a nail in a roof beam to keep it out-of-reach of pests and small fry. She can tell you what a raccoon or armadillo tastes like. Geraldine has traveled the world as an ambassador of Cajun culture, demonstrating doll making and other crafts.

Hungry? Stop in or make a reservation at the Creole restaurant, La Cuisine de Maman (866-99-BAYOU). After lunch you can enjoy a nature walk, or a bateau ride on the Bayou Vermilion.

The French spoken in Louisiana is very old. Acadian refugees brought it to the region from Nova Scotia in the mid-1700’s. Add a sprinkling of words borrowed from Native Americans and Africans, and voila - the Cajun dialect. At various times in the early 20^th century, speaking French was forbidden by Louisiana law, and you’ll see the words “I will not speak French in school” written on the blackboard inside the one room schoolhouse.

Today the Cajuns remain bilingual and the culture is thriving. On weekends there’s zydeco music and dancing in Le Jour de Fete.

Vermilion Ville is open Tuesday through Sunday from 10 am until 3 pm. Admission is $8 for adults and $5 for students (children under 5 are free) Visit their website at www.vermilionville.org. It’s written in English and French.

Ca c’est bon!

Frogmore Plantation, Ferriday, Louisiana

What do a pair of jeans; a dollar bill and a can of Crisco have in common? The answer can be found at the Frogmore Plantation in Louisiana.

This is a working farm, dating from the early 1800’s. Visitors can see first hand the evolution of a cotton plantation through the eyes of the Natchez planter and the slaves who worked the fields. A docent walks you through the 18 restored buildings, including furnished slave quarters, a steam gin and outbuildings. At each stop, she discusses plantation life and customs, its culture and secrets.

The plantation is an inter-active living museum. In the field, you feel connected to history picking your first handful of cotton. It’s surprising to learn how easily the fiber can be plucked from the boll. In a world of processed and packaged goods, it’s amazing to find that right out of a boll the wad of cotton feels – well – just like cotton. While it’s easy to pull fibers from the brown ripened boll, the seeds are buried deep inside. After several minutes of peeling and shredding a single handful of lint from the seed, the dramatic impact of the mechanized gin takes on a whole new meaning.

Even though machines in England first spun cotton in 1730, this 7,000-year-old industry really took off with the invention of the cotton gin (engine) some 63 years later. It could separate seeds from the lint 10 times faster than by hand.

But cotton fabric is only part of the story. Nothing goes to waste. Seeds are crushed and separated into 3 products. Oil is used in shortening, cooking oil and salad dressing. Meal and hulls feed livestock, poultry, fish and fertilizer. Stalks and plant leaves are plowed under to enrich the soil. Each planted acre yields about 1-1/3 bales of cotton. A single 500 # bale of cotton makes 215 jeans, 313,600-dollar bills and buckets of Crisco.

If you visit the ante-bellum treasures of Natchez, Mississippi where the planters built their fabulous mansions, be sure to cross the river into Louisiana. Frogmore is about a half-hour’s drive due west. Visit the actual fields in … the land of cotton, (where) old times there are not forgotten.

Frogmore is open year round although the hours vary by season. Admission starts at $5 for students, up to $12 for adults to take the complete tour of the historic and modern facilities.

Hotel Woes On The Road

It’s not all fun and glory on the road as a travel writer. Sometimes you gets what you get. Here's one of the worst hotels.

Sleeping Room: It is high summer and the wall-mounted air conditioning unit’s performance falls somewhere between finicky and abjectly useless. Yet inexplicably the bed is outfitted with a heavy wool blanket and padded spread. Pillows are fabric thin. Asking for additional pillows produces stained sponge rubber wafers that smell of Vicks VapoRub and some species of mammalian urine.

A small screen TV hangs precariously from a wall mount. It's so close to the ceiling only a presbyopic giraffe, watching through the spinning blades of the ceiling fan, can view it comfortably.

A single narrow shelf nailed to the back wall serves as a desk. The ill-matched chair is so low it brings to mind fond childhood memories of sitting with one’s chin just a few inches over the Thanksgiving dinner table while balancing on a Sears Roebuck catalog.

The Bath: Secured by a single rusty bolt, a padded toilet ring pinches one’s tender nethers and lets out a little vinyl fart upon sitting down. Paper comes off the roll mashed and pre-moistened with unidentifiable fluid. A twist of the sink spigot produces a high velocity surge of water that douses the back wall and floor.

A half pane of smoked Plexiglas encloses the tub-cum-shower. Its purpose is a mystery as it neither protects the bathroom from shower spray, nor provides privacy. At any given moment, water could range from scalding to frigid. This requires the bather perform a kind of indigenous dance over the surface of the tub: rinse, yelp, hop, test the stream temperature, then repeat steps 1 through ...

Water comes out of the sink taps at an interesting 37-degree angle. The light over the sink glows just enough to throw one’s face into deep shadows while applying make-up.

There is no “Do Not Disturb” sign to hangs on the doorknob. Perhaps it’s a given that one must be already disturbed to stay here.

On Location in the FOX News Studio, Chicago, IL

Lights, Camera … me?

The Green Room. One cup of strong, major-league-caffeinated coffee, 2 cream, 2 sugars. My hand trembles ever so slightly as it holds the finger-scorching double-stacked paper cup. My visage is being powdered and poofed by a makeup artist. As she’s applying the lipliner, the nurse in me is wondering how many others have been lacquered with the same brush??

It’s 5 minutes to air time. I'm ushered into the studio. Mind is blank. Intention whithered.What have I gotten myself into?

Less than 36 hours ago, I was an aging, anonymous git with a feather up my keister about the healthcare coverage issue. And now … oh, only 4 minutes to air time - I’m sitting in a studio chair waiting to have my brain picked by a high-ranking television muckety-muck. The camera in front of me, centered in the otherwise darkened studio, is a flat shadowy square surrounded by a row of retina-bleaching flood lights.

In the distance, I see the on-air monitors. (Don’t look at them, you’ll be distracted, I chide myself. )

I’m listening for the audio que. The cameraman has just inserted an earpiece into my right ear. OK, that’s sort of my not-so-deaf side. Now he’s clipping the lavaliere mic on my blouse neckline. I don’t have tie to clip it onto.

Now I sit and wait, in front of hot studio lights. My mind as featureless as the dark side of the moon. Geez. I hope it doesn’t stay blank. I have notes, but …

Gum. Oh yeah, get rid of the gum. I stick the wet little glob onto the back of my notes and put the stack onto the black table to my left. What’s supposed to be on the table besides my sweaty notes and the ball of stale gum leaving a watermark on the inked text?

In the background I hear Neil Cavuto interviewing another guest speak. Who, I’m sure is much more talented, thinner, cuter, younger, smarter, well-heeled, jaunty, winky, blinky and nod than I.

Sound check. “Miss Lonze we’re checking sound levels, please count to 10”. Breathe. Breathe. “One. Two. Three. (er, what comes after three??) “OK that’s fine. Can you hear Mr. Cavuto?” Yes.

Yes, I’m thinking. I hear him. In fact, I listen to him every day. He’s a god in the broadcast industry. On the other hand, I’m a mere peasant, raked in from the field. Ready to be turned on the spit. Fed to the wolves. Leftovers for jackals and tsetse fly larvae.

I am acutely aware of my life and credibility stretching before me, and sinking like NASDAQ futures after an overnight Asian markets plunge.

“We’re going for a commercial break. Then you’ll be on. Listen for the que”.

The que? I’m also acutely aware of the fact that my panties are inside out – the result of a hurried shower and reassembly. This sorry fact was discovered when I made a last-minute visit to the ladies, just before air time.

What the heck am I doing here? Must be some mistake. I’m just me.

But I have something to say. I’ve written it. It’s published. Mr. Cavuto read it. There’s no turning back.

Neil’s voice flows into my right ear. He’s asking a question. He’s very nice. He’s very smart, and an excellent interviewer. I like him anyway. I won’t disappoint him. It’s his show. And it’s my chance.

We banter back and forth about the issue at hand. He liked my article and it complements his show theme. More importantly, he gives me a chance to speak my mind, and perhaps put a voice to the fears and concerns of my cohort having genuine concerns about how the decisions of the current political machine will affect their lives.

We speak. We question. We tackle the issue at hand.

Soon, it’s over. I didn’t drool; didn’t pick my nose, hem, haw or stumble.

I’m honored. I’m happy. I’m humbled. Thank you, Mr. Cavuto. Thank you, readers. Mission accomplished.

Oconaluftee Indian Village, Cherokee, NC

The year is 1829. As a young woman in Southern Appalachia, you hold property rights to a farm producing corn, beans and squash. You fight in battles, vote, make speeches and have an active voice in government. You are head of a household, perhaps even a chief. You have power and prestige. You are Cherokee.

This is the advanced culture nearly destroyed by white settlers eager for farmland and quick riches, after gold was discovered on tribal lands in Georgia.

Following passage of the Indian Removal Act 15,000 Cherokee people were rounded up into concentration camps and marched off to Oklahoma in the bitter winter of 1838. Along this “Trail of Tears”, over 4,000 perished of cold, disease and starvation.

Only 400 natives, known as the Oconaluftee Cherokee, were allowed to remain in their stockade towns. Today, their descendants are one of the few Native American tribes to still occupy their original homeland that now makes up the 100-square mile sovereign nation of Cherokee.

Oconaluftee village on the Qualla Reservation is in Cherokee, North Carolina. Wander through this outdoor museum. Take the self-guided tour to see baskets woven by women who learned the craft from their mothers. See a demonstration of weaponry. Did you know the Cherokee were the only North American people to use blowguns?

Around the bend, another member of the tribe stands beside a giant log topped with burning embers, telling how dugout canoes were made. Later in the evening, watch the story of the Cherokee unfold in the outdoor theatre production of “Unto These Hills”. Experience what it means to be Cherokee.

Oconaluftee Indian Village is open seven days a week May 1 – October 24 from 9am – 5pm. Tickets are available on line and at the door. Nearby is the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, Qualla Arts & Crafts center. Cherokee hosts numerous cultural events throughout the year.