Transplanted

After uprooting ourselves from a great community of family and friends, I’ve had moments in our new city of not feeling like we “belong.” But as we travel to new cities even while we don’t feel entirely at home in the one in which we live, I’m beginning to realize that we belong everywhere. It’s a simple thing, really, but we humans call this planet our home and there really is no reason we can’t feel at home any where on it.

My husband had to fly to Maine for a bachelor party last weekend which meant I’d be all by myself for a few days. So when I learned he’d be going, I decided it was the ideal time to take a road trip and I settled on Oxford, Mississippi and Memphis, Tennessee (the former for Faulkner and the latter because everyone said I should go). I had two months to plan the four-day road trip and when the time finally came for me to head out, I have to admit I was a little nervous. I had never driven hundreds of miles by myself anywhere, let alone in a totally new area where I’m still trying to figure out the freeway system; part of me was certain I’d take the wrong exit and end up in Kansas. Still, I took the plunge along with my trusty GPS device which I will hence forth refer to as Alice.

After six hours driving, listening to radio stations warning me that I should embrace Jesus or prepare for Hell and some trouble with Alice (she wanted me to go to Nashville real bad; not sure if she has a lover there or what, but it took me about 30 minutes to convince her to go towards Birmingham) I arrived in Oxford, Mississipi. The tiny college town (home to Ole Miss) is really quaint with a pretty square in the middle of town. After taking a second shower for the day (thanks humidity), I found a place for dinner. Brandon had suggested that I find a casual spot with a bar so I could watch TV to occupy myself. Well, he didn’t count on me encountering a man named Kink (his nickname from college where apparently he was really popular with the ladies).

Nearly as soon as I planted my rear-end at the bar, two middle-aged men sat down near me and ordered two shots. As I was looking at the menu, the guy closest to me pushed one of the shots towards me and said “You’ll have to take this for me. I just can’t.” I politely declined as the two men then began to bicker about who was going to take it. They then proceeded to give me all sorts of advice about the menu and things to see in Oxford, etc. I’m fairly naive so I figured they were just being friendly (keep in mind that I hadn’t caught Kink’s name, yet).

After about an hour, a married couple, friends of theirs, arrived. The husband was a Southern lit professor which was awesome since I was SO excited to see the Faulkner house. But soon our conversation was cut short by the wife who sidled up to me to let me know about Kink. She told me his nickname, that he was a notorious cheat (he’s married) and that he had texted them about “a cute blond” he’d met–apparently that was me. So I paid my tab and bid them a good night. On the way back to my room I figured it was going to be an interesting trip!

And it truly was. I toured the William Faulkner House (one of my favorite authors), visited his grave, drove to Memphis, saw the hotel where Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot, stayed in the Peabody hotel, went to Beal Street, heard some blues, met really interesting, nice people, saw Graceland, visited the Civil Rights memorial in Birmingham, drove past the Talladega Race Way, saw the house that Elvis was born in and generally got more acquainted with the South. Now I have a much better understanding of the history and people of this region–oh, and I’ll steer clear of guys names Kink from now on.

Last weekend I had the opportunity to push this embracing-my-new-locale to new heights by driving with my husband to Charleston, South Carolina. And combined with our trip last year to Savannah, I can safely say that taking weekend road trips is a great way to embrace or at least check out your new surroundings.

Here’s what I’ve learned through my Southern excursions:

1. People in the South love their history. Never mind that it’s got a few major blemishes, they still LOVEit and they want to preserve it, sho nuff! Both Savannah and Charleston residents are seemingly willing to lay down their lives to stop someone from painting their house the wrong color. And it’s almost like the Civil War ended last year. When we asked our Charleston tour guide about the rivalry between Savannah and his home town he (loosely) replied, “Oh, we don’t care about Savannah. We’re the only place that didn’t surrender during the war and they know that.”   Uh, OK.

2. There seems to be some type of competition to be the drunkest, most haunted, morally deprived town the world has EVER known. The three main competitors are New Orleans, Savannah and Charleston. The winner, hands down, is New Orleans. Now in Utah the competition is just the opposite; that is, the most church-going, well-behaved, clean and sober towns. Their winner? Provo. Although behind closed doors might be a different story.

3. The South is just awash in unhealthy food. A recent survey found that the Southern part of the U.S. has, by a decent amount, the most overweight people. And while economic issues play a part, there really is no reason for anyone to scratch their heads about this study. Fried, cream-heavy food is simply everywhere in this region. Want a BBQ sandwich? How about one with buttered, grilled Texas toast and stacks of pork you can barely fit your mouth around. Care for some soup? Charleston can serve you their famous She-Crab soup that is mostly just heavy cream and butter–and it’s delicious.

4. People in the South are genuinely more friendly than peeps in other parts of our country. I don’t know how much if it has to do with the slower pace or how easily the booze flows or if people are just happy because they ate ten pounds of lard for lunch, but very generally speaking, people are nice in the South.

Of course there are many other wonderful things I’m learning about these strange Southern folks. When I was in Charleston I was reminded of one of my few Southern acquaintances while I lived in Utah. His name was Charlton and I thought he had the cutest little Southern drawl ever–I wanted to put him on a pink cloud and push him around he was so cute (little shout out to Fitzgerald). Now that I’ve been here for a year, while still endearing, those Southern accents have a little less sway over this gal.  

I’d heard about people in my home town joining kickball leagues and friends who has moved away told me that they, too, had taken up the “sport.” At the time, I just thought it was an interesting activity choice. Well, now I get it.

Brandon and I joined a co-ed league about a month ago on a whim and what a serious Transplant goldmine. First of all, our team name is Big Balls–which is just awesome. Second, the games are a blast. Third, the team has like ten other activities they are hooking us up with–like poker, bingo and trivia night. I’m telling you, if you are a transplant and you haven’t joined a kickball team you need to, like right now.

p.s. I’m still making an effort to embrace my new city. Tomorrow I have to work all day, but I think I’ll check out the public library in a different part of the city.

I had to work today (and into the night) thanks to a freelance project I picked up and since I need the money like a dog needs his chew toy I will not complain! But the accepting my new surroundings experiment has been a dicey one today after my mom found out she will not be able to come for a visit in a couple of weeks AND our air conditioning isn’t working (don’t they know it’s Hotlanta!?). Hey, tomorrow is another day.

I woke up to more rain today so no long bike ride. Instead I flipped on the TV, found CNN and came up with another idea: take public transit to the CNN Center and watch the Michael Jackson tribute on their jumbo TV.

If you’ve never visited the CNN Center (sorry I don’t have pictures) there is a large food court with a jumbo tron that runs CNN all day and all night (I assume). It’s a pretty massive looking set up. And since there wasn’t a formal gathering planned, I was surprised by how many people were already sitting down watching when I arrived. Still, I managed to find a seat near the front when a nice older black man agreed to let me share his table. It wasn’t long before the whole room was full with a couple hundred people and media crews began filming us and taking photos (I think my mug was on TV for a millisecond).

While I was a huge Jackson fan growing up–I watched “Thriller” a million times–he had been off my radar for a long time, and I never knew what to think of the molestation charges. But given all the controversy, his appearance and obvious struggle for privacy, I sort of thought that his life was fairly sad , but the truth wasn’t so “black and white.

Turns out that MJ was a true inspiration for many black people. Part of my experience of living in Atlanta has been to gain new level of exposure to my brothers and sisters with darker skin (in Utah they are few and far between). During the tribute today, the men and women who gathered at CNN were nearly all black and many of them were crying. And it made me think about how none of us can really say for sure what sort of influence we have in the world, how we impact people’s lives or the impact others have as well. I didn’t see MJ that way. To me, as a kid, he was just an amazing performer who “thrilled” me. But to many black people he broke down barriers.

So day two was enlightening and I’m beginning to wonder if Forest Gump’s line of wisdom will ever be topped: “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.”  You just never know.

It’s Monday and the first day of my plan to embrace my new life in The ATL–so far so good. I took a jog in Piedmont Park which is just across the street and enjoyed the light rain as I plodded along. Next I picked up the local weekly (Creative Loafing), sat down for some lunch and read a story about a 34-year old man who is dying from lung cancer. He’s getting used to new things, too, like planning his funeral (he’s developed a phobia for cremation and has opted for a “green” funeral instead). Message: If someone five years younger than me is adjusting to the idea that he only has a few weeks to live, I can explore my new neighborhood.

Next up? Tomorrow I think I’ll take our public transit to a part of the city I’ve never been in and see what happens.