Going Back to Charleston, Part II

We resume the story on my second day in Charleston, which unfortunately had to be a getaway day. It was cloudy and cool, and I walked about half a mile towards the College of Charleston campus for some egg, bagel and cheese action at Bruegger’s Bagels. It’s a chain, but unfortunately I had no time to find something local. After breakfast, I headed on to the campus. College of Charleston, best known as the perennial bracket buster at the NCAA basketball tournament (frequently good enough as a 12 or 13 seed to win a first round game and destroy your bracket, but never good enough to get past the second round) occupies about four city blocks, but I noticed these kids everywhere. I guess the nicest way to put it is that they do not look like the Citadel kids. Imagine a place filled with B- students. That’s C of C. For all I know, they’re all brilliant and will change the world. Based on their looks, however, they’ll change the world by becoming toll booth operators and mold inspectors. I’ve seen smarter kids at San Jacinto Junior College (where, as my dear friend Donna once put it, they’ll throw academic credits into your car if you drive past campus too slowly). The C of C campus, however, is lovely. Its lined with trees, and appears to have about a 2:1 female to male ratio (which is just about right). About two-thirds of the buildings are converted houses, while the other third are more conventional academic buildings. The main administration building is quite attractive, though unfortunately it was undergoing renovation. Still, why would anyone go to a school that doesn’t play football? When I wrote this last little quip in my notes, on October 12th, I also added “but then again, people still go to Baylor.” I guess that’s not so funny anymore. That’s why I really need to get these posts out sooner (look for my next post soon, complaining about the Atlanta Olympics).

Across the way from C of C is Marion Square, also across from the elegant Frances Marion Hotel. How to describe the hotel? Hmm…very tricky…what to say? Oh, I know. It’s an exact duplicate of the Stoneleigh Hotel in Dallas. Down to the smallest detail. Its like being in some Star Trek episode where you’re transported to some parallel universe. With hot green women. I guess if a set of blueprints works once, there’s no reason to just put them on the shelf. Looks to me like the same architect sold the same plans twice, to people in two different cities that apparently were none the wiser. Hope the second set of owners didn’t think they were paying for an original design.

The square houses the Charleston Holocaust Memorial. On that gray, cloudy day, the memorial makes a bit more of an impression. Its fairly austere, four fence-like walls surrounding a concrete floor with an iron tallit (prayer shawl) on the ground. The designers’ web site states that the design is meant “to signify the place apart occupied by those who perished.” Let me get back on my soap box here. No doubt all the Holocaust remembrances and their sponsors sincerely want to memorialize that horrific episode in history. But the “we will never let this happen again” mantra really begs credulity. “We,” meaning the Western nations, have let “this,” i.e. genocide and “ethnic cleansing,” happen a lot since World War II. Cambodia, Rwanda, Bosnia, Iraq, Somalia…the list goes on, and the West hasn’t lifted a finger to stop it. In fact, when intervention was proposed to stop the war in Bosnia, the “peace crowd” recoiled and seethed in opposition. Smug liberal bourgeois intellectuals at the New York Times and Harvard looked down their noses at American and British explanations for the Iraqi War that appealed to humanitarian justifications (stopping Saddam from committing future violence against Kurds or Iranians). That crowd is also among the first to smear Israeli attempts to defend itself from self-avowed enemies bent on destroying the Jewish nation and race. Don’t try to tell me or anyone else that “we” are committed to never letting genocide happen again. “We” have repeatedly failed that test.

So are we clear about that?

Walking around the area west of Battery Row, closer to the Ashley River and a bit further away from the main tourist area, I encountered a couple of really interesting sites. One was Burbage’s Grocery. Straight out of 1955. This place is quite literally a corner grocery store, with two aisles, a meat and seafood counter in the back (manned by a “Sam the Butcher” type), an antique cash register at the front and an 85 year old cashier slowly punching in each item on the register. No fancy displays, no macro-biotic free range bison, no organic food department, and no hypo-allergenic cosmetic and vitamin aisle. For sale? Food. Normal, real, American food. Food egotists should avoid. Though not the slightest bit hungry, I delightedly bought an 8 oz. Diet Coke in a real, honest to God, glass bottle. Happily, and of course, the cashier had a bottle opener. Glass may not be as recyclable or marketable, but it’s the only way to drink anything. Plastic? Pssshh….

On a city bus, I noticed an interesting sight. A city bus (several, actually) prominently displayed signs advertising for participants for a cocaine dependency study, sponsored by the Medical University of South Carolina. "A non-traditional investigative study of medication effects on craving." "Non-traditional"? Really? Gee, I wonder if they're going to get a response on that? What is this, Bogota? Do you have any idea how many coke-heads are going to descend on this place looking to get paid for snorting up? Why not advertise for medical marijuana?

The other interesting sight was a real, live, VW hippie bus, straight from California, land of sunshine and freaks. It was parked next to Colonial Lake, an unimaginatively square (ok, it was more of a symmetrical oval) man-made lake just nearby. No, really, its just about perfectly square. If you were going to make a lake, wouldn’t you make it asymmetrical, or kind of odd shaped, like a real lake? Not Charleston. Anyway, the bus owners had 1968 California plates, and a very creative artistic palate, as you can see here, and here, and here. Very nearby, I stumbled onto the magnificent Wentworth Mansion. This incredible French Revival house, the finest I’ve seen in Charleston, is now an amazing hotel and spa, the kind of place where the smallest room goes for $499/night. Not unreasonable for the Upper East Side, perhaps, but pretty stout for a state with eight electoral votes. The grounds were kind of slight, though well maintained. I saw a landscaping crew working there when I arrived. The interior has been meticulously restored. Stained glass can be found throughout, and a carved wooden staircase lends a sort of stateliness to the place. This must be where locals with class spend their wedding night. Everyone else probably does shots at Applebees and passes out later at the Super 8. Good times.

Walking back to the downtown area, I returned to the main commercial drive, Meeting Street. Not unlike its smaller counterpart in Savannah, Meeting Street appears to be one of those main drives that WalMart and the malls killed off, only to become lately revitalized by tourism and the increasing move toward outdoor shopping (the Domain, Woodlands Mall, Shops at La Cantera…I like to call it “shopping in the rain”). There must be some money in this town, tourist or not. All the “big” stores are represented, albeit (thankfully) in restored storefronts. Gucci, Godiva, Lacoste…looks like there used to be a Saks Fifth but it closed. I spent some time walking down this street, checking out the architecture and the shops. I had lunch at another fine local restaurant, Sermet’s Corner. This is another place where the menu changes daily based on the availability of local meats, seafood, and produce. The menu, rather haughtily, proclaims that they don’t use chicken or seafood stock. I detect a trace of Austin therein. Art lined the brick walls, and the seating was mostly bistro style. Though I sat at the bar, next to a couple talking to a real estate agent about some deal, which apparently required them to loudly recount Charleston’s commercial history over the last 10-15 years. It also afforded me an opportunity to see either a manager or one of the owners rather openly dress down one of the waitresses behind the bar. Two thoughts about that. One—there’s no need to yell or get agitated. If an employee made a mistake, tell them. You don’t have to be Jim Mora to get your point across. Two—if you have to yell at someone, don’t do it in public. Take them back somewhere private. I’ve never owned a restaurant, but it seems to me that the kitchen might have been a better location for that sort of conversation. Nonetheless, the meal, consisting of roasted herb tilapia, butternut squash, and sautéed vegetables, was outstanding.

One thing I frequently noticed on my walks was the prominent Rebel Flag displays at people’s homes. Primarily the Stars and Bars, not the Confederate battle flag. In my walking around notes (I take my moleskin booklet with me on all my travels and jot down deep thoughts which I later record at Daily Affirmations…I know, kind of gay), I wrote down some arguments why flying the Rebel flag isn’t a particularly heinous offense. Though why anyone would want to identify with the losing side is beyond me. There’s a reason no one flies the Rising Sun…they got stomped. Flying the Confederate flag has fallen out of favor in most parts of the country, particularly in the People’s Republic of Austin. Not so here. It strikes me that people fly the Rebel flag as a protest against Washington and federal governmental programs. Though I suppose there’s still some racists flying it. But I guess its like the South Park flag that so offended Chef. Its enough that it outrages some people. Probably better in the long run for these people to pick a race-neutral symbol of the fight against District of Columbia oppression. I like the “Don’t Tread on Me” flag. What I really like is Texas' “Come and Take It” flag. That flag is just bad ass. Think I’ll raise that one when I start preparing for the revolution. Or a zombie outbreak. Don’t get me started on Indian-themed mascots, however. That’s just ridiculous. Except for the Washington Redskins. How that one sticks around I have no idea. What if it was the “Chicago Coloreds” or the “Miami Blacks”? Don’t think that would fly. Or that ridiculous mascot for the Cleveland Indians. The Frito Bandito thinks that one is a bit over the top. What’s really funny though is the State of Oklahoma flying the Confederate flag on state buildings. Oklahoma is barely a state now, much less in 1861-65. It didn’t join the union until just before the Titanic sank. Oklahoma couldn’t have been a member of the Confederate States of America, so other than telling the world “we're losers too,” which of course is pretty warranted for Oklahoma, I’m not exactly sure what they’re trying to accomplish by flying the flag. Maybe they’re angling for truck stop or gun show business.

Well that’s about it. Around 4 or so I finally left town, to make the long drive to Jacksonville, Florida, where I spent the night at some sort of resort hotel (i.e. it was on the beach and there were kids). I pretty much beat it out of town for Orlando the next morning, but did wake up early to enjoy a spectacular sunrise. You can view far more photos of a sunrise over Florida than you thought possible on my flickr site, here.

One final thought. In a Chick-Fil-A outside Savannah where I stopped to use the facilities and get some tea, a black gentleman wearing a pink t-shirt with the old “Tab” logo on it stopped me in the parking lot to gush over my rented maroon Camaro. This was a bit odd, though it was about time. Very few odd things happened on this trip, which was disappointing. I haven’t figured out whether he was being ironic or mocking me. When one lives in pink glass houses, however….

Next—a guest review of Gwyneth Paltrow’s CMA Awards performance.

Going Back to Charleston

I’m going back to Charleston, where I belong…. I want peace. I want to see if somewhere if there is something left in life with charm and grace. ….
--Rhett Butler, Gone With the Wind

He then asks Scarlett if she knows what he’s talking about, and she says “no I only know that I love you,” to which he responds, “that is your misfortune.” That’s some cold blooded stuff right there. I know she spent their entire time together throwing herself at that Streisand (Ashley Wilkes), but its not like Rhett didn’t have his flaws. Belle Watling? Really? I never understood why Rhett left Scarlett. Hadn’t she just figured out that Ashley was just another mama’s boy, and that for all his shortcomings, she really loved Rhett? Surely she’d have shut down the princess act and caused far less trouble thereafter. Plus, its not like going off to Charleston was going to shut down the USS Scarlett. If she was troublesome before, imagine her stalking Rhett up to Charleston. Scarlett seemed to have a way of always getting exactly what she wanted, no matter how high the body count. That guy and his pet rabbit would really have needed to watch his ass. I wouldn’t rely on a temporary restraining order. Women. Boy, I tell you. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.

Ok, I was going to write about my 24 hours in Charleston. Somehow I got sidetracked. Again.

When you think of the “Old South,” many things come to mind, some good, some bad. Unquestionably, Charleston comes to mind, a veritable symbol of and living monument to the genteel Southern past. One sees the Confederate flag flown on many homes, yet Charleston’s past dates to well before the Civil War (or the "War Between the States” as the old timers called it in the Rocky and Bullwinkle Wossamatta U. episode). Yet, Charleston is very much a living city, home to two universities and a regional port. Its noticeably larger than Savannah, and is a regional commerce center.

In Savannah, I began the day by again frequenting the Goose Feathers Café. Today the Paula Deeniacs were nowhere to be found. A curious mix of AARP couples and SCAD students filled the Café instead. A place for children of all ages, as it were. After breakfast I beat it out of town, eager to hit the road. I left Savannah with satisfaction. I saw the whole town and got to experience a taste of the relaxed and elegant Southern vibe (without the freaky, inbred, running moonshine, giving your kids weird names aspects thereof). Savannah encapsulizes the Old South’s fading beauty and elegance but without the grime and weirdness that often go with it. Like a non-crazy Blanche DuBois.

The morning drive to Charleston was somewhat arduous, with nearly all of it on US 17. No superhighways on this trip. Similar to the long, solitary stretch of US 190 from about DeRidder to Livonia, US 17 cuts through creeks, dense forest, and kudzu-choked swamps as it heads to Charleston from IH-95. The Spanish moss-draped oaks that have been ever present these last few days have given way to palmettos and swamp, an odd kind of morning haze, and a kind of Rodrigue-painting darkness as I drive seemingly back in time to Charleston.

Have I written about how all these tourists towns have the tourist part of town and then the real life ordinary people part of town? Seems to ring a bell. Santa Fe, New Orleans, San Francisco, Galveston, San Antonio, Washington, DC…they all have the relatively smallish part of town they’re known for, and where a few people actually live and work. All the ordinary folks like you and me (well, more you than me) live in the much bigger surrounding areas, which look exactly like everywhere else. Charleston is no exception. When you get out of the woods (“you’re out of the woods, you’re out of the dark, you’re out of the night….step into the sun, step into the light”), well, when you get into the Charleston city limits after the forest line, it immediately clears up into a bright sunlight bathed with Piggly-Wigglies, WalMarts, and this pretty good barbecue place where I stopped for lunch (Bessinger’s). By “barbecue,” Southerners generally mean a watery, vinegary, pork product that tastes a little like a dry, grilled hot dog. Or spam with tomato sauce. Or an old man's socks. And that was the case at Bessinger’s, right down to the smiling pig face flag flying in front. You know, nothing says you love something more than flying a flag in its honor. Or sending in commandos. Like a football team, or a country, or religion. Bessinger’s was pretty good though, offering a brisket plate and some real, non-vinegar sauce. But the only semi-decent barbecue outside the state of Texas I’ve ever encountered is VooDoo BBQ, in New Orleans, of all places.

Like other historic towns, Charleston is basically a historical district made up of preserved older homes, surrounded by the “real” town where most of the people live and work. Charleston is no exception.

Charleston, like Galveston and New Orleans, initially developed as port and commercial towns, supporting the southern agricultural base. Crops were shipped downriver to Charleston and shipped to the world. Banking and insurance houses quickly followed, to support the resulting financial transactions. Charleston at one point was the fifth largest city in the United States. Charleston is laid out at the tip of a peninsula between the Ashley and the Cooper Rivers. Just off the peninsula is historic Fort Sumter, site of the first shots in the Civil War. (Who led the bombardment? One Gen. Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard, New Orleans native, and before Huey P. Long, the most famous of all New Orleanians). Hey! I've been to that dude's house on Chartres Street in the French Quarter. The historic district is much larger than Savannah, or even the slowly evaporating New Orleans Garden District. The Market Street (Old City Market) area, very near the old Customs House, is the center of the District. Surrounding the market are hundreds of carefully preserved, magnificent antebellum homes of the Georgian, Federal, and Victorian style. Nearly all had two-story, and even three-story porches. Most were jammed in next to one another leaving almost no room for a yard to speak of. Most are oddly oriented, such that the porch faces to the side, rather than the street. This creates the strange effect of walking down the street and seeing the sides of houses. The government buildings get in on the act too, with many, such as the Customs House, City Hall, and Court House in the Federal or Doric Revival styles.

My hotel, the Planter’s Inn, is located right in the thick of the Market. It’s a really beautiful old inn, with period furniture and a suitably genteel lobby and sitting area (stocked with complementary orange spice iced tea and sherry at all times). All the staff gives tremendous service, and at a level one would normally find only in much more expensive big city hotels. The room was a little larger than I expected, with a four poster bed on which was located a teddy bear (kind of a theme for this particular establishment).

After I arrived at the hotel, I spent most of the afternoon on foot, exploring the historic district. I marveled at the number of well-preserved homes, no doubt the result of careful and oppressive zoning regulations designed to keep out modern box houses. Thank the Lord. Nothing’s worse than a historical neighborhood with home after home of one style, with a totally jarring 1970s post-modern box house every eight or nine houses. Well, lots of things are worse than that, actually, but for present purposes, nothing is worse than that. The presence of so many Federal and Georgian style houses seem to indicate that Sherman must not have torched the city.

Some of the architectural gems include:
• Rainbow Row, a collection of about nine or 10 Federal style commercial buildings from the 18th century, each painted in a different pastel shade.
• Battery Row, numerous Italianate and Victorian Homes at the very tip of the Peninsula near the White Point Gardens park and along the eastern shore;
• The US Customs House (which was lit pink at night for breast cancer awareness);
• The Federal-style Nathanial Russell House; and
• The magnificent, French revival Wentworth Mansion (the kind of place you spend your wedding night, if it’s the 1950s).

I was taken aback by the French influence here. Many houses resembled some of the older homes I’ve seen throughout Louisiana. Apparently a lot of French settled here after the American Revolution, and built houses accordingly.

Sadly, many of these historic homes are for sale. “Sadly,” in that it seems the recession has caught up with Charleston, but take that with a grain of salt because I saw a lot of Mercedes and BMWs parked in those driveways, and the houses appeared to be in immaculate condition. I took a couple of flyers from the signs, and was shocked at asking prices in the $300-400,000 range. For two and sometimes three story houses (albeit without much of a yard or garage). That strikes me as a pretty low price. On the other hand, I would imagine you incur a lot of home maintenance cost on some of these houses, particularly so close to the ocean. I am not tempted to move to Charleston.

Nonetheless, the historic district streets are amazing. Every block is full of simply breathtaking old homes in fantastic condition. I want to photograph them all (and if you go on my flickr site, you’ll see I pretty much did). I easily spent the whole afternoon just wandering up and down the streets. Which I guess made me a streetwalker. Which is still a step up from “lawyer.” But “that’s just real estate,” of course.

Towards the river (actually, at White Point Garden Park, at the confluence of the two rivers), lots of people were walking and running along the smallish seawall, or playing games in the park. A small group of Citadel students (“cadets”) ran by, and they looked very impressive. They wore school-issued workout gear, had on garish reflector vests, and had little if any hair. On the other hand, these kids were in outstanding shape; no pizza and beer guts there. They also had a really sharp look about them, exuding confidence and competence. I realize that’s just a surface impression, but as I saw more and more cadets throughout the town, they sure looked a lot more on the ball than those Corps nimrods at A&M. The next day I saw a female cadet in uniform, entering a bank downtown. Their uniform is really impressive, resembling the West Point cadet’s uniform. Not those stupid Brown Shirt/Boy Scout knockoffs they wear at A&M (can you tell the Texas vs. A&M game is tomorrow?).

That night I walked through the cool evening breeze to a local gym and worked out, then dined at McCrady’s, a relatively new restaurant in an old brick building, with an alleyway access. McCrady’s is the kind of place with dark wood paneling and hidden booths, with its wine collection on easy display, with clever jazz playing in the background. It serves protein by the barrelful-steak, chicken, duck, fish. In Austin, this is the kind of place where 60ish men with receding hairlines and beer guts would take their mistresses on Thursday nights. It also emphasizes fresh food from local sources. I had an outstanding meal of lettuces with spicy goat cheese, followed by duck breast, duck sausage, and roasted potatoes. Despite the calorie gorge, I did manage to resist dessert, however, and waddled back (duck-like) to the hotel. On the way, I saw that the US Customs House had been lit pink, for breast cancer awareness. This is admirable, of course, but the sight of a Greek temple-knock off federal building, in pink, did have me asking momentarily whether I’d stumbled into someone else’s acid flashback.

Next-Charleston, part II

Great Moments In Writing, Part II: Godzilla Smashing Through a City Level of "Suck"

Is it me, or does our President look kind of like Sad Alfred E. Newman? That's not a good look.
Some time ago, I promised a series featuring examples of excellent writing. I highlighted Gen. Douglas MacArthur's sympathy telegram to Mrs. Kennedy upon her husband's assassination. Then didn't publish anything else.

Most days I read just legal briefs and pleadings, which generally don't display much creative or poetic writing. Actually, for the most part, lawyers write with an appallingly bad style. At one end of the scale of writing quality, we have Shakespeare (and Hunter S. Thompson). At the other end, frantically searching through a thesaurus to figure out a different word to use instead of saying "good" for the fifth time in a sentence, would be the average lawyer. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? First, like the summer, you're hot. Second..." See, it kind of goes nowhere fast.

Most political writing is near the lawyer end of the scale. Political writing is generally hackneyed, sophomoric, and cliche-driven. But this year's election season just produced a real gem, which I reproduce below (copyright laws be damned).

Courtesy of the Pajamas Media blog (via the Wall Street Journal e-mail bulletin), this missive occurs in an October 20th post predicting that the Republicans would roll at election time. Certainly not a bold prediction, but the post essentially makes the case that the Republicans, for all their warts and flaws, would win because they suck less than the Democrats. Let's get to the payoff point:

So the Democrats sucked. But not just plain old, usual politician sucked, but epic levels of suck where it’s hard to find an analogue in human history that conveys the same level of suckitude. It was sheer incompetence plus arrogance — and those things do not complement each other well. We’re talking sucking that distorts time and space like a black hole.

It’s Godzilla-smashing-through-a-city level of suck — but a really patronizing Godzilla who says you’re just too stupid and hateful to see all the buildings he’s saved or created as he smashes everything apart. Or, to use Obama’s favorite analogy, you have a car stuck in ditch, so you call the mechanic, but the only tool he brings with him is a sledgehammer. And then he smashes your car to pieces and charges you $100,000 for his service. Finally, he calls you racist for complaining. Obama and the Democrats have been so awful, it’s hard for the human brain to even comprehend.

Yowsah! That's just creamy goodness. Everyone take note. You know, I knew Godzilla was mean enough to knock over buildings, but I certainly was not aware he could be so patronizing while doing so. Its one thing to be mean, but quite another to be insufferable at the same time. Later, the author compared the Republicans to a dog barking, while the Democrats are like a "zombie apocolypse." Both suck, of course, only one is a whole lot worse.

Leave aside the political point made here. That's just really outstanding writing. You may go another five years before you read a better phrase than "a really patronizing Godzilla."

OK, straighten up and fly right readers. Hopefully soon, we'll conclude the travel posts with my report on Charleston, SC.