Myrtle Beach

With a name like “Myrtle Beach”, one might expect a “beach” experience. Alas this impression can't be counted on. Mid-November is apparently a time of the year that weather can be warm and sunny one week and cloudy and rainy and cool the next.

Unfortunately for dad and I, up until the day before we left, we experienced the latter. At least we had one glorious day of sunshine.

Some things to be unhappy about during our 6-day stay in a condo on that beach:

Besides the aforementioned weather,
The wireless internet in the condo facility was down for the duration of our entire stay.

Some things to be happy about during our 6-day stay in a condo on that beach:

I had dad almost to myself for an entire week.

My friend Petrina joined for a few days.

There was a very small exercise room, a laundry room and a jaccuzzi in the condo facility at which I respectively sweated, cleaned clothes, and then soaked and drank beer nearly every day.

A short drive away, we found charming modern Georgetown, with a curious southern past, about which I shall spew at the bottom of this post.

We found really yummy seafood. Really. Yummy.

After debating the origins of the name "Myrtle" - ranging from the name of a woman to that of a tree - a google search at the local internet cafe revealed that a Myrtle is a type of flowering plant that is common in this coastal part of South Carolina. I love etymology, of words and of names of places.

Friendly people asking “how y'all doin'?”. Every person asked. In elevators. In shops, bars and restaurants. On the streets. Literally every person we saw. After which we would always engage in what felt like a genuine conversation. My first real taste of Southern Hospitality.

It was quiet. Not crammed with tourists (until the weekend bringing American Thanksgiving hit, that is, at which point the population of Myrtle Beach quadrupled, according to my rudimentary estimates. And as far as my first American Thanksgiving in America goes, I spent it realizing that everything was closed and we had forgotten to shop the day before, so, guided by my most trusty cookbook, concocted a souffle/quiche dinner with whatever was left in the fridge - cauliflower, carrots, eggs, thanks Petrina - and we drank the remaining beer. Not quite a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, but I already had mine over a month ago in Canada, and we felt like we got to experience the turmoil of it all via CNN's more than regular updates anyway.)

Walking along the beach, along a coastline, feeling those enduring waves is therapeutic even when the skies are grey.

Getting caught up on news according to CNN, and James Bond flicks.

Starting to pick up that southern influence on the English language.

I got to know Garmin (the GPS with a – for the moment – woman's voice. I'm calling him “He”, though, because the factory name is Garmin – I know, how original – and because I intend to find a sexy male voice to guide me through the streets of the remaining North American cities and countryside over the coming months). I'll keep Garmin around at least until he sends me on another wild goose chase through quiet country backroads, scenic but way off the beaten track routes, instead of on the interstates and main county highways, in order to reach my destination; if he tries that again, he'll find himself flung out the window. Or at best, tucked into an unused corner of the Jamboree and forgotten. Based on his performance in getting us to the Charlotte airport, though, I'm feeling more optimistic, so I won't be rash and will give him future chances. While I am, admittedly, rather good (read: lucky) at finding my destinations the “old fashioned way” with maps and intuition, I admit Garmin might be a useful addition to my growing Jamboree family.

An aside-show, random thought: while I am imbued with the very gracious Southern hospitality bug, I'd like to make the comment that I'm very aware that through this blog, I am engaging in a bit of navel-gazing. And so for any of you out there (who aren't my parents) and aren't rolling their eyes at my sometimes obvious, sometimes trivial, sometimes blatantly optimistic observations, I extend you a nod that screams “bear with me” during my blogging/writing attempts. Its surprisingly tiring work out here on the road, on the go, all the time, and I don't really always have the time or conditions available to do the things I'd like to do, like writing or reading or cycling, well. I'll get there yet.

And finally...

..so I'm left now leaving you with some of my promised impressions about Georgetown, South Carolina. A quaint town with significant waterways built for shipping designed by Dutch engineers, surrounded by gorgeous houses and a lovely town center.

We toured the Rice Museum in which I was given first-hand examples as to how to use language to sway things your way.

After upteen displays and pieces of evidence about how prosperous Georgetown and the outlaying area once was in producing and exporting rice, their official claim is that They Suffered after the American civil war because the result of it meant that they “lost their workforce” and so could “no longer compete” and as a result, their “industry declined”. The sweet old-lady guide said to us, twice, that she didn't wonder that “the North envied them their culture and wealth so of course they waged a war against them”.

I admit, as a Canadian, I naturally side a bit with the Northern perspective on things.

The use of language made it sound as if they – the plantation owners - were the ones who were hard done by. Who suffered most. Fair enough to them; it must have been a shock. Before emancipation, they were ridiculously wealthy and they had a prospering, thriving economy. On the backs of people who were not free in the “land of the free”, where there was an average of 1000 people (I dare anyone to show me a picture of a slave from this time and part of the world who wasn't black), who were not technically “people”, working under each “person” (ie/ most likely white plantation owner). I can't continue to call To Kill A Mockingbird one of the more important pieces of relatively modern literature that everyone should read and not conclude for myself, at least, that there's some sort of skewed perspective here.

At least, from my perspective.

I know that there's no need for me to dreg up that old argument again. So I'll say nothing further. Except, that it kind of surprised me to hear that perspective justified. And I am really glad that I live in a world in which cultural and racial diversity is respected and valued rather than taken advantage of. At least, from my perspective.

Myrtle Beach

Presidential near misses and soft southern countrysides

Driving on the interstate from Dulles airport to a campsite north of Washington DC to spend a day in the US capital. Dad in the Jamboree with me. 10 lanes of traffic, we in the middle express lanes, not much company. A glance in the rearview mirror at the flashing blue and red lights from the official motorcycle coming up behind me. Surely I'm not speeding, in the Jamboree? No. He whizzes past, to our left, ignoring us. We wonder what or who he's chasing; there's no one ahead of us. Then a second set of lights comes up from behind, identical to the first, but this one pulls slightly ahead of us, in the left passing lane, and indicates with his arm for me to pull over, move over and make room, get the Jamboree into the shoulder. I do. The next glance in the rearview reveals an official train of cars zooming along, closing in on us, flying past, all manner of lights flashing, police escorting, somberly official and expensive looking, American-flag flapping. As they whiz past us, dad says “I heard on the news that President Obama landed this morning”.

I wave excitedly at them, just in case.

I'm sticking to my story. President Obama drove past the Jamboree. How can I not like DC now, after this?

A day in DC. Walking up Pennsylvania Avenue. Posing for pictures in front of the fence on the opposite end of the lawn in front of the White House. If you squint you can see it. So much security. A visit to the Smithsonian Museum of American History. To escape the rain; to see Dorothy's red shoes and Kermit and C3PO; to walk through the story of the United States.

Interesting story.

Dinner. Too much wine.

Two more days of driving, now continuing south on the I95. New GPS system on hand to guide us through Viriginia, North Carolina, South Carolina.

Glimpses of cottonfields, me unable to stop singing that song “in them olllddd cottonfields back home... it was down in Louisiana, just about a mile from TexArcana...”. Even though we aren't there, we are in the Carolinas. Visits to civil war battlefields turned into outdoor museums. A lot of history in these parts.

A bit of a wayward route, Garmin the GPS takes us off the I95 too early, we traverse fields and small towns and see the southern houses of my imagination; rocking chairs on every veranda, big verandas on every house. I like the drive off the beaten path but it takes a long time, and I think I could have found a better route the old-fashioned way, with my maps.

Washington DC

Driving, flying... "In life, as in hockey, keep your legs moving"

It took 6 hours to fly back the distance that took me three months to drive. Admittedly, in my unhurried pace in the Jamboree with a lot of side trips.

I am not a jaded frequent flyer. I can't say that I hate it, am sick of it, nor that it causes me to pull my hair out. I love how easy it is to board in one place and mere hours later arrive in a totally different place. Fast and romantic. And that a glass of wine while travelling is not generally frowned upon gives it my vote.

But what is missed in the air is all the stuff in between those places.

I took a lot of family road trips growing up, most often between Calgary and Vancouver; you know the kind where the kids are in the way back of the stationwagon, playing and wondering loudly if we were there yet. I took road trips when I was in university; we'd drive south out of Calgary and end up in Arizona to get chased through the desert by rattlesnakes, and once all the way into Mexico, just to be able to say that we did. I've taken European road trips, from Amsterdam to Croatia and back again, around Scandinavia, into Germany and France, and from them I can confirm that the Europeans really are, on the whole, much better drivers than North Americans. I even took a road trip around Hokkaido Island once, in Northern Japan, on the other side of both the car and the road.

I won't even begin to try to list the flights I've taken over the years.

Whether it is a jet barrelling through the air or a vehicle bumping along the road, spewing out my contribution to the diminishing air quality of our beloved planet, its the moving and travelling that keeps me doing it. Sit still? In one place? For always?? You're kidding, right?

But driving to and from work? Commuting by car? You're kidding, right? Shouldn't driving be fun? Shouldn't travelling be fun? Give me my bike any day to commute. To get around. To breath in that increasingly spewey air. But for as much as I love love love my bikes, none of them can get me from Calgary to DC, for example, within a day.

I am apparently wondering about my carbon footprint, as they call it. And I don't love it. And so you see my ongoing dilemma.

A week ago, I parked the Jamboree at Dulles airport and wished it a safe rest, and then scampered onto a flight to Calgary through Toronto. This almost-week in Calgary was hectic as usual, me trying in vain to see everyone I wanted to in the 6 days I had there, waking up most mornings with the requisite fuzzy-head feeling from all the wine, and, this time, battling a cold (no, not that oogly-boogly one all over the news, I'm much better now, thank you). So now I find myself, once again, glad for those who I was able to see, and extending apologies out to those who I missed. But of course, you know, I will be back.

As I write, I gaze down at the lights over New York state from my seat in this Air Canada bullet zooming me back to DC; I can only wonder and hope that the Jamboree is still there, right where I left it, waiting for my return and all the stuff we'll discover in between places on the next leg of the road trip.

Calgary-Banff November 09