"The woman spoke with a thick western North Carolina accent, which I used to discredit her authority. Here was a person for whom the word pen had two syllables. Her people undoubtedly drank from clay jugs and hollered for Paw when the vittles were ready."
I'm re-reading Me Talk Pretty One Day and that passage just slays me with laughter. Sedaris is from Raleigh, but it might as well be New York Ci-tay!
I wrote earlier about reverse culture shock: feeling horrified at restaurants, hearing one-syllable words magically become two, and those fleeting dreams of clinging desperately to the landing gear of the next flight out of Asheville. Well, (how should I say this?), I've been completely indoctrinated. Do you want to know how I know? I'll tell you:
Yesterday I watched seven - SEVEN - episodes of Making the Team: Becoming a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader on CMT (Country Music Television). What is it about these shows? I blacked out for five hours and when I awoke I found myself curled up on the couch dabbing at tears because Kelli told Brandi she was too fat to cheer.
Yes, it's a real show. And yes, it is the Gates of Hell.
Besides some intensive TV-watching (a vicious habit that took five weeks to conquer me after going so long without it), I've been a pretty busy ex-pat. My mom and I spent Labor Day weekend on the South Carolina shore soaking up the sun and eating far too much delicious seafood. We also managed to swing by Goose Creek to visit Scott who is not in costume and is, in fact, in the Navy:
He studies physics and nuclear fission and other things that are strictly classified. So zip it.I know what you're all thinking, so I'll go ahead and say it: No, they don't wear the big bell-bottoms anymore. I know, I was disappointed too.
I stayed the week after labor day in downtown Charleston at the Huguenot Church offices. I need to publicly thank my uncle Fred for kindly arranging that for me, since it was basically the most glorious place to stay imaginable. I spent my days pounding the streets for research and my nights cozied up in a palatial three-story townhouse. Those Huguenots sure know how to do it. The back garden, seen here from the second-floor porch, was my favorite spot for reading and is a far cry from Cupar:
I managed to find time between dilligent note-taking and dozing in the solarium to have dinner with my favorite sailor who, it seems, found time between splitting atoms and saving the world to whisk me away to Folly Pier:
Can't say no to a man in day-glo!Scott drove back up to Asheville with me the following weekend where we swam in rivers and dove from waterfalls in bacchanalian glee; pictures and words to follow in a separate post.
I am leaving Asheville tomorrow to visit my dear grandparents in Durham and then taking off for Scotland on Saturday.
Can you believe it?
