Hilary and Theresa's Road to Nowhere: Deep South Thoughts

By the time we arrived in Savannah, Georgia, we'd adopted cartoonish southern drawls and taken to entertaining ourselves with conversations that went something like this:
"Skeeter, honey, I reckon you done missed our turn. That rat there looks like the swimmen pool."
"I don't see nuthin Cricket."
"Look rat there."
"Rat where? That lil bitty thing? We can't swim in that; it ain't no bigger n' a biscuit."
And so on and so on.

I could listen to those southern accents forever. They ran the gamut from smooth and sophisticated to almost unintelligible. I spoke to people that sounded like Jimmy Carter and to those that sounded like characters from "Porgy and Bess," with remnants of the African Gullah dialects brought to America and spoken secretly by the slaves. I found myself engaging people in conversation a little longer than usual just to hear them talk. This was easy to do because everyone was so damned polite. At first I thought this "southern hospitality" was contrived. Some of it probably was, especially in the areas catering to tourists where waitresses actually said "y'all come back now." But it seemed genuine and the nicknames given to Savannah - Hostess City of the South, and Charleston - Best-Mannered City, were both well deserved.

We began to notice the obvious and superficial distinctions between the North and the South sometime after crossing the Mason-Dixon Line in Maryland. Originally the delineation of a land dispute between two guys named Mason and Dixon, it is now a symbol of the cultural boundary that divides the North and the South. That boundary is still very real and in many ways the deep south felt like a different country.

We woke up in Rocky Mount, North Carolina after driving most of the afternoon and evening from New Jersey through Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia. The trees had changed; the vibrant colors of fall were behind us. The weather had changed too; it was 20 degrees warmer. And then there were those accents. The kids called there mothers "momma" for starters. And it was "rat" instead of "right." People were "fixen" to do this and they "reckoned" they'd do that. And the "y'alls" just picked up speed the farther south we traveled.

Savannah, Georgia was our next destination. But we got turned around outside of Santee, South Carolina when we stopped for gas and got seduced by a stray dog. She was a beauty. A little on the scrawny side, she looked like a brindled golden retriever. This girl was smart. She knew she had me at "woof" so she directed her most brazen flirtations toward Hilary and Layla. She wagged her tail and soulfully gazed into Hilary's eyes. She ran around in circles in front of Layla. Guarded at first, both were soon intoxicated by her southern charm. "Should we call her Carolina or Savannah?" I wondered out loud. What a great story for the blog, I thought to myself. Was this meant to be? What about the plan to simplify our lives? We went back and forth - the first of many moral dilemmas presented by the South. We had reached the point where we were talking about where to find a veterinarian when a shiny red truck pulled into the station and off she ran, wagging her tail and putting on a little show for the driver as if he was Mr. Wonderful. "What a slut," I muttered under my breath. "Ingrate," sneered Hilary. Layla's eyes narrowed as she watched Carolina sashay into the sunset. I knew exactly what she was thinking: "You bitch."

We knew this was for the best, but the rejection still stung. So we soothed our hurt feelings with the best southern remedy for everything. Barbecue. Actually, we didn't need an excuse; we had been eating barbecued ribs and links and brisket once and sometimes twice a day since we arrived in North Carolina.We ate at the big popular chains like Ken and Candies and at the off the beaten path joints like our favorite, The Georgia Pig, a hole-in-the-wall run by 5'0" and 250 lb. "Aunt Jeanette" and her toothless, but obviously very well-fed, progeny. I wanted to take a picture of this group but, along with missing their teeth, this family seemed to be missing that "southern charm" gene and I was afraid that one of them might shoot me with a bazooka or a sling-shot.

The barbecue at Coasters in Santee was pretty good, but the local history lesson courtesy of our chatty waiter, Mark, was very informative. We were told that the people from this part of the world, known as the low country, were quite resilient. They have been economically depressed for decades, with many living below the poverty level, so the present economic crises is nothing new to them and they are weathering the storm pretty well. For anyone considering relocation, according to Mark, South Carolina is very affordable. He told us that decent homes could be had for 80K and that it wasn't hard to eke out a living in Santee on 20K a year. I quickly did the numbers. "Skeeter, honey, do you reckon we'd be happy in South Carolina?"

We decided to follow Mark's advice and stop in Charleston, South Carolina on our way to Savannah. I'm not sure why Charleston wasn't on our radar to begin with as it is one of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen. Both Charleston and Savannah surrendered almost immediately during the Civil War, leaving both cities looking as grand as they did in 1860. But Charleston is a much bigger city and it seemed much grander. The historic cobblestoned downtown district was much larger. There were more statues, monuments, and cannons in the parks along the waterfront. And the mansions south of Broad Street were far more impressive than those we saw in Savannah. Charleston's reputation as the mecca for the aristocracy was apparent from the looks of those impressive antebellum mansions running for blocks and blocks in the neighborhood south of Broad Street. We were told by those in the know that a penchant for the aristocratic still lingers in this city and there is a saying that "in Atlanta, you are asked what you do, in Savannah, you are asked what you drink, and in Charleston you are asked what your mother's maiden name is." But no one asked for our credentials, and Layla held her own among the canine gentry at Battery Park at the southern tip of the city where the Ashley and Cooper Rivers meet. We wandered around the neighborhood, desperately looking for something that our waiter told us we could buy for $80,000K. "Skeet, I think he must have meant $8,000,000..."

Charleston is also a culinary destination for foodies from all over the world. We ate at the highly recommended Jestine's on Meeting St. They served the best shrimp creole I had ever tasted and they were the first restaurant we ate at in the south that didn't have Fox News blasting in the background. Lest we forget, Sean Hannity was there, in every motel lobby and in most restaurants, to remind us that we were in a very "red" section of the Bible Belt, painful in light of the recent election results. Fox News wasn't the only reminder. There were also those creepy billboards, in the shape of crosses, telling pregnant women to listen real hard for the sound of their fetuses crying "Momma, don't kill me. I'm ALIVE."

Savannah may not have had Charleston's food and culture, but there was a mysterious and sensual vibe to the city that was very unique. And that Spanish Moss... I am still dreaming of that Spanish Moss. It had this gothic fairy-tale like quality to it and it draped from the trees like trippy Halloween decorations. When the light filtered through it, especially at dusk, it had this ethereal glow that just took my breath away. It is actually a plant called an epiphyte. It grows on the branches of the oak and other trees when the temperatures are warm and the humidity is high and it flourishes in Savannah. It was particularly memorable in Forsyth Park, where "The Garden of Good and Evil" was filmed. Everyone seems to have something to say about the Spanish Moss. I've heard that it is a member of the pineapple family, that it is not toxic, that it is filled with bugs and very toxic, and that it is somehow even responsible for the east-coast bed-bug epidemic. In any event, it was very beautiful and the Spanish Moss will be indelibly linked to my memories of Savannah.

I almost forgot about another highlight of our visit to Savannah. After walking around the Colonial Cemetary, we decided to visit the museum in the Congregation Mickve Israel, the oldest Jewish synagogue in the south. We turned the corner and there was Bevis Marks staring right at us. An ancestor? Hard to be sure, but Hilary learned a lot about Bevis Marks, one of the first Jewish settlers and the founder of the synaagogue, originally called Bevis Synagogue. As for me, I finally understood my strange fascination with the "Beavis and Butthead" cartoon characters. Heh, heh, heh.

We were about 30 miles out of town when the "check engine" light came on. Shit. I guess we better go back to Savannah. After three hours of diagnostic testing, it was determined that we will probably need a new catalytic converter in order to pass smog in California. But according to our mechanic, nothing needed to be done in Georgia because "down here in the deep and dirty south, we don't give a shit about emissions and pollution and such." Probably because they all watch Fox News and don't believe in global warming..."

After spending all afternoon at the Subaru dealership, we decided to spend the night on Jekyll Island, an old cotton plantation nicknamed "Georgia's Jewel," about an hour south of Savannah. We got an additional dose of Spanish Moss, walked on the beautiful beach, and stopped by a rehabilitation center for turtles where the patients float around with little bandages and splints and eye-patches even. Aaargh. It might have been really depressing if we hadn't learned that many of the turtles recover completely and are successfully returned to the sea.

There was a lot to love about both South Carolina and Georgia. Impressive old cities with magnificent mansions, historical landmarks, and old-towns with cobblestone streets and horse drawn carriages that hearkened us back to another era. Of course I couldn't help thinking about the price that had been paid for that era. It was hard not to think about it. Plantation tours are a booming business and little trains and golf carts carry tourists through the grand manors and the refurbished slave quarters. The Savannah Cotton Exchange is now a historic monument along the Savannah River. And the Old Slave Mart Museum in Charleston was a reminder of exactly how the southern wealth was amassed. It was especially difficult to think about our country's history as we considered the deeper and more disturbing distinctions that still exist between North and South. Confederate flags flew unapologetically as soon as we got out of the cities. And active secession movements remain afoot in both South Carolina and Georgia. If the south seemed like a different country, maybe it's because there are forces still trying to make it a different country. While racial divides exist throughout the United States, it is just seems more overt in the south. At times, all of this made it feel wrong to even appreciate the beauty of Charleston, Savannah, and the south in general. Yet it's beauty couldn't be denied and, in the end, the undercurrents of something ugly were part of the southern experience.