You know that sinking feeling you get when something goes wrong? Well believe me the opposite is just as bad.
There I was at 7am watching in horror as the toilet overflowed.
Two bath mats, one towel and half a roll of kitchen towel later I’d dried and cleaned the floor, worked out how to turn on the washing machine, left a warning note for my host Jason (so much for a Greek hero) and fled to the supermarket to stock up for Saturday’s train trip. So organised.
Luckily I remembered toilet situation on walk home through the College of Charleston campus (founded 1770, reminds me of Harvard but with a zillionth of the cost and GPA).
Walked into nearest cafe and boy did I luck out. Tall, dark and handsome long-aproned waiters looking like Greek gods (hopefully more handy than Jason), beautiful old wood paneling, beautiful young people and stylish organic grapefruit soap in bathroom.
Told pleased waiter it was best cafe in Charleston. Alas didn’t score free coffee. Or date with said waiter.
This is a toilet that flushes.
On the subject of food (what else?!), last night’s dinner took the biscuit.
Wandered down to marina at sunset and splashed out on:
Crab cakes. Mmmmm. Mmmmm. Mmmmm. Since I first ate them one New Year’s Day in North Carolina with Laura and Kevin I’ve hankered after them. Even bought Old Bay to try to recreate. Failed. Kept trying even after Old Bay was 3 years past its use-by date.
Grilled asparagus. Something green!! Kermit would pleased.
Red rice.
More red. As in house red. $5 glass.
And then, because old boy (not Old Bay) at next table had them, a bowl of fried onion rings the size of lifebuoys.
In hindsight should have ordered ladylike grilled chicken salad and Pinot Gris because as I was walking home one of my neighbours called out “Evening sir. Happy Thanksgiving.”
Poor guy was mortified when I replied “Thank you, same to you” in my singsong feminine voice.
“M’am???? Oh m’am, I’m terribly sorry.”
Wonder how much wigs cost.
Poor Mr Emmett. Forever associated with bags of shit.
Wonder what the butcher’s and candlestick maker’s places were like
Low-income housing in Charleston. Unsurprisingly the only kids I saw playing outside after school were African American. You could rule a line down the white-black divide in the south.
Grateful for: Everything Laura and Kevin have done for me and generously given me
Trying hard to accept: Here comes the rain, little darlin’
Today we went – by car, foot and ferry – to 5 of North Carolina’s barrier islands.
If you’ve ever watched HGTV’s ‘Beachfront Bargain Hunt’ as obsessively as I have, it’s pretty darn cool to be standing on the very beaches you’ve seen on TV every other episode.
What you don’t appreciate on TV is how pristine white and fine the sand is.
You don’t need to spend $199.95 + tax + baggage + seat selection + food + anything else you touch for an off-season special to Maui when you’ve got it on your doorstep here.
Oak Island, North Carolina is now #4 on the offical ‘Places I Want to Live in the US so Sell Your Kids and Send Me the Money Now’ list. It’s tax deductible so open that eBay account and get listing.
Now.
Funnily enough, given its name (ha!) there are autumn leaves everywhere you look on Oak Island – from the masses of trees you see as you drive over the bridge to the tree-lined narrow streets and the gardens around all the old beach cottages.
And every single one has a front porch and a swing. And in my book, that’s all you need.
Spot the typo. Of course there’s one other thing you need. Well two actually:
Christmas decorations – we spent a bit (a lot) of time wandering around (shoving all the disinterested dawdling husbands out of the way – there are benches on the porch in the sun for you to wait on – did you not see them?) in two Christmas shops chocka block with more trees and decorations than you’d find in Costco North Pole. If I didn’t have to haul everything I buy around the rest of the US I’d have bought everyone I know a decoration, each with a different theme.
Four-letter word starts with F. Food. Of course. Captain Nance’s Seafood Restaurant on the Calabash River fed us the freshest seafood imaginable. Flounder (you cannot beat a flounder, although mighty useful for slapping disinterested dawdling husbands in Christmas shops), broiled shrimp and sea trout served with baked potatoes, sour cream, coleslaw, and endless baskets of complimentary hush puppies of which willpower-of-steel me only ate 3 even though I could have gleefully eaten 30.
One tiny corner in a Christmas shop. Multiply this by 146 and you get an idea of how much stuff they had.
Five-letter word starts with L, ends with H. No, not lynch, leech or loath. Lunch. On the deck in the sun at Captain Nance’s. No, I do not have 17 hush puppies stuffed in my gob. Those chubby cheeks are just an illusion.
Talk about right place at right time as we drove into quaint, historic Southport and what should we stumble across but carol-singing in the old town square and Captain Newtown’s Inn owned by friends of Kevin who graciously showed us around. Talk about big. Talk about beautiful. Talk about exquisite taste. Talk about green with envy.
Now that my stomach has recovered from Thanksgiving yesterday I can tell you more about it.
We drove to Laura and Kevin’s friends’ place in semi-rural North Carolina. I went up to the loft to try and show you what it looked like but the photo doesn’t do it justice.
It was the most stunning house with ceilings higher than my credit card debt, full-length windows and a screened-in porch where all you can see is the sun setting among the autumn leaves and families of deer stopping by for a snack.
We were made so welcome by the most interesting people of all ages.
You know how every Christmas you say to yourself: Right, this year I am NOT going to eat till I feel sick. I am NOT going to eat more than one course. I do NOT need to eat everything I see. I AM going to save room for dinner.
Well don’t even bother starting that conversation at Thanksgiving. Give up before you start.
After we’d rolled into the car and driven home I assuaged 0.0057% of my remorse and went for a long walk round the neighbourhood. Funnily enough I wasn’t alone. It was like a clandestine meeting of Overeaters’ Anonymous.
Guess what this is. Clue: I took the photo out walking last night. What do you mean that clue’s useless? Ok so you know that orange plastic sheeting stuff they wrap around posts to stop you falling into trenches along the footpath? Well it’s that reflected onto the concrete. Cool huh? Yeah, I thought so too.
How to make money off all your mates called John. Become their John and rent them out. No chance of anyone forgetting anyone’s name in this wee (ha ha) business venture.
At some ungodly hour tomorrow I say a very sad goodbye to Laura, Kevin and their family of cockatiels rescued from nasty abusive owners (that’s Otis my little bald-headed eagle in miniature buddy) and get on a bus-then-train-then-bus to Charlottesville, Virginia which everyone tells me is the most beautiful city except when the one day I visit when it’s gonna rain.
As Laura pointed out, this is the end of the golden weather. Tomorrow I go from 75 degrees to 45 in one day. And then down down down till I’ll be wearing 6 layers of clothes. To bed.
Breakfast on the deck at Laura and Kevin’s overlooking the water with the bluebirds feeding on the deck, the ducks quacking by and golden sun and leaves everywhere you look. Doesn’t get much better than that. No, I do not have 17 biscuits stuffed in my gob. Those chubby cheeks are just an illusion.
Today’s post brought to you by: Brocolli, beetroot and BBQ tofu. Boy, am I glad to have y’all slither down my throat again.
Grateful for: Brocolli, beetroot and BBQ tofu.
Trying hard to accept: This meal is about to end.
One of the few benefits of riding the bus over the train is the stops along the way.
Anything from a sprawling truck stop (half a cow, mashed potato ‘n gravy and copy of ‘Shoot ‘Em Before They Shoot You’ magazine for $14.99) to an Arby’s (jackpot – warm buttery biscuit $1.29) to a middle of nowhere service station.
Aside from the inevitable queue for the inevitable blocked toilet, the service station experience is one not to be missed. But only if you (a) drink coffee and (b) can make quick decisions.
With 11 minutes till the bus leaves again you have to choose one of 6 filter coffee roasts, one of 6 hot-chocolate-mocha-sugar-filled-keep-walking machine coffees, one of 8 milk and cream options (including Reese’s peanut butter cup flavoured milk which you scull 2 of) and one of 7 flavoured syrups.
And guess how much this whole mind-boggling, diabetes-inducing experience sets you back. 99 cents.
Start here
Then go here
Shove as many of these into your pocket as you can fit
Scull a few of these then run back to bus (burns 2.69 calories of the 658 you’ve just drunk)
Back on the bus you’re entertained by Rochelle, the coolest bus driver in the world (you tell her this in passing) sharing how she spent Thanksgiving driving bus loads of military personnel, who couldn’t travel home, to share a meal with local families.
Then how she found a young man sleeping in back of her bus one night, 2 hours late for his stop. Poor kid had no way of getting home so she drove him in her own car. She finally got home at 1am. Of course Amtrak told her off.
I did deduct points though for her forcing me to endure “Frosty the Snowman.” I am not 6 years old, Rochelle. And, passenger in seat 3A, I am not a man.
But I forgave Rochelle when she played my all-time favourite “O Holy Night.” Peace on earth and goodwill to all bus drivers. But not woman in 3A.
Four hours later we cruise into … dah dah dah … Wilson, North Carolina. Juinita, who’s been sitting next to me but not wanting to chat, spies me doing a selfie at the station and next thing we’re chillin’ (literally – it was like mid-summer Wellington, cold and wet) on the station bench swapping stories about Washington DC where she’s worked as a school administrator for 40 years.
Wilson squared
She was also eyeing up the Jamaican beef patty and jerk sauce I was lovingly devouring.
Having craved Jamaican food since I met that Jamaican woman in the thrift store in Florida, I was over at SaYum Jamaican Food faster than the jerk chicken could cross the road. Even went back to tell Lydia how delicious it was and score the recipe.
Poor little lonesome beef patty. Don’t cry for me, Jamaica though, as it was down my throat within minutes of this shot.
Nothing like stating the bleeding obvious but there are some complex people in the world.
On that 4 hour ride to Wilson I sat behind a 30-something mom and 6 yr old son. He was adorable and super smart but she was a poster child for parents who need to give their kid a break.
Was all going swimmingly at first. The bus hadn’t reached 30mph before she was whipping out storybooks and card games. 10 points, mom, I thought.
But as the bus got faster she got meaner and meaner. Every time the poor kid squirmed or squawked she laid into him with a prolonged lecture in that super slow, super clear, do you understand me? patient-parent voice.
Low point was just out of Jacksonville, North Carolina, where she lovingly told him he’s a “F-ing little nuisance” who’d “better not moan about any little thing ever again otherwise I will not engage with you for the rest of the trip.”
Icing on the Dunkin’ Donut: “Don’t you ever talk to me in that nasty voice again. You do NOT talk to people that way.”
Hey mom, 6-letter word starting with I, ending with IC, with RON in between.
In lieu of reaching over and strangling her I shot her filthy looks the whole time we were in the service station trying to decide between 243 coffee/milk combinations.
As we reached Wilson I heard her say she’d just spent 13 months travelling to 19 countries with junior in tow. Train was late arriving in Wilson, and I’d eaten SaYum out of beef patties, so I went and had a chat with her.
Julia’s a sole mom, made a killing on her house in Richmond, Virginia, so sold everything, grabbed Ben and took him round the world. US, Canada, South America, Europe, UK, Morocco, African safari, Bali, home.
Must’ve made one hell of a killing on the house, or more likely comes from cash, because not only did she rent an apartment in Southbank London for a month (equivalent to my salary for last 3 years) but her mom flew to Paris to meet them, then flew to Nairobi to meet them, and probably paid for the London pad.
Julia’s now back in the real world doing consultancy work in Richmond and fluent-in-Spanish Ben’s in kindergarten.
I couldn’t figure her out. On one coffee-filled hand she was the most intelligent, smart, brave, engaging woman you could meet who treated her son like an adult.
On the other sandwich-filled hand, she spoke to him like he’s a bit of roadkill she’d just stepped in (Snap! See that picture below? Unidentified squished animal I passed when out walking this morning. Kevin reckons it’s a rat but it ain’t nothing like the rodents living in my compost bin).
Wilson and the surrounding towns of Goldsboro, Rocky Mount etc are interesting places. Well-suited to today’s grey wet gloomy weather. They look like towns that, if it wasn’t for Amtrak passing through, would be wiped off Google maps before the year’s out.
Block after block of boarded-up homes and abandoned shops. Rusty window-less pickup trucks littering yards and an air of once-thriving towns that have long been forgotten.
I was one of two white faces on 16-seater bus from Richmond to Charlottesville, Virginia. I thought the bus was an ambulance when I first saw it.
And it may well have needed to be because everyone’s bags were hiffed into big pile right behind my head. If the driver had slammed on the brakes I’d have been back in hospital with concussion.
Drip in one arm and iPad in the other emailing my now very good friends at travel insurance co.
Tip # 46: if you’re doing any transferring buses/trains get to know every member of staff and hassle them gently at transfer point. If I hadn’t done anything my bag’d still be sitting on platform all by itself wondering what it’d done wrong.
Made it to Charlottesville at 7pm Saturday. You can’t go wrong in a university town like this. More cheap eating places than there are debt-free students, and safe to walk round at night.
Hauled all my bags a few blocks from Amtrak to Roots Natural Kitchen – one of the Google-review recommended places I found before I left NZ.
Somehow my words “Half the normal quantity of rice, please” got interpreted as “I want to build my own bowl” which led to them asking where I was from which led to me telling them I’d come all the way to their joint from NZ which led to the dreadlocked owner treating me like the Rastafarian queen I am. He’s just stopped by to have a chat. Nice.
After much menu-studying this is what I’m scoffing right now. With extra brocolli and extra beetroot. Now I’m allowed to eat southern fried chicken ‘n biscuits for lunch tomorrow.
I don’t believe it. They’re playing “O Holy Night”. Will the spooky coincidences ever end?
Right time to Uber myself to my bed. Passed a few southern Baptist churches on the way here so might be singing, clapping and hallelujahing my heart out in 16 hours time.
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.
