Drawings from the start of our long march along the Natchez Trace. Wayne and I figgered, naive dodos that we were, that we would stay in run-down, authenticity-dripping, wayback-machine motor courts in Mississippi. But the few we saw were archaeological in nature--and on their way to being in nature, for that matter. So we settled for Hampton Inns, and were both secretly glad to do so. And the modren hotels were full of the kinds of people who flock to them wherever they’re plunked down.  People like, not to put too fine a point on it, us.