Baby girl misses out on frog jam

Listen up, New England: Today someone called me "baby girl." I liked it! I may have blushed. So feel free to take up that habit once I get home. It's infinitely better than "ma'am."

So the weather. Dang.

Don't mind the forecast, they said.

Rain storms come and go really quickly, they said.


You can stop grinning, weather bastard.

*Goes back into suitcase unused. Again.*

There was no escaping rain today. But I made a solid effort. I headed down country roads between Dublin and Brunswick, GA. I made a terrible error in judgment by not stopping at a roadside stand selling toe jam and frog jam.

All I have is this terrible picture advertising their hot sauce. I won't lie--butt burner hot sauce sounds scary.
 

Later research revealed that toe jam and frog jam are tangerine-orange-elderberry and fig-raspberry-orange-ginger jams, respectively. So far, skipping this stand is my only regret on this trip. But I have five days (FIVE!) left on this road trip, so I'll be on the lookout.

***

In other news, like a cowboy with a wild horse, I have broken this push-button voodoo car. I've made it my bitch. I push that button with full confidence now. I know you were all concerned a couple days ago. The car and I have come a long way.

The voodoo car and I made it down to Brunswick, which is a cute little town with so much potential, but it looks like it's seen better days. Saint Simon, a little further east, is a wealthy community that is home to Christ Church. I was really looking forward to this.

 

So of course it's only closed today.

This is my first real experience with Spanish moss, so I was all camera happy. I wish there had been a smidge of sun to help out a little. I have a feeling there will be many more pics like this in the days to come.

The rest of the afternoon was a bust. I went to Midway to check out Seabrook Village, an African American village museum. Except it just looked like a really dodgy house, so I turned my push-button car right around and got back onto the highway. Watching the clouds become darker, it was time to find a hotel room and an early dinner.

The waitress at the Sweet Tea Grille in Port Wentworth, GA, is my new bff. We chatted while the rain came down hard. She is originally from Arizona, and we talked about regional differences in our country. We talked about how an accent can immediately change the course of an exchange between two people and how hard it can be when people won't give you a chance. It's definitely been an experience in extremes. But no matter--I'm "baby girl" to at least one Georgian. That's enough for me.

xo

Sir, may I please speak to your cartographer

I am pleased to announce that the Blue Ridge Mountains are still blue.

The mountains haven't quite woken up from winter yet, and it was an overcast day as I drove for a stretch down the Blue Hill Parkway. And the 18 mile stretch from the Parkway to Brevard, NC, was steep and windy. It was also where I began to notice the rhododendrons. They're huge and even a firm rhodo-hater like me could appreciate the magnitude of these . . . are they still bushes when they're 10' tall? Many were taller. And they were everywhere. Even if you don't know what a rhododendron is, trust me, you would notice this. And as much as I dislike them, I bet that road will look amazing in about a month when they all blossom. Mental note to come at the beginning of May next time.

Off to the right is just the smallest fraction of what the rhododendrons are like in the area.

From Brevard, I took a few backroads that were advertised as scenic routes on the map as I slipped quietly into South Carolina. That's when things changed. The single-wides got crummier, and the rhododendrons got thicker and taller, and the road began to wind up up up. Then down down down. The S curves were tight, and there was nowhere to stray from the road. I actually made myself car sick.

I passed by trailers no one could possibly live in and a hitch hiker on this road to hell who sort of felt his own arm to make sure he was flexing when I went by. Then he looked disappointed that I didn't stop. He was middle aged and a little pudgy. Scary, like he wouldn't know his own strength. Good luck, pudgy, scary dude.

This road was not scenic, per se. This road was the kind of road that made me question some life choices, like not finishing Infinite Jest and not getting the full-blown insurance for my push-button car. Eventually I did find a spot to stop and catch my breath and let the car rest. I opened the windows to get some air. The silence was deafening. It was piercing. And I had just passed some trailers, one with a kid kicking a ball around in the backyard. But now I sat and looked out at the woods--the massive hills on all sides--and wondered how different this might have been 150 years ago. About the Native Americans and the colonists starting to venture a bit further west and fugitive slaves. I had a stupid existential moment under a canopy of rhododendrons.

Then I came out to another road deemed scenic. This was the scene from my window.

Yes, I made it to Pumpkintown. Aaand kept going.

***

The beauty and danger to having a no-reservation vacation is that while you're not beholden to anything, you're also not beholden to anything. So I drove aimlessly until my stomach growled or I got agitated. Then I would pull out the phone (no, I'm not roughing it in any way) and, if there was a signal, check where I was, where I was headed, and what the weather looked like there. Rain seems to be taking over all of Georgia today and tomorrow. And when I drove through Atlanta, I got off the highway and circled around the aquarium a couple times thinking that might be a good way to spend a rainy Monday. But then my gut said no. So I drove through the rain, toward Macon. Then I kept going. I stopped in Dublin, GA, for the night, leaving me just a couple hours from Savannah. So enough of the mountains and scary not-very-scenic-thanks-much roads and on to the coastal islands and towns.

That's me, baby! Living life in the fast lane.

Where I question my politics--what?!

It was hard saying bye to Little brother and Ligia. And look at how dejected Stanley looks.

Sorry, little buddy.

But it was time for me to get in my push-button car and hit the open road. Unfortunately, the open road between Charlotte and Asheville doesn't get good until the end.

And then I did this to amuse myself.

Apparently you cannot go into the bat cave to see Bruce Wayne, so what good is it?

Years ago, a high school friend who now lives in Charlotte heard I was going to Asheville.

B: Asheville...the whole town smells like incense.
Me: What? No town smells like incense.

Then Little brother, Kias, and I got out of the car there the next day. I turned to them in amazement: "This whole town smells like incense!"

I remembered loving Asheville. An artsy little enclave with good food and a hippie heart. This time I left a little confused. In the back of my mind, I'd always thought I could live here if I left New England. Now I'm not so sure. But I only spent an afternoon, so maybe it was just the assault on my senses. At one point, I texted my brother:

WHO AM I??? Three days in NC and I'm saying things like this? But seriously. I watched three dirty, dreaded guys sitting on the sidewalk asking for money and then calling out after people, "C'mon, man. Anything would help. A dollar to buy some food. You know, just anything, man." And I thought, "You're able-bodied. Get a job."

The second thing that tells me I'm too old to live here is the pawn shop window.

Beautiful instruments likely mostly sold by dummies who aren't taking care of their business.

So the problem for me is that I straddle the line here. I have a good job with a good salary and work ethic. But I'm also socially liberal, dig music, and respect local movements. So I watched well-to-doers shopping and I watched grubby musicians, and I didn't feel I belonged to either camp. It made me sad. So I went drinking.

Tupelo Honey Cafe is as good as the guidebooks say. It's loud and a little tight inside, but I sat at the bar and received star treatment from Darien, who called me Miss Kelly the whole time and told me I looked happy digging into my grits.

So, you know when you're out and you order an app and it's all small and stuff and you wish you'd ordered more? That's not the sitch here at Tupelo. The apps are BIG. Oops. But I was happy to try a couple different things, both delicious.

cheesy grit cakes with hot sauce and a nice cool cucumber salad

pulled pork egg rolls with bbq dipping sauce and salad

So if you are ever in town, go in and sit at the bar and hang with Darien. Highly recommended.

One thing I love about Asheville is all the art. The old Woolworth's building has been transformed into an open art space, with a series of booths featuring different artists. I didn't realize until I was leaving that taking pics was not okay. But if I don't show you how cool it is, why would you just take my word for it?

Susan Stanton's photos on stretched canvas. I love the chair and shoes.

Walter Arnold prints photos of abandoned places on metal. It's stunning, and a little creepy.

Other than that, I just wandered around the downtown for a couple hours and took it all in.

Okay. I guess I really just took a lot of pictures of odd things. Oh well. Now off to hit the mountains and enter Georgia!

Benign neglect

Hello, Winston-Salem! More accurately, hello, world's largest coffee pot!

 

Actually, it's not that big.

I was disappointed.



 

 

Also here is Old Salem Village. It's a Moravian community from eastern Europe that settled here in the 1700s. There's an open main street that you can walk down, but you can also enter through the admission building and get an all-access pass ($23) to wander through buildings as you like. It's small and pretty, and there was hardly anyone here. No crowds = happy mill girl.

 

Maude, roll the tape.

 

 

 

Now, this building on the left is really big. It's where all single men lived and learned trades: The Single Brothers' House

And the first person we saw was this guy . . .

And he wasn't wearing a ring. Apparently the sign is apt. o.O

We talked to him for a bit, and I remarked on some interesting door hinges that I'd never seen before (because I'm a geek). He responded that the great thing about benign neglect is that you can see everything in its original state. Benign neglect. I like that.

Krispy Kreme's beginnings. They were forced to move when it was
decided to make it a historical area. 

Maybe I'm just paranoid, but I get the feeling they're talking about me.

At the top of the road is the Moravian cemetery, God's Acre. Apparently, all Moravian cemeteries are called this. Women, men, and children are separated, and all stones are flat because all people are equal in eternity.

 

 

 



Apparently there's one for rent.



 

 



We lost Ligia at the back of the cemetery. She talked with this woman for a while.
At the end, they hugged. I think she told Ligia the meaning of life. Ligia won't confirm or deny.

 

After Winston-Salem, we went to High Point for one reason.

 

World's largest chest of drawers. With Ligia and Little brother for size reference.

 

After walking around town a bit, Little brother observed that the town's name is a bit of a misnomer. Perhaps it should just be Point, NC. I would never saying something so mean.

 

 

We somehow found a radio station that played every lost hit from the 80s. Ligia and I had a good time singing, and Little brother was really patient. I love that Ligia appears so quiet but is really just happily doing her own thing.

 

 

 

Rock on, sis!

 

xo