My last few weeks have been less a whirlwind than a quiet ebb-and-flow, comprised of lazy days and a transitioning from solo travelling to visiting friends. First was my week in Charleston, where I did little more than imagine myself living in every beautiful old house I walked by, flirt with a glorious-caffeinated-sweetness Starbucks Frappuccino habit, visit historical sites, make daily trips to Harris Teeter, and watch incredibly bad television (The Secret Life of the American Teenager is quite possibly the most nauseating show I’ve ever seen, and never failed to make me want to scrub myself with Lysol. No link for it).
Special thanks to Charleston’s Days Inn Historic District hotel, which let me check in at 6am in the morning after my twelve-hour Amtrak from Washington. Charleston’s Old Slave Mart Museum is definitely worth a visit; it is a museum situated in what used to be a slave auction gallery in the 19th century and, while small, is packed with information. It certainly isn’t happy information, but it does lead one to wonder how people can fail to comprehend that their fellow humans are just as, well, human as themselves. I can’t help feeling this is still a pressing issue today, in regards to all manner of prejudices. (And not the ultimately-good Jane Austen kind, either.)
The Old Slave Mart Museum can also be a site of unintentional amusement if, in visiting before lunch when you’re a tad little bit hungry, you read a poster that says “Slave Labor and Systems” as “Slave Lobsters” and start imagining being given a manicure by singing crustaceans. Don’t ask me why singing. Probably because I’d just been listening to Sweeney Todd on my iPod.
Then came Asheville, to which L.Methysta kindly drove so that we could spend a few days together. I do believe that lovely lass deserves some sort of crown for being the most talkative young lady in the world. Mighty entertaining, and I doff my figurative cap to her chatterbox skills.
Over rooibos tea and sandwiches at The Green Sage, where L.Methysta caught the eye of a young man lunching with his mother (a good catch, no?), over celebratory cocktails and beer after our entrance into the world of celebrity, and over Fruit2Day juices in our hotel room, I built memories bereft of Biltmore (alliteration is absolutely awesome) that have ensured Asheville exists as a site of happy in my memories.
Next up: the excitement of Jonesville, Lee County - home of the infamous Mr. Bottom.