Deja vu with the blocked-up loo

Today’s post brought to you by: seized moments

Grateful for: being here on a Sunday

Trying hard to accept: Charlottesville’s shitty plumbing

It’s 3pm on a freezing cold, grey, drizzly Sunday afternoon in Charlottesville.

Picture this. I’m sitting in Starbucks on the campus of the University of Virginia (founded by Thomas Jefferson, 1819; alma mater of one Edgar Allan Poe).

It’s another mini-Harvard. I feel like Ali MacGaw waiting to meet my Ryan O’Neal. Remember everyone, love means never having to say you’re sorry. (Google it.)

I’m in a big leather armchair in front of a fireplace bigger than my bathroom. There’s a Christmas tree, “Little Drummer Boy” is playing and I’m surrounded by students tapping away next to wood-panelled walls and leaded windows.

For a Starbucks experience it’s quite magical.

The campus goes on forever. I think it’s probably bigger than the rest of Charlottesville put together.

Which isn’t saying much because Charlottesville is so small it makes Lafayette look like a thriving metropolis.

It took me 43 seconds to walk from breakfast at Bluegrass Grill to downtown.

There are about 17 shops in total. 16 sell completely useless stuff. One sells $3.79 plastic ponchos, of which I am now a proud owner. As I said to the cashier in CVS, lucky nobody knows me in this town.

Bluegrass Grill was on the pre-departure list of eateries. Bit of an effort getting there in the ceaseless rain as Google maps led me on a wild goose chase round in circles.

Got there early to be in front of queues which go round the block. Just as well everyone who works there smokes because I had a constant supply of staff to chat to while I lingered in the cold.

Despite a few shades of skin tone difference, and the fag in his lips, the chef looked and spoke exactly like you, Charles. My cousin’s African-American cousin in Charlottesville.

Cup of oatmeal, poached eggs, sausage patties, 5-grain toast (had forgotten how good apple butter is), biscuit and 3 cups of coffee later I could barely move.

My only gripe was the toilet that didn’t flush. Didn’t even have a chance to get blocked because the handle was as useless as a low-carb diet plan in the south.

To kill time and warm up again I took refuge in Chaps diner and soda fountain c. 1932, with “Golden Girls” on endless loop on TV and 99c coffee served in styrofoam cups by a waitress who looked eerily like Blanche.

Everything up to that point paled by comparison to my once-in-a-lifetime visit to the Mt Zion First African Baptist Church.

Thank goodness they had tissues at the door. Nobody in that church belted out O Come All Ye Faithful louder than Miss Gail from Sweden (“Oh you’re from Noozeeland? I have friends nearby in Sweden”).

With tears streaming down my face, I sang at the top of my lungs with the all-black-except-moi congregation and the angelic purple-robed choir.

Nobody sings better than them Baptists. Not even me.

It was exactly like you see on TV. Pastor’s voice getting louder and louder, “amen!” and “yes, sir!” from the congregation every time he paused.

An hour after his sermon about the importance of your perspective on life (made a lot of sense did Dr Alvin Edwards – I know that’s his name because it’s on the pen they gave me) he finished it off with “I stopped by to tell you today that nobody is lost unless they want to be. Can I have a witness?”

“Amen!!!” they all roared.

They invited visitors to introduce themselves.

There was absolutely no way I was going to miss a chance to address a southern Baptist congregation.

So microphone in hand I stood and told them my life story in 23 seconds and what a beautiful service it was. “Amen!!!” they all roared.

At the meet-and-greet bit people queued up to shake the hand and hug the little white girl from Sweden. They were the most gracious, welcoming people.

Even the grey-haired old woman sitting at the altar in her white and gold robes trotted down to meet me.

A couple of women invited me to lunch downtown but I was too tired and emotional to hold much of a conversation.

As I was leaving a man pulled over and thanked me for coming, asked me to come back and blessed the rest of my trip.

The singing was absolutely beautiful. A choir woman did a solo – think Mavis Staples – so incredibly soulful, then the rest of the choir joined in, then we were all on our feet singing. Well everyone except me. I was too busy crying.

All the ushers wore immaculate black suits and white gloves. Communion isn’t done by going up to the altar, rather the ushers pass silver trays of bread and wine capsules along the pews.

It was a 2-hour service but it felt like 2 minutes. For the first time in my life I listened to every word of the sermon and sang every song I could.

I’m incredibly lucky to have had that chance. Will never again.

By that stage I was an emotional wreck in much need of the most comforting comfort food I could find so hiked off to Ace’s BBQ and Biscuits and ate 9,386 calories worth of southern fried chicken, buttery buttery biscuits and southern baked beans.

In hindsight I should have said a prayer for the plumbing of Charlottesville.

I’ve been incredibly lucky in this trip so far.

No lost bags, snow storms (yet), muggings (yet, hello Baltimore tomorrow), and the loveliest, friendliest Airbnb hosts.

But I think my luck on the last one is about to change.

I. AM. NEVER. STAYING. IN. A. HOUSE. MORE. THAN. 2. YEARS. OLD. AGAIN.

Recall my Charleston blocked toilet experience. Repeat in its sister city, Charlottesville, early this morning.

I can just see the hosts’ reviews of me going from sterling 5-star-best-guest-ever to 0.1-star-do-not-host-this-woman-unless-you’re-a-plumber-who-likes-unblocking-150-year-old-drains-at-7-on-a-Sunday-morning.

Despite my host probably hating me, you need to marry her, Peter.

She’s your perfect match: vegetarian, pooch-owner with your deadpan ironic humour.

First thing I saw when I stumbled in late last night was an Elvis shrine. Second thing: an autographed photo of the Dukes of Hazard cast.

She’s a nurse (handy but shame she doesn’t do plumbing on the side). And if you married her (a) she’d stop hating me and (b) I’d get residency on your coat tails.

There is too much of a good thing though. She’s got this bottle of Pure Earth Organic Fragrance Free shampoo.

It’s thick as concrete and dark brown and plops out of the bottle and before you know it you’re standing in the shower with dog turd all around you wondering if the Pure Earth Organic Fragrance Free shampoo bottle now contains something entirely different.