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.
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