Southern Belle

17 December 2009

Savannah and Charleston are like Buffy and Dawn: they're both real pretty girls, but one's just got a bit more going for her than the other. It's two hours from Savannah to Charleston, and sadly I was not feeling very well on arrival. And I'm sure that had nothing to do with the Sonic Peppermint Blast tub-o'-ice cream I'd recently devoured. David went off to see the city on his own while I holed up in the Days Inn, directly beneath the flight path of the largest assembly of Air Force C17 transport planes to hit the east coast for military training exercises in some time. Three hours of prime-time TV later (good god American tv is crap), he returned with tales of a city even more beautiful than Savannah, if that's possible.

Feeling better this morning, we went into the city together on yet another gorgeous, sunny day. We're close to the end now, and planning to be in DC on Saturday. Apparently snow is expected there shortly (hard to comprehend for people in flipflops), so we've really only got the one day here, and hence have booked ourselves on a city tour. Turns out we've got the entire bus to ourselves, along with the world's most enthusiastic tour guide, who is wearing a shell suit colour-matched to his sneakers and hat. He spent an hour and a half passionately telling us about his home town, chanting College of Charleston fight slogans, and generally being vastly entertaining. David is right, Charleston is a real beauty. Sort of Savannah times four...about 100,000 people live here on this little peninsula, in hundreds of long narrow houses oriented so that the porches are strung down the long side (taxes were assessed by frontage, but you just can't not have a porch in Charleston summers). Mainly wood with clapboards, painted every pastel under the sun, graced with lacy ironwork by the master blacksmith Philip Simmons, and with grander versions in stucco and brick studded throughout.

The Battery at the end of the peninsula has a lovely embankment overlooking the vast harbour, home to Fort Sumter. This of course is where cadets from the Citadel military college fired on Union supply ships in 1861, thus beginning the Civil War—and that turned out so well for them. Boys. We've found a lovely and decrepit big ol' white house on the Battery, crumbling and enormous and full of porches and calling our names. If not for that pesky unemployment, we'd move in tomorrow.

Went up and through the Citadel itself, which looks like some sort of imagined Spanish fortress and contains a decorative ballistic missile aimed at the North (just in case). The mascot is an English bulldog called Spike, who has his own statue at the football stadium. Saw the CSS Hunley, the first submarine, home and grave to eight tiny Confederate men who did however manage to sink the USS Housatonic. Uh-huh.

Off to the City Market, which lives beneath the saffron-coloured Confederate museum. Lots of t-shirts and Chinese fans scattered among local baskets. These are twisted-grass and pine works of art, which were first made by African slaves for use on plantations and now are made for tourists, incorporating bulrushes, sweetgrass, and pine needles, and made with s-shaped handles and loops and twisty bits. So lovely. So expensive. All are priced, all the makers tell you right away that the prices can definitely be discounted. The ones I loved seemed to all start around $100—except for Jennifaye's, and so her lovely fruit basket is coming home with me. Wherever home is or will be.

The afternoon we spent at a place I've wanted to see for about 10 years, the National Trust for Historic Preservation's Drayton Hall. Uniquely, this palladian house dates to 1738 and is almost completely unaltered—no one ever installed electricity or plumbing, the paint is original, and the place is empty of furniture or decoration. It's atmospheric, nothing to distract from the purity of the house itself. The yard is bare except for a serpentine pool and live oaks, the previous formal gardens were lost to phosphate mining in the late 19th century, and only the Ashley River frontage remains. So stark and so perfect.

Tonight we're in the summer heaven of Myrtle Beach, birthplace of the shag (not the naughty kind, the American kind!). Because it's not the high season, we're currently holed up in an ocean view room for all of $40, overlooking the palmettos and crashing surf in a rapidly cooling evening, while we're warm and cozy and had pizza delivered to us. Can't really complain.

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil

16 December 2009

Savannah itself is an absolute gem of a city. I've been to a fair number of cities and I think I know from attractive. Built around 24 green squares, the historic district is unbelievably wealthy in amazing 18th and 19th century buildings. Took the trolley tour around, because again, how often can you ride around in an open-air vehicle in flipflops and t-shirts in December?

Juliette Gordon Lowe was born and raised here, and founded the girl scouts here in 1912. There's statues of Oglethorpe; a Vietnam War memorial shaped like...Vietnam; references to 'the book' everywhere (Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, duh); a smallish river home to a serious container port; unemployed men making roses from palmetto leaves; and everywhere, live oaks dripping Spanish Moss. This may well be the most haunted city in America, but it's certainly the most beautiful.

Georgia on My Mind...

15 December 2009

Almost to the sea...we're crossing from Tennessee into Georgia, the first state with an Atlantic Coast, and back into the Eastern Time Zone. Down to Atlanta via the old Dixie Highway. This road was set up between circa 1915-1925  to make the most of newly mobile tourists looking to get from the midwest to the tropical semi-paradise of Florida, and runs roughly parallel to I-75. Thanks to the welcome center, we had a little brochure explaining the various attractions of towns along the way. Such as Dalton, Carpet Capital of the World. Did you know the chenille industry of the 1930s had it's start on the Dixie Highway? Now you do. We saw the first ever painted outdoor Coca-Cola sign on a pharmacy in Cartersville. Lunch at the Echota Smoke House, a very unreconstructed remnant of the Dixie's heyday, complete with melamine dishes, mustard yellow formica booths, and decent homemade soup and pulled pork.

The main goal here is, of course, Atlanta and thus the Coca-Cola Experience. Bliss! An entire tourist attraction dedicated to the pleasures of the world's greatest drink and best known brand. Spent almost 3 hours here, and I could have stayed another 5. If it's related to Coke, it's here. There's a polar bear mascot thing, so nearly appealing that I managed to overcome my innate revulsion for people in oversized animal outfits (did you know that the first polar bear used to sell Coke appeared in a French advert in 1922? Now you do.); there's a movie called 'Inside the Happiness Factory: A Documentary,' vintage ads starring Clark Gable and the 1960s Cleveland Browns (not together, sadly); quizzes; dioramas; a 4-D movie (in which David stayed in the non-moving row of seats because he a weak tummy, poor darling); old commercials; a mini-bottling plant; and Best.Of. All.—a tasting room!

You can taste 60 different Coke products from all around the world. There's five stations set up by region, each with loads of drinks in it. They have things like Tab and Mr Pibb, neither of which I've seen in about 20 years. I do not advise drinking the Italian 'Beverly'. But the 'Cherry Fresca'? Yum. And when you're leaving? They give you a free glass bottle of coke. Just in case you're still thirsty. I love coke. You may have noted this previously.

Next morning, post-caffeine induced crash, we went down to Lane Packing, home to a massive store selling pecans and peaches and everything one can produce from either. It is also home to a genuine Georgia Snowman amidst the orchards. Lunch supplied by the Piggly Wiggly, mainly because it makes me giggle to hear David say the name and I've wanted to go to one since I saw Driving Miss Daisy. We drove through the massive Fort Stewart with it's tank crossings and shooting ranges, and finally to Savannah.

And here we are, back at the Atlantic Ocean! We've come from London all the way back round to this bit of coast, in just about 8 months. We took ourselves to Tybee Island, a coastal strip separated from Savannah proper by acres of salt marsh and tidal rivers. Stuck my feet into the sea just because I could, and also because it was almost 80 degrees Fahrenheit and how often do you get to hang on the beach in flipflops a week before Christmas? Dinner at the Crab Shack, where they keep a pond full of alligators, two of whom appeared to be holding hands. Again, almost cute. Who doesn't love a cuddly reptile? Besides me. Lowcountry boil for supper—this is the local thing: shrimp, corn, potatoes and sausage all boiled and seasoned with some sort of rub or spice. This is the kind of place with big holes cut into the middle of the table, so one can toss one's peels as one goes. Cl-assy.

Love at the Loveless Cafe

14 December 2009

Having left Illinois and that icy chill behind us, we're back into Tennessee, this time cutting diagonally across the state in a southeasterly fashion via. Goal? Why, Nashville, of course! We're both favorably inclined toward country music, purely of the non-Jesus-taking-the-wheel sort. Bring on Hank, Johnny and Loretta—and keep your Faith, Taylor and Keith. I'm having a bit of a love affair with Waylon Jennings currently, having downloaded his greatest hits in some sort of feverish state while shacked up in a hotel room in Shangri La with Louise. Anyway, this is our chance to soak up this truly American cultural art form in an environment where no one can make fun of us, because we at least didn't show up in fringe.

So off we go to the Country Music Hall of Fame. Even Lonely Planet says this is acceptable when in Nashville, so it must be. Special exhibits on Brenda Lee (personally, I didn't know she sang anything except Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree, but there you go. Education.) Apparently she's huge in Japan. The other is on the Williams family, as in Hank, Hank Junior, and Hank the Third, and their shared penchant for anger and dangerous substances and being called Hank even though they weren't (Hiram, Randall, and Shelton respectively). And who doesn't love an angry drunk guy who can sing? I truly believe country music in general would be infinitely better if there was more unrepentant alcoholism in evidence.

The museum itself is gorgeous and very well done, with such gems as a Webb Pierce's Caddy customized with pistols for door handles and gen-u-wine longhorns for a hood ornament. Also Elvis' gold piano, Minnie Pearl's hat, and the cornfield set from Hee-Haw. Having spent a goodly amount of my childhood watching Hee-Haw with my dad, I was very excited about this.

Outside, we strolled Broadway, home to bars and boots. The football stadium is at the end of the street, and as the Titans were playing that afternoon, there were plenty of men about, all manned up...in powder blue. Everyone else was a middle aged tourist wincing along in new cowboy boots. One shop had a series of posters starring rodeo heroes—including a five-year old 'Mutton Buster'. Did you know that your very own 4-9 year old could be out there winning belt buckles on the sheep-riding circuit? Because I didn't. But now I do.

For lunch we drove a bit out of town to the Loveless Cafe. Now, I've had a lot of Southern food in the last few weeks (and fyi, if anyone is buying me clothes for Christmas, I will need a larger size). But this place was the best meal I've had anywhere. Mostly because I love biscuits, and they make absolutely lush ones here from a secret recipe, and they give you bowls of them with your food. Blissful sigh...and there's real pan-fried chicken, and greens and creamed corn and beans cooked with bacon and pork tenderloin bbq'd with peach preserves. Soooo good. If you ever find yourself 17 miles from Nashville and very hungry, go there.

Down a stretch of the Natchez Trace parkway, with hickory trees and green grass and hills and dells. And plenty of opportunity to pee on the side of the road—because we both find ourselves scouting for sites these days. You never know when you'll need to go. Drove through Lynchburg, home to Jack Daniels himself. It was evening, so we didn't stop for much, but it looks like a very pretty town. The irony, of course, being that this is a dry county, and you cannot therefore actually buy JD anywhere nearby. We slid right on through Chattanooga, home to the choo-choo of song, though sadly not in evidence today because the GPS woman is being bitchy. Cow.

Sweet Home Carbondale

12 December 2009

As said, David went to eighth grade and high school in a town in Southern Illinois called Carbondale. We're here for the first time in about 7 years, to see what's what and catch up with old friends. Troy was best man in our wedding, and Andrea decorated our toasting glasses, David was in their wedding, and last time we were here they'd just built themselves a new house on a road called the Ava Blacktop. The house is now a family home, with two little boys to complete the picture, and we stayed with all these Demings for the weekend.

Having watched the Browns win on the TV in Troy's lush Man Cave, and having wrestled a bit with some energetic little boys, and eaten one of their cows (post-crock pot, obviously) and Andrea's chocolate mint brownies, and slept very well indeed, we spent Friday catching up with David's brother. Steven lives in Carbondale too, and since we haven't seen him in ages either, we hung out doing what you do in Carbondale...Walmart, Buffalo Wild Wings, etc.

When David's dad retired as school superintendent, he got a gymnasium named for him. This is funny, because his name is Jim. See? Jim's Gym? We finally got to see the famous building, and there it is, in big shiny letters, with loads of middle schoolers playing basketball inside. Drove round to the old house, now home to some people called Bobo and a newly paved driveway to the pole barn, but otherwise the same.

For dinner, with Andrea & Troy we went to the culinary gem that is Walt's, in the nearby town of Marion. This is home to a double-decker thin-crust pizza that is just gorgeous. Followed this with a marathon session at Target, as Andrea is a teacher who's "adopted" five kids for Christmas through her school, and had a wad of cash to spend on an assortment of Nerf, pyjamas, Hot Wheels, underwear, and Easy Bake refills. And that girl can shop. While the boys wandered through the mall to ogle tigers and monkeys, Andrea flew through Target like the spirit of Christmas Quickly. Impressive.

Next day being Saturday, we wrapped gifts and hung out with the little boys, Lex and Tucker, discussing the merits of security blankets (Tucker has an impressive array) and Lex taking pictures with my camera. The big boys suited up in manly outdoorsy gear and went out in the cold to ride four-wheelers on the acres of land they have. Troy and David went into Carbondale to watch Southern Illinois University's basketball team beat Alabama State, while Andrea and I took the boys to see Santa. All very maternal. Tucker demurred in a rather high-pitched tone, while Lex manned up and wore the shark's tooth we'd brought him from Fiji while chatting with Santa about a pogo stick. A very enjoyable day, all in all. Somewhat different to the last time we were so chilly, which as I recall was in Tibet and involved yak butter.

Alas, all good things must end. Now we're back on the road, down through Tennessee again, this time to Nashville. Yee haw.