Thursday, June 28, 2012

"A-holes and bin juice"

So Mandy was right about "if you think Savannah stinks wait till you get to New Orleans..."

Donna and I have agreed it smells like.. well.. read the title of the blog. It is REALLY on the nose! At least the French Quarter is, anyway. Walking the streets of the old gas lamp district is an assault to your senses: your ankles and feet are treading carefully along cracked and uneven footpaths; I've already mentioned the STENCH coming from everywhere; the grit, grime and grungy streets and decor offend the eye.

Donna and I managed to see nearly all of the neighbourhoods in New Orleans; we started with the French Quarter and then we headed East to Marigny and Fauribourg. It wasn't a far drive (in fact we didn't consciously do it) till we hit the Lower Ninth Ward, and boy oh boy - the poor really are poor here. So many people left when Katrina hit and the Lower Ninth Ward was wiped out - evidence is still clear of the devastation the flood waters left behind and many of the poor black people who populate this neighbourhood haven't been able to afford to come back and rebuild. We locked our doors (sad but true) and proceeded to cruise around, taking in the sights and lamenting the condition of mankind. Donna introduced me to a fast food chain that originated in New Orleans; Popeye's Chicken. I had the smallest meal possible and have to say, it was nowhere near as greasy as KFC and actually not that bad as it was all breast meat and if you just have the chicken, it's not too naughty.

We took a drive out to the Barataria Preserve and did a walk through the beautiful, haunting, HOT, bayous there (the National Parks have built a boardwalk through the bayous to prevent erosion and human interference with the fragile ecosystem). The bayou was fully alive with roaring insect noise; it fills your ears and sounds like a carefully conducted orchestra playing as you wind your way through the cypress trees sprouting out of the stagnant waters, pretty mini lily-pads and bullrushes provide a lovely green backdrop as far as the eye can see. After getting our fill of the heat (it was unbelievably hot, we couldn't bear one more minute of walking) we took a drive (yay for airconditioning!) to a plantation out of New Orleans city limits. A plantation built in 1792 that has seen so many different families and industries it has a very rich and interesting story, skillfully told by our tour guide, Ronnie. Tales of children dying from yellowfever; slaves uprising and burning down plantations along the riverbanks until eventually being tried in the upstairs parlour and executed by firing squad in the front yard; demonstrations of how to make the insulation in the house made from clay and dried spanish moss. It was voted attraction of the year in 2010 and it is easy to see why. Rich in history and intrigue, it was well worth the lengthy drive North-West.

We shopped, we ate, we drank, we ate, we shopped, we ate, we ate, we collapsed in our apartment with heatstroke. The heat is so utterly oppressive it is impossible to be outside for more than two hours at a time without feeling desperate to escape it. While we were at Destrehan Plantation, it began to rain. Big splotches of cooling water lazily fell down upon us, gathering speed until Donna and I just stood in the rain, enjoying the cooling sensation and feeling not in any real hurry to take shelter. We watched the dragonflies do their afternoon ritualistic swarming around the plantation grounds; fascinating and seemingly random dancing up and down, left and right. I did take a video but I'm not entirely sure it will really convey the intensity and the volume of dragonflies.

I had my first Po'Boy - and it was spectacular. Donna ordered gumbo, jambalaya and crawfish ettoufe and I tried all three. Tuesday I had been violently ill most of the morning and it wasn't until around 2pm I started feeling well enough to get up and explore the city.. Donna was very kind and spoke soothing words to me while I gingerly got out of bed and showered (note: do not eat oysters in New Orleans in a month that is void of an 'r') and eventually we managed to get out and about and start soaking in the Eastern districts.

We have also driven west and north, south and east, and of course explored the central neighbourhoods, and I have to say, my favourite neighbourhood is the Lower Garden district. Full of beautiful restored houses - this is obviously where the wealthier classes live. Tall, old oak trees line the streets and arch over the streets, forming that classic and incredibly pretty frame for each street in this district. The houses are close together, yes, but they have such character and are what I imagined when I thought about the inner city antebellum style properties of New Orleans.

Spontaneous live jazz makes it way down the street in front of our apartment every other few hours, especially from about 5pm onwards when it's more like 35oC instead of 38oC, and the men carrying the tubas and drums can manage to march down the streets without collapsing from heatstroke. It is amusing and entertaining, but after a while, and in combination with the heat (have I mentioned the HEAT yet??) all the noise just prompts me to retreat inside our apartment, close the heavy, well insulated door and block it out until I have drunk enough water and recouped enough to be able to enjoy the music, rather than be irritated by it.

Voodoo here is very alive and well, and it is fascinating to explore the holes in the walls the line the French Quarter, and after doing a bit of this exploring, I decided to go to the Voodoo Spiritual Temple. It was fascinating, and Priestess Miriam is very warm and inviting. She had me call her 'honey' when I left, and we shared a moment of genuine warmth and mutual respect. I went to an out of the way (i.e. NOT a tourist destination) voodoo supply store and met Felix, the owner, who also filled me with warmth and I strangely felt like crying when he showed me how to cast a spell and gave me the ingredients I will be taking home for someone I care about who needs a little help right now. F&F Candles is full of local voodoo and hoodoo practitioners, all trying to turn their luck around, and it smells like a spicy slice of heaven. No oppressive live magic here like there was in Hex Witchcraft yesterday; I had to leave the store almost as soon as we walked in because someone was casting spells at the altar in the store and it was cloying and invasive.

We have twice now eaten at a restaurant called Muriels, and I've decided I'm going to eat there again tonight, for my last dinner in New Orleans. I don't normally go to the same place twice when I'm on holidays, but Muriels is just perfect. I don't have to say anything else really; it is simply perfect. Fantastic, attentive, warm but not overly familiar service; relaxing and truly beautiful ambience; spectacular, inventive food; and it isn't expensive. There's so much on that menu that I want to try but I have a feeling I know what I'll be having tonight. I'll post photos on facebook!

Today as I was driving back to the hotel from doing a bit of last-day exploring, I saw the most amazing house, that Donna and I have driven past at least three times in the last four days. It is a perfect example of how nature claims back what man has made once man leaves. Vines and trees and flowers seem to strangle the abandoned property, in a haunting but beautiful kind of way. It is how I imagine a post-apocalyptic world to be.. ramshackle remnants of man-made structures, overcome with nature bursting her beautiful renewing life out of the cracks and crevices.

So I'm signing off from New Orleans (this blog's been a bit all over the place, but then again, so is the Big Easy, so I think it's rather fitting) - I'll chat again when I hit Atlanta.

Chat soon,
M x

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Ghosts, lies and more sore feet.

Savannah smells weird. There, I said it. Some streets I swear to all that is important I can actually smell the chamber pots, horse manure, food scraps, dirt and grime and god only knows what else, on the street today, as though it was 1733, when Savannah was first established.

The British had a problem - their economy was much like the USA's today; in the toilet. And they had all these citizens who suddenly couldn't afford to live, and so they were being locked up in poor people's prisons, as they couldn't repay their debts or their taxes. But this system was obviously not doing the British government or economy any good really, all it was doing was costing them more money keeping these otherwise helpful people in prison. The British also had another problem - the Spanish. While the twelve colonies of Britain were doing swimmingly across Northern America, the Spanish were doing rather well for themselves in the Southern regions of Northern America (namely, Florida). Not to mention the French were doing exceedingly well in Louisiana. The threat was always there. So one bright spark, British General James Edward Oglethorpe, caught King George II's ear, and suggested that they could, perhaps, send these men off to create a thirteenth colony, not as free men, but in debt to the Crown for a period of five to ten years, and perhaps they should be landed on the marshy ground between the prosperous Charles Town, and the Spanish owned Florida. There were differences between this colony and the others though:
1. They were not free men;
2. No Catholics, Jews, Lawyers or Rum allowed. Why Catholics? Because the Spanish were the Pope's people, and King George II was paranoid that a Catholic may spy for the other side. Why Jews? Well probably because they've been persecuted for a few thousand years thus far, why stop now. I'm sure I was told, I just can't remember!
3. NO SLAVERY. These men were not free men! Why would they be allowed slaves! They had to work off their debts to the Crown, and then they would be free men.

Savannah did rather well for itself, and provided an excellent buffer between the Spanish & French settlements, and the Carolinas. But not only did Savannah provide this protection; it also turned into a very prosperous city indeed.

Savannah is allegedly America's Most Haunted City. The reasons as to why it is so damn haunted became apparent to me today, when on my tour, the tour guide (Savannah Dan, I recommend) began telling the stories of where the old cemeteries used to be.. and how the rapidly expanding city decided to just BUILD OVER THEM. In addition to just blatantly building over graves, they also decided to build a monument to one of the cities (white) heroes over the TOP OF AN INDIAN KING'S BURIAL SITE. Literally, built on an Indian burial ground. EESH. Oh but it doesn't stop there! When the Confederate soldiers were in town during the Civil War, the offices got to sleep comfortably inside the houses in the city, but the mere soldiers had to camp out in a large flat grassy area - you guessed it - a cemetery. Not only did they break off headstones and move them out of the way to create more flat space to erect their makeshift tents, but some of them out of boredom changed the engravings on other tombstones, and some, to my utter disbelief and disgust, broke into the raised mausoleums and did one of two things; either busted open the coffins and used the wood to make a fire for warmth, OR kicked out the skeletons and then climbed in to sleep in the coffin to get out of the cold.

Little wonder really, why there's just so many restless dead in this city.

Some truly scary shit is going on here, and after the two hour ghost tour of the city last night (no, I saw no ghosts, and was more distracted by the stupid drunk bachelorette party that came with us and one especially stupid loud-mouthed drunk attention seeking biatch in their party), I don't particularly want to go poking around at certain houses. Some of the mansions here haven't been lived in this century because they just can't handle the hag attacks. Bites, scratches, welts, wounds, bruises.. all happening by some heavy-pressure shadow form that attacks at night and can be seen by your partner lying in bed next to you watching you suddenly come up with scratch marks. According to local voodoun, Calhoun Square is a layway for hag energies to cross into our world and apparently hags aren't item or location bound like most spirits - they can go anywhere, follow you anywhere. Tobias - my tour guide who has been doing this tour for years - said he no longer takes the group over onto the other side of the street to stand in front of one of the worst haunted houses, because he was getting too many emails back from people saying they were experiencing hauntings. So to be safe, we stood across the road from one of the most haunted houses in America, and took photos trying to see if we could capture anything. I don't know exactly what happened, but I took a series of photos, and in one of them the house is completely obscured by what appears to be a white-grey fog right over the camera lens. Tobias showed us a photo that had been taken by three separate people on one of his tours - and in it, you can see a little girl standing by the front door of the house, staring back at the tour group. There's a story about this poor seven year old girl whose father did horrendous things to her (I'll spare you the details - if you want them, you've got Google); but Tobias doesn't believe it's her, he believes it's a hag taking her form.

I don't think I ever want to leave this hotel. This is the danger with booking nice hotels, especially ones that have real charm like this.. this to me is far nicer than any Palazzo Versace or Sheraton etc could be.. this house was built in 1847 and I have the exposed brickwork in one wall of my room which just adds so much darn charm it's ridiculous. The bathroom is gorgeous and even has a small fireplace!! And with 'complimentary and casual' wine & cheese hour from 6pm - 7pm, and 'complimentary and casual' dessert hour (with coffees) from 8pm - 9pm, plus free hot breakfast lovingly hand made by "momma" virginia, why the hell WOULD you want to leave?? I typed this sitting in my four poster bed, on the most luxurious-feeling sheets you can possibly imagine, with beautiful combination feather and something else filling pillows propping me up, looking out my double white-shuttered windows at the trees and cobblestone street below. I could live here. In this room. Seriously. If this was a boarding house, I could actually live here. Never thought I'd say that I could live in a boarding house!

So I eventually pulled myself out of bed and said a fond farewell to both the hotel and the city, and headed down the I-95 to Brunswick, where I had the best gourmet hotdog of my life, and did a bit of sightseeing around the Golden Isles before heading back on the I-95 and being quite serious about getting very close to Alabama before turning in for the night. I had planned to drive to Tallahassee, the half-way point between Savannah and New Orleans, but as I left earlier than planned, I just kept driving until I could feel I was fatiguing. So I have pulled into a trusty Motel 6 in Pensacola, after going into the downtown area and having the best shrimp of my life in this seafood shack restaurant called Sam's. Blackened shrimp - and they were amazing. God they were so good.

I am apparently only three hours (give or take how leaden my foot becomes) out of New Orleans, so I'm planning on not setting an alarm (for once!!!) and just giving my body the sleep it needs, because oh boy, does it need it. Too many five or six hour nights (of sleep time I mean), too many ten hours of walking days, too many three hours or driving days (in addition to the walking).. I'm just about ready to catch me a cold if I don't get a good night's sleep. I DO want to go see what the fuss is all about re Pensacola's beaches - apparently the sand is pure white and the water is like something out of a Tahiti brochure, so I'll see how I feel about that in the morning.

I've learned a few things on this trip.. (this is clearly not an exhaustive list)

1) Speed limits are more of a suggestion, than a limit.. I have actually witnessed drivers go flying by me and NOT be pulled over by the Sheriff lurking to catch people speeding because they weren't going 'fast enough' to warrant him putting on his sirens.. mind you, if I'm doing 75, and they're flying past.. god only knows what they're doing..
2) EVERYTHING is cooked in meat products, so you have to be super careful if you wish to avoid eating a fatty meal - there's this meat product called 'fat back' and it seriously looks like just a lump of pig fat - apparently restaurants cook damn near everything in it.
3) Motel 6's might be scoffed at by the Americans as a 'pov' type hotel, but they are always clean, comfortable, and cheap.
4) The Lady & Sons is bloody ordinary (Paula Dean's restaurant). I have spared you my full opinion on the place because I would just rant for a good whole blog about it. TRULY disappointed. Do NOT go.
5) I'm actually pretty darn good at being solo. Who'd'uve thunk it?

Next stop - NEW ORLEANS!!

Later y'all!
M xx



























Thursday, June 21, 2012

One city - three faces

I was initially going to call this blog “One city, two faces”, and then I found myself in the city later at night tonight than I was last night (not hard last night really, as I was in my room by 7pm..) and saw yet another different ‘face’ to Charleston.

Charleston is an old city. I mean really old. I mean colonial times, when the Americans were still British stock, before they became their own independent country. Charleston is a large city, always has been, back in the 1700’s they had a population of 40,000 – which as you can imagine – was a lot for the time. It is also geographically wide-spread, with a network of rivers and harbours encapsulating the peninsula which is essentially the downtown and historic district of Charleston. Initially Charles Town settled on the Northern bank of this peninsula, and decided they weren’t going to be some piddly colony to be messed with – oh no, they wanted to last. So they built a comprehensive sea wall fortification around the Northern banks of the peninsula, and fortified this with large parrot cannons (apparently Mr Parrot invented them). If you go to East Bay Street today, you can see where the old water line used to be, because every second ‘street’ that comes off East Bay Street to the North, is called somebody or another’s “wharf”. These little streets used to be actual wharves, but due to both nature and man influence, the river retreated out further, and the peninsula was built up to more solid ground.

If you go to Old Museum and Dungeon Provost, you can actually go underground and see the different eras of brickwork in the ‘dungeon’ downstairs where they used to do everything from sort mail that had come in from Britan, Spain, France etc, to keep naughty pirates awaiting the gallows. The bottom level of brick is from that initial sea wall fortification – dated at around 1680. It is amazing that given the constant flow of both sea water and natural ground water welling up, that this brickwork is still in better condition than much of the modern brickwork I have seen in my travels! Upon this brick work is built the fortifications that came in the Revolutionary War, and then of course, the Civil War. I am still entirely fascinated by the Civil War, and feel I have so much yet to learn, but thanks to my wonderful tour guide this morning, I think I have a better grip on it today. If you’re not interested in finding out what the hell happened re Civil War, skip the next paragraph. If you are, then by all means, read my abbreviated and much simplified version.

So the United States had come together in some shape to have a central government, and the Northern states had tried slavery, but it didn’t work for them. But in the South.. oh it worked a treat. The climate was exactly right for Africans to work hard in – humid, hot, sun beating down.. and of course this was the exactly wrong climate for the European settlers of the area, whose fair white skin burnt to a crisp if they attempted labouring outside in these conditions. It worked for the South. Slowly but surely the North tried to abolish slavery across all of the United States, and the South didn’t much like this idea. It was a huge industry – billions of dollars of industry – and the Southerners were getting wealthy off slave labour, thankyouverymuch. So instead of just leaving them be, the Northerners tried to impress their ideals upon the South (interestingly enough, a fair portion of the Africans brought over were brought on ships made by the fair people of Boston, who thought it was a great idea until slavery didn’t work out in their climate..). Sound like the America you know today..?? The South said ‘jog on’ and wanted to be left alone to continue in their prosperous ways. The North kept pressing abolition (of slavery) and tension started to rise. There were four presidential candidates that year, and any of them would’ve been just fine with the South… except for Lincoln. The day Charlestonians found out that Abraham Lincoln had been elected the President of the United States was the day that South Carolina seceded from the United States. NO ONE in the South had voted for him, and now they were a minority in their own country, with no representation in government. So they (and many other states.. thirteen in fact) said “hey, ok man, that’s what you want, that’s fine, we’re out of the union”. But Charleston was a very important port you see, with excellent military fortifications (Gen Pierre Beauregard built forts that LASTED), that received all of the goods from overseas they that didn’t have or couldn’t produce locally.. and thus was important in terms of both contributing wealth to the union, and goods. Abe Lincoln couldn’t have this – he needed Charleston in the United States. So a stand off begins, with South Carolina saying “we’re not kidding man, we will use force if we have to to protect our city.. just leave us be..” and the North thought they were bluffing. SC tried to get the union military out of Fort Sumnter, the fortified island in the middle of the Charleston harbour, and they ‘declined in the invitation to leave’. Eventually Beauregard pushed them out (cough cough) and they reclaimed their own fort. If you’re interested in more info here, feel free to give me a shout out, or there’s Google of course, but I learned a lot from the lovely Jack Thompson, tour guide, today, and I feel I have sufficient handle on the local Civil War info.

Anyhoo! My first day I drove in from Myrtle Beach and stopped into Boone Hall Plantation on the way – gorgeous, simply gorgeous. From the gardens to the massive 600 year old oak tree filled with Spanish moss to the cantilever staircase that greets you when you walk in the front door.. the house and gardens are just spectacular. Highly recommended. The Plantation is one of the only ones of its kind that still has the ‘slave street’ in tact.

I then proceeded to Fort Moultrie, the Northern most fortification (like I said, they were serious about ensuring the safety and security of their town..) that is on the Isle of Palms.. which is just gorgeous. I had my first taste of lowcountry shrimp n’ grits here, and it was wonderful. With a full belly I explored the beautiful strip of beach houses (and of course, beach), Fort Moultrie and generally stood and breathed in the beautiful clean salty air and felt that life, at that moment, was pretty darn good.

If you do come to Charleston, I highly recommend checking out Magnolia Cemetery. It is absolutely without a doubt the most gorgeous, soulful, haunting, touching cemetery I have ever been to. As is with all things lowcountry, it is in a swamp, so the graves are tucked in on patches of solid earth around this beautiful swampland, complete with marsh frogs and herons etcetera, and of course, the ever-present Spanish moss, weeping eerily from the many, many trees that are growing in, ON, and around the graves. You’ll see a lot of Confederate flags here, speared proudly into the ground at the feet of loved ones who were obviously staunch Southerners.

The two hour tour with Jack around the Historic District is without a doubt $20 incredibly well spent – the man is a veritable fount of information – throw any question at him and I pretty much guarantee an answer that not only covers the basic response to your question, but embellishes and elaborates upon the original thread of conversation. Not content to just give us our money’s worth by showing us genuine photos of pre-Civil War buildings and streets and then comparing them to the ones standing today (unbelievably, many of the buildings standing today are original, dating even pre-Revolutionary War), he also pointed out birds nesting in the tall trees overhead in Battery Park when I expressed an interest in the local fauna. He tried to get us to put ourselves in the shoes of those citizens living there in 1861, and was a Southern gentleman at all times, offering his arm to me to walk through the park with him (I was one of four on our tour, the other three being a husband, wife, and daughter), and taking off his hat to gently wave thanks at the cars that stopped so we could cross the street. At 72 years old, this man is an inspiration. He does the tour seven days a week ‘rain hail or shine’, and it’s around two hours of walking in the heat, and his brain is sharp as a tack and he’s even written and published a book on the wonders of Historical Downtown Charleston.

I did the usual wandering around taking happy snaps of places and streets and sidewalks (original pre-Revolutionary War slate sidewalks need a photo, don’t you think??) for a few hours, then I went by Magnolia Plantation and Gardens and checked out the amazing swamp gardens – I didn’t do the full gardens or house because at that point (3:30pm), my entire days spent walking and nights spent sleeping only 6 hours or so had caught up with me, and so I crashed at my hotel for a couple of hours’ nap, to get ready for the evening ahead…

Tonight I did my lowcountry cooking class. Lowcountry, by the way, so named because the country is low (duh) – but it is the swamps, marshes, flood-prone areas, that have different soils and different types of foods available, which has melded and shaped the cuisine these people eat, and so, given simply the name ‘lowcountry’. It was a fantastic way to spend a few hours – with like-minded women who enjoy cooking and entertaining – peeling shrimp turned into a hilarious adventure with the ladies I had on my team, and after cooking: lowcountry shrimp n grits; rubbed, glazed, marinated pork ribs; banana pudding; zucchini somethingoranother; and cheddar and proscuitto cheese sticks – I am inspired to give it all a go when I get home. I have stocked up on the ingredients I feel would be a struggle to get at home (namely grits and lowcountry boil spices), so some of you should look out for an invitation in the next few months!

So you have one side of the city, which is historic Charleston, and then you have the other, the Southern side of the peninsula, which is an absolutely gorgeous marina, complete with beautiful waterway wildlife (mostly birds, you know I loves me some birds) and luxurious boats moored next door to fishing boats. Next time I’m in Charleston I’m going to rent a boat and head out into the waterways for a full day of sightseeing and fishing/shrimping. The Southern side seems untouched, I mean I know there’s a bloody great marina right there, but the water is so blue, and the green reedgrass growing in it is so GREEN, and the sky is so blue and it seems so peaceful, and this side of town isn’t as built up as the older side of town.. it really is postcard material.

As I alluded earlier in the blog, the third side of town that I haven’t even remotely explored because I’m being a smart traveler and sticking to early, sober nights, is the nightlife. Now Jack tells me there “isn’t much of a nightlife in Charleston” but I have to beg to differ. If what I saw in the ten minutes it took me to walk from my cooking class back to my car is anything to go by, Charleston is going to be going OFF in the next hour or so. Already there were pubs in full swing, with different live acts – one girl was soulfully singing a rendition of Gotye’s famous and now totally overplayed song; another had live jazz cheerfully blasting out into the street. A bar called the ‘noisy oyster’ looked like a good time, and all in all it was rather tempting to step inside for ‘just one drink’ to soak in the atmosphere. But knowing I have to drive to Savannah first thing tomorrow morning – and it will be first thing, and knowing that I am only me, no friends to keep me company or watch my drink or handbag while I go to the bathroom.. I’m erring on the side of sensible. Although I have to say, I feel completely safe in Charleston. I actually feel much safer in the downtown areas than I do in my motel, so I highly doubt any harm would come to anyone wanting to soak in a bit of the nightlife ambience.

I really do love this town. And it is with a little bit of heaviness in my heart that I’m starting to pack up my little overnight suitcase and get ready to wind down and go to bed. Knowing I’m heading to Savannah tomorrow morning is helping alleviate the sadness though, as I’m 100% sure I’m going to love Savannah.

A little piece of my heart left in Franklin, a little piece left here in Charleston. Three cheers for the genteel Southern cities that don’t feel they need to be overwhelming or commercial or ‘modern’ to win your heart. Hip hip?

Chat soon,
M x

The Cancun of South Carolina?

I enjoyed the lengthy drive to Myrtle Beach, and I was rather excited to finally meet Ned, or should I say, Nancy, Donna’s friend that she had put me in touch with. A quick trip to the Tanger Outlets saw a few things crossed off my ‘to do’ list, and I met up with Ned, who is incredibly warm and fun and wearing the most fabulous hat I have seen in a VERY long time – very Audrey Hepburn – and we went to Murrells Inlet for lunch. It is meant to be the hot spot for seafood, and judging by all the seafood restaurants lining the waterway, I would say it is indeed! I had an appetizer plate which was certainly more than enough, and we got to know each other over lunch, and then after a tour of the city, Nancy took me to the beach – something I haven’t been to in well over 12 months – and we plonked on the sand and people watched whilst chatting away happily. I don’t think we had a single awkward pause in the conversation, which was really refreshing. After a couple of hours of people watching we made a move to get back to her truck, and went on another tour so I could see the lay of the land. She was a very good tour guide, and pointed out things that others may not have thought of – such as a historic railway station, and historic school for ‘colored children’. She took me to dinner, and wowee it was flash. I had the most beautiful shrimp dish with wild rice and vege, and it was just lovely. It was a bit sad saying goodnight because I’d only just met her damnit! But it was 11pm, and I knew I was getting up early to drive to Charleston, so I eventually dragged my carcass out of her truck and headed up to my hotel room… to discover that the balcony door wouldn’t close properly, and had a chain lock on it. AKA a rape lock. That is ALWAYS what I think of when I see those things, and then the second thing I think of is “fat lot of good it’s going to do when psycho kicks the door down..” (I’ve clearly seen far too many movies). So naturally I start freaking out, despite the fact that I’m EIGHT STORIES HIGH.. and ended up huddled underneath my sheets like a big baby, just praying I’d fall asleep and wake up alive and without some weirdo sitting on the foot of my bed watching me sleep.

Myrtle Beach is very much a tourist trap. The main strip, Ocean Boulevard, looks like it is straight out of Jersey Shore the MTV show. It's rather garish with bright lights and colours and t-shirts with all kinds of slogans including ones made infamous by the TV show itself; I asked Nancy about this and she seems to recall the crew came to Myrtle Beach to film something or another. It is what the Gold Coast would be if we were American. So very beachy, very tourist, very OTT. Nowhere near as OTT as Vegas or Pigeon Forge though!! And once you step back from the beachfront there's real charm in the houses in the hind dunes and other mall areas. I will say the sand there is much, much grittier than the sand in Australia, and whilst initially I was like "eh? this isn't soft.." I realised I actually prefer it like that because it means it's much, much easier to brush off!! Y'all know how much I just looove sand, right?

Myrtle Beach is where I overheard the woman behind me ordering her breakfast that included a pancake combo meal plus four rashers of bacon and two eggs and french fries, and then swap out her sausage for more bacon again. God. I'm really doing my absolute best to eat at least one meal plus my snacks 'in house'.. usually I have my breakfast in my hotel room as long as there's a fridge in my room - I've chosen hotels where I could that have fridges, unfortunately I was without one at Myrtle Beach, so no milk to go on my All Bran. Trust me, All Bran is the best choice available for breakfast cereals here, because EVERYTHING has High Fructose Corn Syrup (AKA the health/weight devil) in it. So it's a constant game of going to a grocers and finding things like low sodium ham or sliced chicken or turkey breast and pairing that up with my low fat Triskets for a snack or a lunch while I'm on the go. Doing my damnedest not to return the size of well.. your average American.

I will say at this point, that Nancy isn't your average American, and has a smokin' body. I didn't want to go from that paragraph above, to the one below, without pointing this out, lest anyone think I'm subtly hinting she's fat. She's not. She's phat. Hehee!

Thank you Nancy, you made Myrtle Beach for me, you really did. If you come to Brissie, you’ve got yourself a host. Promise!

Chat soon,
M x

Big city, southern heart

Just like Asheville, when I stepped out of my car, took a breath, shook off the four hours of driving and looked around.. I fell in love with the city pretty much immediately. I parked at one end of Tryon St, which is one of two main streets in Charlotte – the other being Trade St. Tryon and Trade Sts were both crucial Indian trails, and when the white men moved in they of course used the same well established trade routes, and now the city has these two intersecting trade routes as their two main roads. I knew that the Visitor Center (they are INVALUABLE and I highly recommend you utilise them if you do a trip around the States) wouldn’t open until midday, as it was Sunday and Father’s Day to boot (happy Father’s Day Dad!), so I proceeded to lace up my new walking shoes, and get a feel for the city.

The city is divided into four wards, and I’ve decided Fourth Ward is where I would move to, if I were to move to Charlotte. It is just gorgeous. Lovely greenery, big park complete with curious and not at all scared squirrels.. friendly people, beautiful genteel houses, lovely meandering walkways between apartment complexes.. and a gorgeous gushing fountain at the entrance to the main park. To have so much greenery in the middle of a major city makes such a difference. No concrete jungle vibe here!

I got to the Visitor’s Center and they were at a bit of a loss as to what to suggest I should do next, as I had walked thoroughly around the city for about three hours at this point, and had seen literally all the suggested sites on their ‘walking trail’ map, which include historical areas and more modern business areas as well. The old cemetery was beautiful; I really do enjoy my cemeteries. But so were the more modern areas of town – the ‘walkway of arts’ (or whatever it was called) was very modern and funky and inspiring. If only I had an artistic bone in my body…

I wound down for the day with a drive through the outskirts of Charlotte, and quickly recognized that Myers Park must be the upmarket, or ritzy even, area of town. When you notice that someone’s front lawn is larger than most people’s house, and everything is pristinely manicured and trimmed and hedged… it’s a bit of a tip-off you’re in Snootsville. Myself, I preferred the quaint charm of Fourth Ward. The lavish (and very obvious) wealth in Myers Park isn’t really my thing. I liked the open verandahs with built-in ceiling fans, rocking chairs, and bird feeders in Fourth Ward.

I went to Mint Museum of Art and checked out a few exhibits – the special exhibit that was on at the moment was the Fantasies, Fairytales and Fear exhibit.. it was very clever. Some of the art was very evocative and indeed induced a feeling of fear or at the very least, anxiety and apprehension. I was convinced at one point that someone was going to leap out at me from around a corner and scare the beejeesus out of me. Didn’t happen. Thank god. I probably would’ve been all flailing arms and screaming. There was an exhibit on ‘glass, wood, metal’ and a few other things thrown in, that was very, very good. After finishing absorbing as much culture as possible from this museum, I headed down the street, to the Levine Museum of the New South.

The Levine is designed to educate people as to how the South became the New South, and what the Old South was like in a small taste. It is a step by step exhibit, that is prefaced by a short film on the evolution of Charlotte as a city, and it takes us from the era of slavery through each decade, showing things like what a slave’s cottage looked like – actual to-scale models with actual bedding and utensils and OH!

I have just remembered something I have been meaning to tell y'all since I left Franklin! I have discovered the origin of the saying “goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite”. Well the bed bugs one is obvious, but it really refers to bugs and beetles of any description, because mattresses were often made from straw back in the 1900’s and 1800’s, and you had to shake out your mattress and watch all these bugs fall to the floor before you climbed into bed. And the ‘sleep tight’… comes from rope beds. You know our slat beds? Well these beds have rope instead of slats, and every now and then, the rope would loosen, so you would go to the end of the bed, and using a specially made rope-tightening tool, you would tighten the rope in your bed, to provide firm, not sagging, support, on which to lay your bug-filled mattress. Aren’t you happy you live in the 21st Century??

Back to the Levine Museum. So it takes you era by era through everything that’s happening in the New South (“New” once slavery was abolished when the federal forces “Yankees” won the Civil War), and the evolution of Charlotte as a city and an economy… things like Roosevelt’s visit to Charlotte whereby he talks about ensuring the cotton farmers receive at least 10c for their crop instead of the abysmal 5c the market had plummeted to when there was a huge oversupply of cotton.. and then of course, the reasons that led to segregation of white and ‘coloreds’. Reading all about it.. listening to recorded TV interviews (they have areas where you can perch and push a button to watch and listen an interview on a TV) from some of the first black men and women who protested against segregation, who started the ‘sit in’ movement.. I couldn’t help but get all choked up. Thinking about the injustice of such utter discrimination against a group of people simply because their skin was darker. The atrocities committed.. the Klu Klux Klan.. and how they with their propaganda had actually managed to convince the North that blacks were rampantly coming into white people’s homes and raping their women and stealing their livelihoods, and that the KKK were ‘knights on white steeds coming to the rescue…’ just blood-chilling. I cannot recommend highly enough, that if you are in Charlotte, that you go to the Levine Museum. It helps put a lot of the jigsaw puzzle together to understand why things were the way they were, and what happened to help change them.

One thing I did see in Charlotte that I must say I was in no way prepared for, was the Billy Graham Library. I had no idea who he was or what it was about, and I went because it was ranked highly on Trip Advisor’s list of things to do in Charlotte, and it was free admission. Good Lord. Ha! No pun intended. It was so evangelistic, I felt my skin practically crawling as I hurried out of there. I strongly, STRONGLY, recommend not going there if you a) aren’t staunch Christian and b) don’t like having religious propaganda shoved into you from every angle. The house that his family grew up in was interesting though, and incredibly well preserved – the same couches, same paint etc.. it was its own little museum to his upbringing.

My last night in Charlotte I was reading my book (oh so good..), having a beer and generally minding my own business, when I was harangued into joining the ‘long stay’ tenants (I was at an ‘extended stay Studio 6’.. you can stay for days, weeks, months.. forever..) who are like their own little family, and pretty soon we were discussing everything from racial tensions to religious beliefs; sexuality (we had three gay boys in our group – the black gay dude (Patrick??) was just the funniest dude I’ve met in a while) to the American Health Care System (or lack thereof), to what’s different in Australia. At ten o’clock I said “ok team I’m off for bed..” and got a chorus of “oh say WHAT?” (did I mention there were a few black women in our ragtag group?) and “noo! Staaay!” etcetera. Patricia even tried telling me it was only a one hour drive to Myrtle Beach, my next destination! Lies! All lies! Knowing full well it was a four hour drive, I said my goodbyes, and had a chuckle at how wonderful our little group was… we had black and white, both men and women, gay and straight and (I suspect) lesbian… religious and not religious.. I thought the next morning all we needed was to throw a few asians into the mix and you’ve got one of those terribly posed posters you see promoting equal opportunity workplaces. I suppose it really is testament to how far the South has come though, in integrating whites with blacks again, and the newfound tolerance of gay people made my heart all warm and fuzzy. We were just a bunch of friends, having a yarn about whatever came up. It was great, and it’s a memory I’m going to cherish after having been to the Levine Museum where I shed a few tears in the exhibit on segregation and the ‘sit ins’.

Chat soon,
M x

City of Freaks

Good intentions. You know what I'm talking about. I left the hotel at 7:42am (I know, precisely, because I said "goodbye Pigeon Forge" as I was walking out look at my iPhone), with the good intentions of getting across the mountains to Asheville in the hour (more or less) that I have been advised it takes.

Welly well well. If it isn't old Mr Roadworks. For reasons totally unknown, the US25/US70 was closed after middleonowhere, and so I had to take the 107, to middleonowhere#2, and then the 208 to somewhere even FURTHER that those two places.. and the one hour journey, turned into THREE HOURS, and I didn't get to see the elk that swarm around the turn-off (I have it on good authority from the lady who came into my hairdresser's yesterday, a self confessed "hillbilly".. man, if she's a hillbilly she's got the best darn hair I've ever seen for one..) where was I? Oh yes. Crazy hillbilly lady with excellent hair and all her teeth tells me, that when you turn off to Asheville once you've gotten over the mountains, there's a field where elk apparently just SWARM. And tourists cause a massive pile-up annoying the living grief out of all the locals because they just pull up haphazardly to take photos.

So I missed that. You can imagine I'm thrilled with missing that.

BUT.

I did see a lot of men fly fishing in the river that winds along the detour I was forced to take, and a lot of beautiful native wildflowers, and of course the obligatory green, green, greeeeeen of Tennnessee.. so it wasn't all bad. I talked to Wendy Garmin (my sat nav device... she's Garmin brand, and the Wolfs call her Wendy, so I've extrapolated that to Wendy Garmin. Nice ring to it, ya think?), drank more bottled water than was wise, drank a massive 16oz cup of to-go coffee with 2% (I'm learnin' it!), muttered to myself when I spilt half the scalding hot coffee all over myself.. snacked on some of the fruit I bought in Nashville.. and generally enjoyed the solitude. Oh, and listened to FM-HICK pretty much the whole way. It dropped out here and there but I managed to find a suitable replacement till I could get high enough (in altitude people..) to retune into 107.7fm.

I learned a few things along this journey thus far.. and none so as important as NEVER pass up a chance to refuel your car or a chance to unfuel your body. If you know what I mean. I ended up pulling over in this quaint little national park (smokies) area where I found restrooms, and despite the fact that there was a CRICKET in the toilet and a spider whose leg span rivalled a huntsman, RIGHT NEXT TO THE FLUSH LEVER, I was grateful I had stumbled across this little refuge afterwards, because whilst I only mildly needed to go at the time, I discovered through the series of detours that TN/NC roads put me on, there was literally not another toilet stop for TWO HOURS. So I'm chugging 500ml bottles of water every 30 mins or so, and drinking my MASSIVE cup of coffee.. and if I hadn't gone.. oh lordy.

Anyhoo.

I arrived into Asheville off the mountains and made an immediate decision that I liked the place. It is utterly stuffed to the brim with artists, artsy types, freaks, yuppies, hipsters, groovers, tweakers (probably), hippies, urban organics, wiggers and well.. you get the picture. Ashevillians proudly wear their ubiquitous title of “City of Freaks” (apparently awarded in 2001 and not claimed by another city since..) and have a motto for whenever you see something truly strange (like the man wearing nun’s habit riding red sparkly unicycle complete with streamers flowing from handlebars) – “Its Asheville!” This joyfully said phrase explains away anything odd or unusual you could possibly see in this city that embraces the different. The locals laugh at themselves but I have a feeling they would also fiercely protect each other if someone was too seriously poking at their fun.

My first meal in Asheville was a blueberry and jalapeno biscuit (like a scone..) with country ham and organic cheese made by the restaurant’s dairy – they are BIG into sourcing or producing the food that goes into the meals in the restaurants here. Asheville also has the title of city who most loves beers – they have fifty microbrews in Asheville, and they loooove their beer.

As guided by my beloved LPG (Lonely Planet Guide, for those with short memories..), I hopped aboard the LaZoom Comedy Tour Bus and embarked upon a 90 minute tour of Ashevillle. It didn’t disappoint. It made me giggle and duck my head for fear the host would pick on me (thankfully lovely gay Mark from San Francisco held up the bus from leaving for about TEN MINUTES so he was most definitely her focal point the entire time); it was informative but entertaining, and I highly recommend anyone who goes to Asheville does the tour as a first port of call.

I bought some truly beautiful and unique local artist created items in Asheville, and I really hope the gift receiver enjoys them. If not, I’ll be snatching them back for myself!

Chat soon,
M x

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Blood and gunpowder... gunpowder and lead - Part #2

Gunpowder and Lead

I have, my dear friends, discovered that I am a down-home, low country, rednecked, hillbilly lovin' gal at heart. I roll with the Dixie Chicks and with Dolly, Carrie and Miranda; I croon along to Kenny, Keith and Brooks (and Dunn). I have set my station to FM WKGB-HICK. And I am LOVING IT.

After the initial shock of the rental car radio BLASTING "terrible country music" in my ears, I decided when I came into Nashville that I was going to have an open mind, for at least a few songs, and see if I still had the impulse to violently slam the 'off' button. Curiously enough... I didn't. And haven't. And STILL haven't.

I, y'all, have turned.

And it's the GALS that are really speaking to me. Some of them make me laugh, some of them make me yell "hell YEAH!" and some of them make me a bit moochy (there's this gorgeous duet that reminds me of Shaun.. lyrics goes something like "it's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now..." LOL) - but a few of them have captured my heart so much that I am going to a) buy their songs on iTunes (big deal for those of you who know how stingy I am with paying for music) and b) recommend y'all check them out.

The second half of this title is dedicated to the delightful Miranda Lambert, who sings "Gunpowder and Lead". Please check out the song, it's really worth the listen and laugh and the 'hell yes' of sisterhood. But I'll entice you with a few lyrics first:

I'm goin' home, gonna load my shotgun
Wait by the door and light a cigarette
If he wants a fight well now he's got one
And he ain't seen me crazy yet
He slapped my face and he shook me like a rag doll
Don't that sound like a real man
I'm going to show him what a little girls are made of
Gunpowder and lead

She rocks. I kid you not. Ok I'm not a big fan of domestic violence and I don't advocate shooting your man as soon as he walks in - BUT - I love her spunk and her sound and I turn that knob up as high as my little white ears can manage it when she comes on the radio. Which isn't NEARLY often enough. Nowhere near as often as this stupid man singing about "you make my speakers go boom boom" eesh. Idgit.

The other one I'm just adoring (or maybe more than one) is by Carrie Underwood (GOD she's adorable. and FIERCE) and it's called "Good Girl", and then there's my other favourite, tying for first place with Miranda.. is Gretchen Wilson with Redneck Woman. Classic:

I’ve got posters on my wall of Skynard,
Kid and Strait
Some people look down on me but I don’t
give a rip
I’ll stand barefooted in my own front yard
with a baby on my hip

Cause I’m a redneck woman
And I ain’t no high class broad
I’m just a product of my raisin’
And I say “hey y’all” and “Yee Haw”
And I keep my Christmas lights on, on my front porch all year long
And I know all the words to every Charlie Daniels song
So here’s to all my sisters out there keepin’ it country
Let me get a big “Hell Yeah” from the redneck girls like me..

Sound like anyone you know mmm? Ehehehe you know who you are, and I love you biggin's.

ANYHOO Y'ALL! Back to the journey. Where was I? Oh yeah, Pigeon Forge. Whelp, I got in late, as I mentioned in my last blog, and then next day I got up bright n' early to head into the Great Smoky Mountains. Smoky? Yes. Mountains? Yes. Great? We-ell... I was beginning to think NOT, as I drove around an 11 mile loop designed to let the FAT LAZY AMERICANS STAY IN THEIR CARS IN A NATIONAL PARK (I kid you freakin' not. Oh my lord I had nothin' left to raise when I realised you don't drive up, park, get out, and use the transport god gave you to explore.. oh nooo.. they've made it real nice n' convenient for fat lazy Americans to stay within their vehicles and experience "nature" that way. Eesh.) BUT. Then something AMAZING happened.

I saw a bear.

And I don't mean like miles off in yonder distance, barely able to make out (is that a bear? naww, it's just a black stump..) I mean RIGHT IN MY FREAKING FACE IN FRONT OF MY GODDAMN CAR kinda bear-close. And he (she?) was just the most ADORABLE thing I have seen in a long, long time. Since I left Gleeton, at least. Or maybe Miss Pixie. ANYWAY! My point is, I was just giving up all hope of actually seeing some native wildlife, other than friggin' CROWS, and BOOM! there he was. Snuffling around, scratchin' his butt then sitting on it.. digging frantically (lazy bear-pace frantic.. frantic for a bear...) underneath a log to find some good eatin'... standing on said log staring directly at us stoopid humans staring back at him and taking a million pictures.. he was just gorgeous. A beautiful nicely sized black bear. He wandered over to me which prompted the mother next to me to shriek to her two young'uns to "get in the CAR ELISE!!" but me? Naww. I stood my ground. Mainly because I realised a) he wasn't coming AT me, he was just moving towards me as he went on his merry way towards aforementioned log and b) there were like a bazgillion people around all with cars and whatnot, including mine, and I know you're not meant to run if they chase you but COME ON, my car is RIGHT THERE, I'll ninja in and put up the window and stick my tongue out at him while he paws the duco.

So I have to say my Friday was a perfect example of why it both sucks and is awesome, to be travelling alone. I saw said bear (and then a beautiful doe moments later), and got a bit weepy, and desperately wanted to grab Shaun (or other suitable travelling partner) and say LOOK! LOOOOOOK AT THE BEAR!!! (because clearly he wouldn't have worked it out for himself with the other bazgillion tourists gaping at it).. but instead I just kinda swallowed that need to express my emotion and went on to have a small teary over the beautiful doe instead (I know right? I'm falling apart here! Donna! Get thee over to me - stat!). BUT. When I was done, I was done. And all I wanted to do was have a nap, because I was freaking EXHAUSTED, and I have been driving around like a bee with its stinger missing, and I just wanted a nap. And this little voice in my head said "oh you should really do another trail.." and then the ME voice said "No! I have seen squirrels, a bear, a doe, a bunch of native birds and I'm fairly sure some native mammal.. although who knows wtf it was... I want a goddamn nap." And I did. And it was wonderful. And there's not a chance in hell I would've done that if I had companions, because I would've felt guilty as hell for 'ruining their afternoon by napping'. Natalie - I'm sure you're gonna here me here, yes?

So I came, I saw, I conquered, and the mountains really are beautiful. The air smells like the most amazing freshness, mingled with honey, and underneath it all - musk. There must've been some stags nearby when I smelled that, because I swear I smelled musk. But it smelled like mother nature, and that's something I haven't smelled in a long time.

Oh - and for those of you who were concerned - I picked up my car at Nashville and after gently easing her out of the carpark, discovered that yes, indeed, driving on the right hand side is indeed like riding a bike, and now it's just so natural to me I'm going to have to adjust back when I get home.

Chat soon,
M x
























Blood and gunpowder... gunpowder and lead.

This is going to be a very long entry. I started writing and realised no matter how much I edited it.. I just couldn't cut it down. So I'm going to publish it in two blogs, so save y'alls eyes.

Blood and Gunpowder

This morning I left Nashville, and headed South-West to a little town called Franklin. I only visited because my faithful Lonely Planet Guide had mentioned Franklin as being one of the areas where you could get a taste of the action from the Civil War, and I thought while I'm in the neighbourhood (relatively), I may as well check it out. Oh, how I wish I had known just how much I would fall in love with Franklin, because now I'm a bit pouty I didn't spend at least a full day and night there.

I decided to leave earlier than I had initially scheduled (shock! me changing plans mid-stream!) because intuitively I knew I wanted to get there as early as possible. I arrived into Franklin around 8:30am after battling the Nashville rush hour, and headed immediately for Carter House, one of the two suggested places in Lonely Planet Guide (herein referred to as LPG). Unfortunately for me, it was closed. But! Just across the road there were Civil War Trail Markers, and I got to see the Carlton Gin House, and read all about its importance; across the road from that was a battlefield of some import (more on that later), and, feeling rather overwhelmed and clueless, I ended up circling back towards 'downtown' to see the Visitor Center that was advertised on street sign posts.

I wasn't disappointed. The main street of Franklin is so quaint and utterly charming, I remember gasping from just how refreshingly 'real' it felt against the backdrop of bustling Nashville city. Gorgeous flower pots spilling over with several types of blooms; wrought iron benches lining the sidewalks just begging a weary traveler to sit, relax, refresh; ornate window and roof trimmings... the list goes on. Eventually I found the Visitor Center, which was "McPhail's Office" (McPhail was a doctor back in the 1900's, and this career choice continued down the line for many, many generations, all practicing out of the same tiny building). The lady in the Visitor Center was incredibly helpful, and after her sage advice on how tackle Franklin in the two hours I'd allocated (for SHAME!), I dusted myself off, and headed back to Carter House, which, by now, was open.

Carter House is, without a doubt, one of the best historic buildings I have ever entered. Please keep in mind before you go indignantly raving about some of the European buildings, such as Vatican etc, that Carlton House was just a house. Just a normal, typical, every day house, that just so happened to go through an extraordinary turn of events. No one built her thinking ‘generations will want to see this’. For it to be so well preserved and restored (in parts), is a testament to the curator and all her staff.

Let's start from the beginning.

Fountain Branch Carter was born in Virginia in 1797, and moved with his family to Tennessee as a young boy. He married Mary Armistead on June 29, 1823. In 1830 Fountain, Mary and their three children moved into their newly built house on a hill on the outskirts of town. The Carters had a total of twelve boys and four girls, so they extended the existing structure to include two more bedrooms. Unfortunately life was tough back in those days, and most of their children died far too young. Fountain was a farmer, and eventually he had 288 acres on which he grew corn, wheat, oats, cotton, and potatoes, and raised cattle and pigs. Fountain also owned another property, on which he processed the cotton - the Cotton Gin I mentioned earlier.

The Civil War was well underway by the time the Carter family got caught in the middle of it. On November 30, 1864, Union soldiers commanded by Gen. John Schofield marched into the Carter farm, and began to set up camp in the Carter home as part of a strategy to prevent the Confederates moving back up to reclaim Nashville. The only viable bridge in town had been destroyed months earlier (ironically, by the Union forces..) and so Schofield decided to rebuild the bridge, in an attempt to cross back over to reinforce the Union position in Nashville.

Confederate General John Bell Hood had sent Gen. Franklin Cheatman to get to the turnpike in advance of Schofield's forces; to set up a defensive position and prevent them from advancing. Instead of being a good soldier and following Gen. Hood's orders, Cheatman decided to set up camp, 200 yards off the turnpike. The advancing Union forces could see the campfires in the night sky, and in a feat of unbelievable stealth, Gen Schofield managed to sneak 23,000 men and seven supply wagons past the Confederate forces. The General tied whatever fabric they had on hand around the wagon wheels, to soften the noise they made, but it is absolutely amazing that Cheatman's Confederate forces did not hear TWENTY THREE THOUSAND MEN plus all their supplies rattling about, marching only 200 yards away, past them up into Franklin.

Schofield's men worked tirelessly to repair the bridge; but he was no idiot in battle. He set the other half of his men to digging great trenches in a strategic position outside the Carter home, and also made earth walls alternating with the trenches, upon which he put cannons facing down towards the Confederate forces, who would (eventually...) figure out that there was no longer an army of 23,000 men behind them. Imagine that penny dropping moment? Gods.

The Carter home saw more action than you can possibly imagine, and the bullet holes and one cannonball hole in the walls are testament to the bloody and terrible battle that occurred right in and around their otherwise peaceful home. By 4pm the battle was well underway, and it lasted five hours, with four of those hours being in the dark. Much of the battle was close – hand to hand combat and it was savage and bloody. The fighting resulted in 10,000 casualties – 2,500 dead, 6,500 wounded and 1000 missing. The ground around the Carter House and stretching for hundreds of yards both east and west was gruesome. One of Fountain Carter’s daughters remembers seeing the dead and dying (not to mention body pieces) across the property and saying that you could walk from one end to the other without ever stepping on the ground. The battle cost the lives of six Confederate generals.

In an attempt to avoid any kind of family slaughter, the Carters moved downstairs into the underground basement, and in a genius move by one of their daughters, dug a deep hole underneath the earthen floor, stuffed it full of the food from the smokehouse (soldiers were known to rob homeowners of any and all food they had, both forces did this), covered it back up with dirt, and then replaced the brickwork so it was indistinguishable from the rest of the floor. Genius.

The most sad story I heard today regarding the Carter Home was that of Captain Tod Carter. He was in active duty with the Confederate forces, but had been told he could stick to the back lines to avoid direct fire. When Tod heard they were headed for Franklin, he said 'hell no' to sticking behind, and lead a charge against the Federal works and was shot nine times. He was struck eight times in the body, and once over his left eye, where the bullet lodged in his brain. He was found the next day by his family (as this battle had occurred right outside their home), delirious, but alive. His sister with whom he was particularly close, brought him into the family home and tended to his wounds as best she could, in their parlor room (which is, by the way, GORGEOUS). He kept slipping in and out of consciousness, awaking at one point to tell them that he knew they were helping, but it hurt so much that he couldn’t bear to talk. On December 2, 1864, Tod Carter woke to look at his sister, still keeping vigil right next to him, looked at her and clearly said “home, home, home”, and passed away.

Tell me you didn’t just shed a tear or at least get a tight throat. These stories aren’t campfire Chinese whispers – the Carter family kept remarkable journals, and the people who run the Carter House and museum have them.

On a lighter note, after walking out of the Carter House, I spied a marmalade cat, who spied me in return, and I kid you not, made an absolute beeline to me, ignoring all the other tourists who were milling around. She came straight up to me, looked up at me with the most amazing ginger-spiced eyes, and stole my heart. I made the huge mistake of patting her, and within moments we were fast friends. She wandered around the grounds with me for the rest of my stay at Carter House; rolling around the grass wanting me to tickle her belly – chasing after me when I stopped and headed off to the next Carter building. She followed me nearly to the carpark, at which point I turned to her and said gently “I can’t take you with me back to Australia sweetheart” and she gave me one last leg rub, and then sat, and watched me walk down the path to my car. I kid you not. Half an hour she spends eagerly trotting by my side, but as soon as I tell her I can’t take her with me she stays put. She was absolutely beautiful. Perfect little face, sleek body, gentle purr, cute little paws batting at my camera cord. After I’d gotten myself back together emotionally from the overwhelming feelings I experienced standing in Carter House and on the battlefield, I decided to head across to Carnton Plantation.

In 1826 Randal and Sarah McGavock built their home in Williamson County, Tennessee, on 1420 acres. They named their home Carnton, as a throw-back to their Irish roots. Their son John inherited the property upon his father’s death, and in 1848 married Caroline (or Carrie, as she liked to be called) Winder. The couple had five children together, but again times were tough, and only two survived into adulthood. Their son died at only three months old; and his tombstone in the family cemetery is a haunting tale of just how young; a sleeping lamb lies across the top of the grave marker.

Carrie and John lived at Carnton through the Federal occupation of Franklin in 1862, but late on the afternoon of November 30 1864, Carrie stood at the end of the garden path and watched part of the Army of Tennessee, around 19,000 men (Cheatman’s men, the observant ones..) pass around her home, and up towards Schofield’s deeply entrenched army of equal size. Carrie recognized one of the soldiers in a completely magical twist of fate – Rev Thomas Markham was a childhood friend and part of Cheatman’s army. She called to him because she knew he would give it to her straight. He advised her that Confederates were marching straight into the full frontal assault against the Union forces, against advice from other senior offices in the company, and that there would a high number of casualties. Upon hearing this, Carrie decided to turn the family home into a division field hospital for Confederate forces. Carnton took in hundreds of wounded and dying men, and at least six surgeons operated out of the home. In those days, surgeons believed that the best way to ‘cure’ a wounded limb was to amputate it, and so two (at least) of the upstairs bedrooms were used as makeshift theatres. The blood from these amputations and other wounds was so vast, it soaked through the carpeted floor and into the floorboards – in some parts seeping underneath the walls and into cupboards. In three of the rooms you can see several blood stains – one hundred and fifty years after the blood was spilt.

It is a haunting kind of beauty, being able to identify where the surgeon was set up, and what each blood stain most likely represents. Perhaps the most disturbing (at least to me.. and if you’re squeamish – skip this paragraph) blood stain is that in the south-east bedroom, in the far north-east corner. The blood was so great that it pooled in the corner, and soaked underneath the wall into the next bedroom, and into the cupboards next to it in both rooms. The curator’s guess is that this was where the surgeons threw the amputated limbs until they could be taken down to the yard to be buried.

One can only imagine the smell and the horror the McGavock children felt witnessing such brutal and violent battle. At age 76, Carrie’s surviving daughter gave an interview, and she told of how she could remember it all like it was yesterday, despite her being only nine at the time. She said “all of Franklin smelled like blood and gunpowder”.

Carrie McGavock was hailed as an angel by the Confederate soldiers – not only did she offer up her linens when the surgeons ran out of bandages, once they were gone, she offered up John’s shirts, and then eventually her petticoats and undergarments.

John and Carrie’s legacy is none greater than the Confederate Army graveyard located on their property. The Confederate forces were given the task of burying the dead, and as a rule, they piled up the Union men four to five deep in the trenches they had dug, and then filled them in; whereas for their own men they lay them shoulder to shoulder in the shallow two feet trenches, and then filled them over with the earthen mounds created by digging the trenches. Well the Union forces came back for their men to give them proper burials; being buried on top of each other is hardly a fitting end to men giving their lives for their cause. But as the Confederate men were already one by one in graves, with wooden grave markers given to them by their burier's, there seemed to be no need to move them. Until, that is, in 1865 due to the ground settling, and the farm animals grazing, bits started sticking out of the ground where they really should be peacefully down below. According to diaries dated from the time, it wasn’t unusual to be traveling down the road and see an arm poking out of the ground. Well, John and Carrie couldn’t have that, and John used his considerable influence to start a Committee to raise enough money to give each soldier a proper burial. To ensure there would be land enough for this graveyard, John and Carrie donated two acres of their own property. They kept a meticulous cemetery journal, noting each man’s identify and all known information (where possible), and this graveyard is the final resting place for 1481 men killed in the Battle of Franklin.

I left Franklin on schedule more or less, and headed South to Chattanooga. My instinct told me to stay in Franklin and explore the other Civil War sites, but I thought “no, Chattanooga is another place you wanted to visit..” so I begrudgingly left Franklin behind in the hopes that Chattanooga’s Civil War trail would be every bit as interesting.

It wasn’t. Chickamunga and Chattanooga Military Park was outright boring. Yeah the views from up on the mountain looking down at the river and valley were lovely, but I feel I was mislead by LPG. I wish I had stayed in Franklin and not driven two hours out of my way just to feel ripped off by the mediocre park. No stories here. No blood stains here! Oh well. Life goes on I suppose? I ended up spending all of an hour in Chattanooga before driving straight through to Pigeon Forge.. by the time I arrived I was so exhausted I went to Bennett’s Bar-B-Que for dinner, was served by a lovely waitress called Cat, who called me nearly every term of endearment you can imagine.. the ones I caught were “hun”, “honey”, “darlin’”, “love” and “doll”.

After eating the healthiest option I could find I threw myself into bed and reset my alarm from 6am to 8am - all this driving is wearin' me out!

Chat soon,
M x

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Too much boot scootin' = sore feet.

After three days of catching up with my closest friends from San Diego, stuffing myself full of authentic Mexican food and generally easing myself back into the American culture, it was time to embark upon my holiday "proper". Andrew was kind enough to drive me to LAX through the peak hour traffic from Vista, no small feat, and I thoroughly appreciate his generosity. We arrived into LAX with plenty of time to spare (told you so Donna & Shawn!) and after receiving some incredibly sub-standard "service" at ChilisToo (I know I know but it was either Chilis or Burger King... and a girl needs a feed!) I was feeling pretty smug with my American food ordering skills: "I'll have two eggs over easy please and coffee with 2%". Smooooth.

I must say the "perp pose" Donna forewarned me about that happens as part of the security measures at LAX is a little invasive... you have to stand with your feet apart and your 'hands up' like you're about to be arrested, and then they do this x-ray of your entire body which goes through to some little pervert staring at everyone's naked body in a room somewhere. The security guy on the other side of the x-ray machine actually smirked at me and said "good ma'am.."!! Perhaps I should've gone with Donna's "I opt out" recommendation, but I just was feeling quite anxious to get to the other side and find my gate, and have my breakfast. I had imagined scenarios following my "I opt out" announcement that included being fully strip-searched and cavity-searched and worse yet (haha) - refusal of flying.

I sat at my gate with two hours two spare, and just people watched, and played with my iPhone.. the usual time-killers. It amused me to see Mark Wahlberg walk past - he'd just gotten off a flight that arrive into the gate next to mine - and hear someone say "wow he's not as tall as I would expect!". First celebrity sighting down.. one more to go (so far). At the baggage carousel in Nashville there were all these gushing women and one striking looking black man carrying the most gorgeous toddler with a cherubic mop of golden curls. Took me a while to place him (and uh.. *cough* asking one of the adoring women who he was..) but I got there eventually... Hank Baskett. Not ringing any bells? Does this help? He's Kendra Wilkinson's husband. Yes. THAT Kendra. As in, Hugh Hefner's ex-girlfriend. Kenda from "Girls of the Playboy Mansion". Still not thrilling you? Nah, me neither, I didn't ask for an autograph.. I mean, he's a retired NFL player. Seemed like a nice guy though, but he drew the line at photos because he doesn't allow photos of his son. That move scored respect from me, I have to say.

Flying from California to Tennessee was a bit of an eye-opener.. I was awake most of the flight, and the view out of my plane window was spectacular. I eventually fell asleep having drunk in the beauty of the barren deserts of Nevada, and when I awoke and the clouds cleared, all I could see below were lush green hills, a blue river twinkling gold as the sunlight reflected on it, and many, many trees. Tennessee is worlds apart from California in its landscape - everywhere there's water and SO MANY TREES. It feels as though I've fallen into a story book full of lush green forests, fairies (aka fireflies) darting in and out of hedges, trolls (aka natives with no teeth.. err..) and the occasional helpful knight (aka Southern Hospitality).

I spent my first night in Nashville walking the nightlife strip. Broadway is the Nashville's answer to Las Vegas - one long strip of an unbelievable amount of neon lights, over-the-top signage and drunk happy people everywhere. Just replace gambling with boot scootin' and there, you've got yourself Broadway in Nashville. One thing I will make clear to anyone wanting to go to Nashville and experience the nightlife for yourself is this - don't attempt to park anywhere unless you want to spend $20 on parking, regardless of how long (or short) you wish to park for. There are many privately owned car parks in town, and every single one I went to was $20! No option of paying for only an hour (I only wanted to eat dinner and drink in a local beer and some of the world-famous honky-tonk ambiance) which I just found appalling. Eventually after circling further out of the heart of the city, I found an undercover garage that was advertising $10 maximum parking - that sounded like the ticket! (insert 'dad chuckle' here..)

Walking Broadway is an odd feeling.. there's that smell in the air - you know the one - anything is possible, and the airs on your neck tell you that you might just want to watch your purse a little closer than you would at home. There is a lot of panhandling happening in Nashville, and if you look closely, you'll see signs everywhere stating not to 'feed the panhandlers' - basically, don't encourage them and don't feel bad about not giving them your money, because there are apparently good homeless services set up in Nashville to deal with the problem.

I did a lap of Broadway and decided I would try out Tootsie's Orchid Bar & Lounge, which was one of the places Lonely Planet had suggested I try.. I had stuck my nose into Robert's Western World (also on LP's list) but decided it was far too grungy for me to attempt without a chaperone. Well this proven to be a bad decision, because they don't serve dinner. A quick chat with the gruff but helpful bouncers and I was pointed in the right direction - across the road at Rippy's Ribs. A restaurant-come-sports bar, who specialise in - you guessed it - ribs. I ordered the smallest platter of ribs they had on the menu, and despite asking for coleslaw (no salads!) got beans, which I eyed suspiciously and only tried one bean after I was done with my ribs. I'm glad I didn't try a forkful - they were as expected, overly sweet and mushy; not what I like in my beans. I did get a few stares from the other patrons - I guess they're not used to seeing people dining on their own - but I was quite content chatting with the very helpful and friendly waitress who was cute as a button and very eager to please. She was actually meant to be working behind the bar, but because the server in my section was useless, she took pity on me and came to get my order, and then kept popping back over to me to make sure 'y'alright honey?'. Subsequently, she got a far greater tip than I would've given for 'normal' service.

I'm loving the Southern friendliness - and I'm aware I haven't hit the 'deep south' just yet. People here let you into their lane in traffic without any finger salutes or honking or crazy aggressive behaviour - and when you wave to say 'thank you' they eagerly smile and wave back! How refreshing! I'm slowly getting used to random strangers calling me 'hon' 'honey' 'darlin' (you get the idea) when we bump into each other on the street or at the cash register. It's got a lovely warming feel to it, and I'm not finding it contrived or offensive at all.

Today (Wednesday) I got up early (am on track with my early to bed early to rise plan!) and went straight to Grand Ole Opry.. to find it closed. Not feeling like sitting in the rising heat in a car park for 45 minutes, I headed back on the interstate straight into downtown; destination - Centennial Park.

Centennial Park is an absolute delight. A large, lush parkland just left of centre of downtown, it is home to some beautiful native flora and fauna. The second I stepped out of my gorgeous little yellow car and into the park I was on sensory overload: the smell of sweet clover and cut grass made me instantly relax and enter 'happy mode'. I took far more photos of native birds and squirrels than I intended, but really, if you haven't seen a native American Blue-Jay, you really should. They are such little characters, with their jerky erratic movements, and swift food-snatching ability. I adore watching them and before I knew it, I had lost twenty minutes watching a dance between two brown birds I've not seen outside the US (I think Mr Brown Bird had done something naughty because Mrs Brown Bird was giving him what-for), and the Blue-Jay that kept swooping down and stealing peanuts a grandmother and her granddaughter were trying to dole out to encourage a squirrel. I LOVE squirrels. If I could import some home I would. Well, I mean, legally. Of course! They are so cute. SO CUTE. We had several squirrels captivating us with their "race down the tree, eyeball humans suspiciously, snatch offered peanut, race back up the tree, enthusiastically crack peanut shell, gobble peanut" routine. I tried valiantly to capture the moment with my little camera, but I'm not sure how I went, and frankly, I'm so tired currently I'm amazed I'm coherent enough to type.

The Parthenon is a sight to behold - a full scale replica of the real deal from Greece, it stands proudly in the middle of Centennial Park, and is utterly impossible to miss, or not be curious about. Nashville considers Athena its patron goddess (for reasons I did read up about whilst in the museum, but have now conveniently left my brain..) and back in the 1900's to celebrate the Centenary they had a huge Exposition, where they built all these amazing buildings not meant to last more than six months, out of plaster and timber, and one of these was the Parthenon. It houses an amazing art exhibition, as well as a museum dedicated to the Exposition itself. After the Exposition was over, the Nashvillians cried foul when there were talks of demolishing the Parthenon, and so it was rebuilt, to last this time. Inside is an impossibly large to scale replica of Athena as she stands in Greece. I will upload my photos from all these adventures most likely tomorrow, to my facebook USA album.

One thing that is just to terribly Nashville is that there is music EVERYWHERE. And I do mean everywhere! From speaker boxes built by the council that sit on the sidewalk next to crosswalks, booming melodramatic country tunes at you, to the live music scene in nearly every pub and bar in town, to the toilets - yes toilets inside restaurants. I visited the Country Music Hall of Fame and I have to say I was reluctant - I mean I'm not the biggest fan of country music, or music in general.. I do certainly enjoy music, but I'm just not one of those people who thrives on learning about the history of an artist or takes particular attention to who wrote what song using what guitar - you know? I guess my results after carefully considering the CMHoF are that if you are a music fan - then you will drool. If you like museums - then you'll be content wandering around. If you like neither - avoid. I enjoyed my hour in there, but I did skip over a few exhibits I'll admit, because to my untrained ear it all began to sound the same. I was also growing increasingly thirsty for a beer and some real live country music - so I headed back up 5th Ave and found myself back at Tootsie's - this time, I went inside decisively, and asked the bartender what she would recommend that was local - and away I went. I drank one beer and thoroughly enjoyed both the beer and the live band playing both originals and covers. Mel would've been in heaven - they did a cover of Cash's "Ring of Fire", and were very, very good.

I visited many other stores and walked for virtually six hours non-stop, so by the time I started heading back to my hotel I was in desperate need of new, comfy shoes. Enter "Opry Mill" - a monster of an outlet mall. I saw The Gap having a clearance sale and could barely contain myself. A couple of hours later and my feet were pretty much ready to fall off my ankles and leave in a huff, so I settled in at Claim Jumper to organise my dinner before kissing Nashville goodbye and goodnight for good. After the healthiest dinner I could identify, I headed home, sore, tired, sweaty, but full and happy.

I've spent the night sitting out on my porch, watching the fireflies (aka lightning bugs) and enjoying the balmy night breeze, drinking a 1pint can of Dos Equis XX (it looks enormous). My neighbour, Ronnie, walked past with his two mini daschunds, and I was initially very wary, but when I realised he was just walking the dogs and having a cigarette, I gave in to the inevitable question that follows after I've opened my mouth to say hello back. Americans really are fascinated by Australians! Ronnie is working up here temporarily, earning good dosh he sends home to his wife every week, and has two of their mini daschunds for company (home is Pensacola, Florida), and is a self-confessed redneck. That outright confession made me laugh, and after giving "Bella" and "Little Bit" an affectionate pat, I turned in for the evening. No matter how lovely and seemingly harmless someone is, I'm still aware I'm a woman travelling alone, and I have no desire to invite trouble. It's a sad world we live in when two travellers can't just have a chat (or maybe we could've, I don't know, but ten minutes while I finished my cigarette was enough for me) but that's the way it is I guess.

One last thing - I did promise myself I would investigate buying a pair of mid-calf genuine cowboy boots after seeing so many gorgeous boots today, and I did. Upon finding the decent quality ones were in the vicinity of $500, I wrinkled my nose and sighed resignedly and left the store. I'd rather buy 10 more pairs of shoes!

I hope you're all well - feel free to send me an email and update me with your shenanigans, I miss hearing about them.

Chat in a few days,
M x

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Back in the USA!

I can't quite find the words to describe just how odd it is being back in Vista, but no longer living here. Everything is pretty much the same - even my favourite breakfast cafe, Curbside, still has my favourite waitress, and the exact same menu it had two years ago.

Ma'ayan picked me up from LAX after initially going to domestic (good one, My..) and we had a fantastic time catching up in the hour long drive home to good old El Pajodo Place. Dori no longer lives there so the kitties weren't there, which was really sad, I kept looking for them, but eventually we ended up settling on the couch for a session of Days of Our Lives. Some things never change! The garden looks reasonable, considering it no longer has a full time green thumb tending to it - my roses are in bloom and smell heavenly.. I did notice some black spot but that's pretty much guaranteed in California.

After my lovely catch up with Ma'ayan (and our reunion breakfast at Curbside) Donna picked me up and we came home, babbled to each other excitedly about how WEIRD it is that I'm here, and then Andrew proposed taking me to a new local microbrewery, Iron Fist, for cheap mexican food out of a van (sounds terribly dodgy, and I'm sure I raised both my eyebrows initially) and some beers.

The kahlua pig taco was sensational. And for those who aren't sure - no, there's no actual kahlua in the taco. Apparently it is the name of the style or flavour of cooking the pork.

So we had two beers each and then headed home - Donna and I were a bit giggly because man those beers pack a punch at 12%, when you've had two pints! Our games night was due to start at 6pm, so we got ourselves tidied up and had a glass of wine while we waited for our friends to arrive. I had an excellent night, seeing Paulina again was just fantastic after so long. She's still the prettiest, nicest woman I've ever met - her skin is just GLOWING and I think I have finally convinced her to investigate skin modelling. I'm putting my hand up and saying I think she's going to be L'Oreal's next big thing. I'm serious. Her skin is so utterly flawless and white, it is like beautifully fine porcelain.

Games night went much as expected, we got drunk and merry and giggled cuddling on the floor of Donna's living room and poor pregnant Alicia watched us drunken fools with amusement while we snarfed the excellent meat wrapped in meat delight that Berta had brought over. Paulina and I went to bunk together and I decided it was wise to fall out of bed.. at the time it was absolutely hilarious but unfortunately now I have a bruise on my left upper outer thigh roughly the size of a child's fist, and it is aching constantly as a timely reminder that last night will be my last night of drinking until I see Donna again in New Orleans.

Donna and I lounged around in bed most of the day, catching up, reminiscing, talking rubbish, filling each other in on all those little stories that you need to be in person to tell. Andrew watched us guzzling our beroccas with a typical bemused Andrew smile, and other than skipping the catch up I had planned with Ma'ayan (we're doing the True Blood premiere tonight after dinner instead), all was so right with the world. I had a wonderful day just being lazy with one of my best friends, who I get to see so rarely, and I honestly can't think of a more perfect day (well, minus our hangovers would've been nice, BUT! then we would've felt the need to DO SOMETHING) as my second day back in Vista.

I'm missing Shaun like a big sook, but I keep telling myself to GET OVER IT and just enjoy the moment. Tonight we are going to Casa de Bandini - a Mexican (authentic, not Tex Mex) restaurant in Carlsbad. I cannot WAIT to stuff myself utterly to the brim full with amazing Mexican food. I'm so in love with it. Every time Donna asks "what do you feel like eating" the answer is always "Mexican!".

Two days of catching up with old friends, making merry, laughing so much my tummy hurts.. life's pretty good right now.