Onward!!

Why the hell did I let myself get talked into going to a music festival again? Not just a music festival, but a metal music festival. In the middle of the English countryside. For the second year running. Last year a guy in our party broke his leg and I spent a night in Burton on Trent accident and emergency with him, talking to a girl who’d taken a bit too many party drugs and was sure her calling was to settle down and have babies.

I bet it’s going to rain my pants off.

See you next week, both of you.

The hotel breakfast was ridiculously overpriced and I don’t think we woke up in time anyway. Feeling tender but most likely legal to drive, I settled behind the wheel while some of the people from the previous night loaded up into the car with us. One had been to Atlanta before, so knew to suggest the largest drive-in in the world, The Varsity. I couldn’t contemplate anything better than consuming hot dogs smothered in chili, so I commandeered the decision despite the feeble and hungover protestations of the group’s only vegetarian. Ordering for her ended up being a mission, though.

The place was insane. We could have parked at the drive-in where middle-aged men in paper hats and aprons would come and take our orders, but for reasons of space (5 people in a hire car eating hot dogs) went upstairs to the “restaurant”. Long lines snaked to each of the two dozen cashiers, with a woman yelling “move on down, move on down” much more forcefully than all London tube ushers put together. Dutifully we did, with me getting a meal that makes me feel vaguely ill now just thinking back to it. As we tried to get a grilled cheese and some salad for the vegetarian who was by now looking a bit green, we discovered the guy had served her a chicken sandwich (”grilled chicken” sounding like “grilled cheese”??) and the salad eventually came with a load of chicken dumped on top. Going on a rescue mission, I managed to catch a friend at the counter just as he was ordering, and he offered to get a sandwich without the chicken this time.

Any description I give of the Varsity will not do it justice. I’m sure there are videos of it on the internet, but they won’t convey the masses of people in Atlanta Braves clothing queueing up for their Sunday staples. In a way I’m glad I went but at the same time I was thoroughly, thoroughly disturbed by the experience. At least we got a moment to breathe out of the noise since we decided to sit in the parking lot through one of the most severe rainstorms I’d ever seen battered central Atlanta for about twenty minutes after we finished eating. It was interesting seeing the buildings across the road disappear into a gray mist as the rain blew over us, overflowing sewers and soaking everything in its path.

Something even more troubling than the Varsity was our next stop on the tour, the $15 a head World of Coca-Cola. Being headquartered in Atlanta, Coca-Cola is such an institution there that any soda is just referred to as “Coke” in the region. Along with the Atlanta Aquarium, the place is a chief Atlanta attraction, and I guess it was only appropriate to try and do some touristy things. I never expected to be quite so thoroughly bombarded into consumption submission, though. Almost prophetically, as if discouraging us from entering, the peppy ticket cashier asked where we were from. I said Finland and it was easier to not specify anything else. “Oh wow, Fin-laaand! Welcome to America! Go shopping! Eat pizza!” she crooned at me. No, I was going to Coke World instead.

“WHO’S READY TO OPEN A BOTTLE OF HAPPINESS?!” the host yelled after they had herded us into a trophy room at the start of the tour, and had called out for places people were coming from. At this point, our bloodshot and confused eyes were meeting each other in looks of concern and distress. It didn’t let up at all throughout the tour. The first real stop was sitting through a “documentary” about the “employees of the Happiness Factory“, the grotesque cartoon characters supposedly inhabiting the Coke vending machines. I wish I could have seen the irony.

Herded through exhibits of memorabilia, a “4d film” with moving seats and spraying water about “the secret ingredient” that makes Coke special (you, the consumer), and an example bottling plant, we finally came to the fountain section, where some 80 different Coca-Cola company products were available for tasting. They ranged from the nice (vanilla Coke) to the nigh-on-unfathomably-undrinkable (a Djiboutian mint soda that tasted so strongly of mouthwash it was a challenge to try and swallow). At least it got our blood sugar levels up, if the hot dogs and ridiculously sweet orange soda at the Varsity hadn’t done that.

After those two separate assaults on the senses, I am surprised I was capable of driving, first to the MARTA stop to drop off a friend who had a plane to catch, and then to sit somewhere quieter to contemplate what we’d just experienced in the last 24 hours. It took a while, and we only left when they started putting together a campaign meeting for a democratic candidate for Georgia governor. (Speaking of the gubernatorial primaries, the ads on TV were something else. Personal attacks against other candidates within the same party, as well as references to God and piety in personal statements are things you don’t see in Europe.)

Twenty miles of driving later we were back in the hotel in Marietta, packing and getting ready for one more night in the South, and one last morning with our Buick that had taken us over 1000 miles by that point.

My friend’s wedding day unfurled into a stark reminder that I’d had a few more odd American craft beers than I thought, and that they hadn’t skimped on the whiskey in the whiskey and coke that ended the night. We’d agreed on a post-breakfast sauna to pass the time until the wedding, and so that’s what I met up with the groom, the best man, and some other guests for. Luckily we had had the presence of mind to stuff the rest of the previous night’s pizza dinner into the hotel room fridge, as this was one of those times you really needed a stern breakfast.

Of course, the sauna was… not one I’d call a sauna though the manufacturer’s name was a reference to Finland. Not that our sauna manner was appropriate either. In keeping with his ways the groom came up with a jingle to go with our experience, so every time we threw water on the rocks, we stood up (them as a test of endurance, me to just enjoy a touch of the heat a proper löyly should be and he’d sing “living in a microwave” to the tune of a song I instantly recognised but can’t place now. It was that kind of morning.
(See comments below, the tune for our jingle was the chorus line from James Brown’s Living in America).

After a couple of rounds of sauna and swimming (with no shower facilities in sight so we must have breathed near-lethal doses of chlorine gas off ourselves) I was ready to hit the shower up in the hotel room. We escorted the groom through the hotel, with a towel on his head so he wouldn’t even accidentally catch a glimpse of his wife-to-be. Leaving him in the capable hands of the best man, I settled into the nervous wait through the time before it makes sense to get dressed up in my suit and tie. The air conditioning in the hotel was fine for wearing one, but the first step outside, even in a linen and silk suit, was deeply unpleasant. Thirty-odd degrees centigrade, high humidity and semiformal wear just don’t go well together.

The ceremony and reception were held in Marietta Square, a historical bit of town just across from the railway. We arrived way early, and sheepishly asked a gentleman in a white suit standing by a flower-decorated gazebo whether we were in the right place. He assured we were, and we fell into conversation with a policeman also observing. He was really friendly, and talked about having been born in the UK and about the issues applying for citizenship posed. The moment I noticed the .44 caliber gun hanging loosely in a holster at his side I became a tiny bit tense though, which I hope didn’t show. It’s everyday life there, but I still get struck at guns being carried openly, which nearly never happens in Europe.

The groom arrived first, with his father and the best man, dropped off by limousine. They stood in silence, waiting for the second limo carrying the bride. As she stepped out and he went over to walk her over to the gazebo, a guitarist started playing the Jurassic Park theme song. For those that know the couple, it was pretty much the only appropriate thing to play at the time, and we did smile quite widely. I suspect that for others who did not recognise the tune, it was just a pretty melody played on a guitar to accompany the procession. Shame about it being so quiet, though.

After the couple said their vows (much more audibly than the priest leading them through the ceremony, clearly they were mindful of the audience!) they came down to have some pictures taken, while shooing us guests to the reception itself. Held at the top floor of the theater nearby, there was a roof terrace overlooking the square with soft drinks. The beer and wine flowing indoors got peoples’ tongues moving, and soon we were engaged in conversation among our table of friends and new acquaintances. I liked the fact that there was no set seating order. This allowed people to walk around and chat. I got cornered several times by the father of the bride, having had a few drinks, demanding to know what I’d thought of driving through his home state (Virginia) and whether I’d visited specific locations (no, Sir, but I’m sure we will the next time. Oh yes, there will be a next time, Sir. Thank you for your hospitality).

Having been the chief reason for our drive Southward, it was quite amazing how quickly the actual night progressed. The next thing I knew we were onto speeches (the groom, the father of the bride, the best man, the bridesmaids) along with a video message from the groom’s best friend currently employed in Afghanistan. All in all it was a really warm-hearted and sweet affair, with loads of attention being lavished onto us “English” guests who’d “driven all the way from England”. Not long after that, the band had packed up and a vintage Rolls Royce came to whisk the couple away on their honeymoon (to Costa Rica the next morning). The rest of us continued the party at a nearby bar.

At this point things were a little bit on the wane, despite the delicious barbecue-type food on offer at the reception. In fact, a collective decision, made more or less consciously of its implications, was made to continue at the hotel bar, from where it would be easier to end up in bed. It was easier on the ears, too, as there was a seriously loud country/folk/punk band playing indoors. It must have been the heat of the day and the whole proceedings, but I was so completely exhausted at that point that all I wanted was a nice comfortable bed and some peace and quiet.

The breakfast at Fiddler’s Roost was to die for. Just right with the sweetness, syrupy banana pancake type bread things got us set up for the road, which we hit before 11am. We had our lunch packed from the previous night’s dinner, so decided to find somewhere nice to have it. The Blue Ridge Parkway had picnic tables at pretty much every overlook and stopping place, but as we were diverting from it, we had to find somewhere else. That, we decided, would be in Tennessee, because adding another state to our trip would be funny. Driving on winding mountain roads with seemingly endless blind corners, through “towns” that seemed to consist of a T-junction with a ramshackle country store in one corner, and through numerous agricultural fields showed the differences between states that otherwise may look superficially similar. Tennessee really seemed poorer than Virginia had. Another interesting point was the change of the price of fuel between state lines: Taxation must have been that much higher in North Carolina to raise the price per gallon by 20 cents.

Eventually, no thanks to our satellite navigator friend, we made it to the edge of the Cherokee National Forest and the picnic spot marked on our road map. It was a really hot day, as they have been throughout our stay here, except of course in high altitudes. After lunch of the previous day’s salads eaten off paper plates bought at a gas station where I managed to misread the meter reading by a full $10, confusing the attendant and making her think I was trying to fib her, we hit the road again, winding down the scenic route through the Southern Tennessee and northern North Carolina . It really was really beautiful, with green hills, sunshine and the occasional jaw-dropping view of a valley ringed by mountains.

Hot Springs, NC is a Small Town. The manager of our bed and breakfast was also the head of the local tourist association and several town and county projects, and the place only had two restaurants that remained open after lunch. We ate at the Iron Horse, where the service was excellent and friendly, the food unbelievably generously portioned and good-tasting. But, compared to the excellent Alejandro’s in Roanoke a few days before, we ended up paying double. While we were having dinner, an amazingly long coal train thundered through the train tracks crossing the town, rocking the entire place. American train tracks seem to be built alongside rivers, I suppose because of the relative flatness of the land. It is interesting though because the tracks would be at risk of any flood, being so close to the stream.

Friday morning we had an early breakfast and set out on the last, relatively long stretch of this trip to Atlanta. I had been recommended by some people on the Forums that Asheville, North Carolina is a “liberal” cute mountain city that would be worth a visit. Sadly we didn’t have time to stay for longer, because I did like the feel of the place. Sure, some of the shops were the typical tye-dye dress/astrology stone/new-age type of places but the atmosphere seemed pretty laid-back and cool. We stopped for a quick drink at a pub (called a Taproom in this part of the world) that got me regretting we hadn’t time to stay for longer: Several dozen local beers, and dozens more other American beers, not to mention the standard imports, all under one roof! I do like my beer, and being on the road meant we couldn’t have a drink. Luckily, there was a stroke of genius – we asked the cute server whether we could get local beers anywhere nearby, and got the address to Green Life. What a hippie food store! It was like a Whole Foods for tattooed twenty-something vegetarians (and aficionados of prime meat). As we were puzzling the choices at the wall of ales, a guy in a Dr Pepper shirt came up and struck up a conversation about his preferences, including a recommendation for a Asheville Brewing Company beer commemorating Bob Moog, with proceeds going to the Moog foundation. I had no idea that Moog was an Asheville resident! Turned out the guy giving us recommendations didn’t work there at all, but just happened to look like an employee thanks to his shirt. I guess that kind of describes the feeling in Asheville – just generally friendly and laid back.

Having stocked up on several North Carolina beers, including a two-gallon (2 liter!) jug of Pisgah Brewery’s “Endless Summer” in the back of the car, we hit the Interstate on a last dash to Atlanta. The first hundred miles went by in a flash, but the last fifty to Atlanta suburbs was slow going, first due to an accident on the road, then because of roadworks and then plain old fashioned Friday rush-hour. Finally, though, we were in the hotel parking lot, feeling the Georgia heat and humidity, ready to check in. By sheer luck the bride and groom whose wedding we were due to attend happened to be preparing for a practice dinner, which means we actually got some details about the wedding program since thanks to Royal Mail our invitation had never actually arrived.

As we had settled into our room and were toasting the end of the road trip, the groom arrived after his dinner, slightly nervous. We shared some of the beer we’d thrown into the fridge and showed him a DVD with greetings from his London friends we’d brought with us. I met some of the other guests and the best man, and we made a date to go for a swim and a sauna in the morning (yes, sauna in the morning!). It must be an interesting time knowing that in less than 24h later you are to be married, and planning for the time until then must be weird.

Really, if I think about it, it’s hard to place when this became normal. I’m on a train speeding from one European capital to another, which also happens to be my home at the present time. I know people in both cities, and have places I frequent in both. I speak enough of both languages to get by and understand nuances in humour, which is in considerable supply in the circles I hang out in. 

Sometimes, it feels like someone else’s life I’m living.

Incidentally, today marks four years to the day of me writing here. No, I didn’t mean the above as referring to the day, but I suppose it fits.