I vowed to return to my antichain initiative in Shreveport the next night, no matter what.

The next morning, I stopped by the Cane River National Historic Park (nps.gov/cari) to visit Oakland Plantation, a well-preserved complex that includes an elegant Creole-style main house; slave quarters; and a whitewashed, elegant 1820 pigeonnier, a building where birds were raised to become squab on toast. Then it was up to Shreveport for my final Louisiana stop, where I had booked a room at the Shreveport Downtown Hotel, apparently not part of a chain, and therefore conducive to my vow.

Shreveport is known for its casinos, but if you ask me, it should be known for two other institutions: the R.W. Norton Art Gallery, with its its collection of art of the American West by Frederic Remington and Charles M. Russell, and Cajun Daiquiris, a small chain that serves liquor through a drive-through window. For those who, like me, see fit to couple their visit to the museum with a visit to the stand, two pieces of advice: don’t miss the gallery’s 40 acres of gardens out back, they’re gorgeous; and don’t get the sangria swirl, it’s nauseatingly sweet.

I still had not had a memorable meal in Louisiana, which seemed criminal, but had one more shot: an outlet of a small local chain called the Southfield Grill (southfieldgrill.com), with adorably friendly waitresses, walls decorated with retro Coke and Barnum & Bailey ads, and tables covered with condiments like Slap Ya Mama Cajun Seasoning. Its daily specials go for $7.99, including three sides and corn bread.

The Southfield Road location was out of beef tips that evening — which I would not have cared about had not the couples at both tables next to mine told me that the beef tips were the best. But no matter, pork chops would suffice, and my waitress, Katrina, helped me choose three side dishes — turnip greens (“add some green pepper sauce,” she said), broccoli and cheese casserole, and barbecued beans, and relieved me of the decision between regular corn bread and hot-water corn bread by offering to bring me both. She also refused to take no for an answer when I said I didn’t want a complimentary unsweetened tea to go: “You’re going to leave, you’re going to go to the Circle K, you’re going to spend a dollar on another one,” she said.

All that was left was to check into the Shreveport Downtown and finish my Louisiana trip in independent style, erasing the soulless Days Inn from my mind. But when I pulled up, I noticed something downright odd: an enormous Holiday Inn sign atop the roof. It turns out the company had been a Holiday Inn franchise, but had recently been stripped — temporarily at least — of its association. “You could say we’re in timeout,” said the receptionist, and I could see why: my toilet didn’t flush, my door needed to be slammed to close, heavy deodorizer could not hide a cigarette smell in the room. It was a setback, but there would be many nights yet to go, many theoretically clean sheets to sleep in, before I got to Fargo.