grown up stuff

Oxford was fine. I had a different idea of what it would be, I think, but this is also true of most things in my life. The motel was a little shady and in the morning a man with a shopping cart in the parking lot asked me if I had a good night's sleep. Later I learned he was the cleaning man. Okay.

Oxford has a nice independent bookshop, and I bought there the new Mary Robison book. I asked/told the cashier, "She taught here, didn't she?" though I knew the answer. It was my attempt at small talk. She seemed to see through it, and she did not help me out. Being in a car is a bit isolating. When I told Wylie I was worried about getting lonely in the car, he said something about travellers attracting other travellers. I don't know; it sounded good at the time. But as I am already 1.5 weeks into my trip, I'll tell you, I think it's a little different. I have noticed that Wylie is one of those people that strangers like to start conversations with. I know this from when we would go to the grocery store late at night and crazy people would talk to him about, whatever, Hotwheels or ice cream. They never talk to me. Which is fine, about 98% of the time.

Then when I talk to the cashier at the bookstore she looks over me, not at me, like over my shoulder, like she was looking for a hidden camera, like maybe she was on a prank tv show, or maybe like she was looking for someone like Wylie to talk to. Well, a drunk Scotsman once told me I had a pleasing face, and I believe that. (For Rebecca: "My friends say I have intriguing eyes").

And so, the cleaning man with the shopping cart says hello, but those are niceties. Tonight I hope to stay at a hostel in Santa Fe, so I will make a concerted effort to talk to people in a natural fashion.

I don't remember what I was thinking when I set off, or what I had in mind. I got on some road that started big and then became small. It was an extraordinarily windy day and when I filled up for gas I imagined I looked cool and windswept, but I probably did not.

I stopped at Clarksdale, Mississippi, to get a picture of the crossroads.



The crossroads is where a young man sold his soul to the devil for the ability to shred guitar. The restaurant recommended to me by hipster guidebook was closed; a nearby place was also closed but they said they could give me food. It went like this.

I walked into the restaurant and everyone looked at me. There are some places where you will always stand out, either because it's a small town, or because you are wearing a miniskirt in Mississippi, or because you walked into a restaurant at 2:30 pm when everyone knows that's no time for a meal. "Are you still serving food? Or is there a place around here that is?" I asked. I tried to be casual, not smarmy or touristy or cutesy, but I probably was all three. "Grill's closed," a skinny man in a hunting hat said. "But he can fix you up something. Can't you?" This he directed to a tall black man who looked really scared to see me. I repeated myself and added, "I've been driving all day and I'm starving."

Hunting hat said, "We can't have anyone starving." Scared man said he could get me something and he disappeared into the kitchen. I was to follow. Is this against some sort of code? In the fridge room he shows me a shelf. I have never been in the fridge room, but isn't this where they murder people? No bodies, just tubs of things on the shelf. "Where are you from?" I said, "I'm from Baltimore." "Oh, okay. I'm Terrell." "I'm Liz." "Hi Liz, this is chicken salad, and this is egg olive, or, something else, what do you think?" I got a drink from the fountain while he made my chicken something. This time, unsweetened plus fruit punch. I was proud of myself. But it was actually grosser than sweet tea, if you can imagine.

While I waited another man said to Hunting Hat, "So I heard you were on tv last night?" He laughed and nodded. And did not elaborate. I paid and left such a big tip that a woman working there yelled after me that I forgot my change. Outside another man said goodbye. He asked if there was anything else I needed help with. "No, just passing through. Wanted to see the crossroads." "That ain't the real crossroads!" "What?" "The real crossroads is by old 49. Did you go under the train on the bridge?" "Yeah." "It's around there." "What does it look like?" "Oh nothing. It's just grown-up stuff now."

Whatever that means. I thought about it for the next 40 minutes.

The chicken salad had egg in it. And they gave me pickle slices which delighted me to no end. So happy that pickles still exist in the south.

For good measure, here's a possible contender for Most Frightening Thing on the Road:



It wouldn't have been so scary if it hadn't been creeping along at 5 mph and making a sound like a trash compactor filled with wolves.

Point taken, Macon.

I didn't think it was possible, but Macon, GA is a cuter and more southern than Savannah. And the municipal vehicles are more weirdly European. Quick, though--I didn't get a picture.

I went there for the Cherry Blossom Festival. Macon fancies itself the cherry blossom capital of the world. They also have a very good hot dog shop. If there's anything I like more than hot dogs, it's towns that declare themselves the (irrelevant thing here) capital of the world.

Everyone and everything is pink during the festival. Lots of elderly tourists are in town, too, and so it was sort of like Valentines day at the old folks home.
The lady at the tourist center (pink sweater in a wheelchair, with, I THINK, pink ribbons tied to it, though I didn't get a good look) told me that some dude came into town and decided to make Macon known for its cherry blossom trees. So he planted a boatload.



The blossoms are crazy. And the bees are just having a good ole time. The trees are densest in the affluent areas, and each little Belle Reve had its own pink wreath tied to the mailbox. Some cadillacs had pink flowers painted, too. Some other people might call it overkill. But other people are usually wrong.



There was some crazy festivities going on in the park, like moonbounces and free samples of coca cola. But I wasn't having the parking fees, so instead I drove around until I found some weird old graveyard on a hill, behind a warehouse. I took my own picture with some trees. I'm not very good at self-pictures.



Downtown Macon is small enough that finding the hot dog place was easy. It is called Nu-Way Weiners. So delicious. What was the old way? Who cares? I got a chili cheese slaw dog, all the way (mustard and onions). And a sweet tea. If that doesn't sound delicious to you, you're probably a vegetarian. Or a weirdo.



Usually sweet tea is so sweet it verges on undrinkable for me. This was no exception and I carried around my jug of sweet tea for an hour until it got warm and gross and I had to come to terms with the truth: I AM NOT A SOUTHERNER.

Way back in the visitor's center I picked up a great brochure about things to do in Macon. Lots of Little Richard stuff and sports and blah blah history but then, in the corner, a totally random picture of two little boys sitting on an Otis Redding statue! I hope to include the text that went along with this picture, because it was so powerfully written that it convinced me I had to find this statue.

Also, if you know anything about me, you know I am 1) a sandwich fanatic 2)an Otis Redding devotee. I found the statue at the end of a path that was unreachable by car. To my great surprise no one else was around--what?? Why? Probably at that cursed Little Richard memorial--so I could not take a picture of myself sitting on Otis's lap.



But I did get to take a picture of this sign. It has some great typographical errors, forever immortalized for the world to see.



Lastly, here is one of my favorite signs thus far. And I've seen a few (including the oxymoronic "Hunting Preserve" and the haunting church marquee "VICTORY IS SWALLOWED BY DEATH"). This sign is simple, to the point, and yet also hopelessly vague.



That will conclude my entry on Macon, GA, though the day was not over.

I might need a bib

Thursday March 19

I left at 7 am for Savannah, GA. I had the privilege of driving on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Every time I see or say the words "Blue Ridge" I get a song by Fleet Foxes in my head.



And here is a great picture of French Broad River. Anyone else remember the "old French Whore" skit on SNL?



I was in a daze through South Carolina. I pulled over at a rest stop and took a brief nap, not thinking to avoid parking in the direct sunlight. When I woke up 20 minutes later, I was yelling. I don't think I've woken up yelling since high school.

I hope when I get further west (and have less people to visit) I'll avoid major highways. They really all do look the same, more or less. 95 is the worst, of course. Other highways have few distinguishing features. I did notice in South Carolina a beautiful stretch of trees all beginning to blossom in different colors. It was like fall in the north, except pastel. I took a photo but it's not the same.



I also saw a vehicle on the road that prompted me to create a feature which I will tenatively call: The Most Frightening Thing on the Road. The vehicle in question was a truck filled with hay bales. The driver was thoughtful enough to cover the hay with a giant, ill-fitting yellow sheet of nylon. I think it was nylon. It was tied in a few different places, but driving 80 mph it was a terrifying sight. Really almost like a deflated Thanksgiving day parade balloon undergoing a seizure. I took a pic but again fear it's not the same.



In Savannah I was determined not to spill anything on my shirt, as it was my 4th day on the road and I was 4 for 4. I knew it was futile as I had plans to find a BBQ shop.

When I got my sandwich -- pulled BBQ pork with coleslaw on top -- I sat in a nearby square and ate it. It was such a beautiful day, as a man missing three teeth pointed out to me. Savannah is a unique city, very liveable, very comforting. This applies to the historic district only, I'm afraid. Outside this small area, Savannah is a bit scary. But inside, ohhh. Huge trees, historic houses, squares, gardens.



It has a definite European vibe to it. Not just the history and old buildings, which is a large part of it, but the traffic layout. I couldn't put my finger on it until I saw this ridiculous car-thing, belonging to the city, in a parking garage. That's so Europe.



I didn't spend as much time as I'd like there. My legs still hurt from my mountain trek the day before, and the city was filled with tourists and art students and I somehow felt out of place. I think the city would be better traveled with a friend. The sandwich was delicious and that's important to me. I did spatter a few drops on my shirt. I hope no one saw me whip out my Tide-to-go pen. (Did you know they make a mini-Tide-to-go? Really? What is the point?)

I drove to Gainesville on route 17, which I heard a lot about. Maybe too much, because I wasn't that impressed with it. Earlier in the day I drove a short stretch on US 15 in order to avoid 95. This tiny road went through some nice southern towns, one of which did not have a single chain store in sight. 17 was a nice alternative to 95, yes, and I saw much spanish moss, but I guess I was expecting something crazy, from all I'd heard about it. Don't listen to me. It was beautiful, and I am jaded.

i feel like a luddite

Tuesday, March 17

Only because I can't work my digital camera as adeptly as I'd like. Otherwise I like technology, as evidenced by the existence of this blog. I realized I left the memory card reader at home, so this entry will make reference to photos that aren't updated yet. Update: Here are some photos of houses in Outer Banks. My future house:



Not my future house but another cool house that I wouldn't mind visiting if a friend of mine lived there:



I drove out of the Outer Banks on a road that let straight into nowhere. Literally! (That's for you, Jake.)



I drove on 64 West to Asheville, through the entirety of North Carolina. Though the road later widened into a four-lane faceless highway, it started out small and intimate. Went through a state park of some kind that had a serious nuclear fallout look going on. Also had periodic signs that reminded me that "IT IS ILLEGAL TO FEED BEARS ON THE HIGHWAY." Point taken.

I stopped in Chapel Hill for lunch. Chapel Hill is part of the Research Triangle, a title which I find impossible to take serious. Before I left, and between rounds of Ken-ken, I read about a small place that serves great BLTs. Anyone who knows me at all knows I am a BLT fiend (and a sandwich fanatic in general). Chapel Hill is an adorable little town and is extremely difficult to navigate.

I should take this time to mention my navigation system. I have a big road atlas--easy to read, though bordering on unwieldy. I also have two compasses. One suctioned to the front window and the other hanging from my review mirror. On their own, each is right about 75% of the time, so I use them together to orient myself. Also they provide a crowded, low-tech look to my vehicle which says, "This car is not worth stealing."

The compasses could not help me with Chapel Hill's winding roads. I got lost in three distinct ways.

1) Finding the BLT shack. I finally found it and they were no longer serving food. The cashier directed me, sort of, ( "behind you! No, the other way! You walked right past it.") towards a refrigerator case with some pre-made sandwiches, and this sufficed. Barbeque chicken with bacon and cheddar.

2) Leaving Chapel Hill. Proved difficult as the town lacked the normal "to get back on the interstate, turn here" signs. Once on the road again, I realized I was low on gas. I took the next exit, immediately west of Chapel Hill. You'd be wrong if you thought the next exit after a sizable town had any gas stations.

3) Finding gas and then returning to the interstate. I drove through rolling fields for 20 minutes before finding a BP. I shrieked with joy. A family man at the gas station directed me to follow another rolling country road and it would take me back. It did not. Lots and lots of dairy cows, and then the compasses were not in agreement, and a few small towns later I found the interstate. Miraculously I was 50 miles west of where I exited.

Was the sandwich worth it? Who can say, really? It was a good sandwich. To a certain degree I don't mind being a little lost, but getting lost three times in a row was trying. I will say the bacon lived up to its reputation.

The only things I remember about the rest of the ride to Asheville was that I calculated that if I go 75 mph, I can divide the distance by five and then multiply it by four to determine how much time is left. I also passed a motel sign that read: "WE'RE ALWAY'S OPEN" and that is not a typo on my part, and I thought about "alway's" for the next 15 minutes.

I have visted Felice and Ryan once before in Asheville. They are generous hosts. They also have two dogs and a cat. I am afraid of the cat because it's crazy and used to attack Felice in her sleep. I have said before to anyone who will listen that the cat is truly a sociopath. Felice disagrees but I have looked in Opus's eyes and seen nothing but the dark, silent lake of insanity there.

When Felice made up the couch for me, Opus took right to it.




I removed him but he returned a few times. Finally I let him sleep on my feet. At first it was comfortable, but he must have been hitting a pressure point which triggered a sensation I can only describe as anti-acupuncture. Instead of relaxing my muscles and promoting a sense of well being, Opus found a spot on my foot that tensed up my entire lower body and gave me an sense of stress and impending doom. At least he didn't bite my face.

Another thing of note is the series of bumper stickers that Felice has on her microwave. They are in a row and tell a sort of narrative. The first is "I voted," followed by an Obama sticker, followed by a psychedelic picture of a skeleton with a pumpkin for a head playing frisbee. There will be a picture here of it. Update: here it is.