You go to sleep; you awaken. Each day is a different state, or two, or three. It begins with a hearty southern breakfast that begs you to loosen your belt and dig a trench alongside the table. You’re in this for the long haul. Eggs: two, cooked over easy. Smoked bacon: four strips. Buttermilk pancakes: Four, with homemade maple syrup and slathered in butter. Biscuits: Two. Juice? Preserves? Sure. Okay, toss it all in there. I’ve got a decent sized drive before me. I can take it all on. What’s that? We’re finished here? Oh, check please. Wait… Throw an apple pie in there for the road? Thanks.
Driving south through North Carolina (sounds like an oxymoron) takes maybe two hours from Rocky Mount. This meal, this feast on which I gorged myself, occurred in a place called Lumberton. Even before this point, I began seeing road signs for South of the Border. I heard from a family friend that it was a Mexican Restaurant. As you near the NC/SC border though, the billboards become way more interesting and start to paint a picture of some sort of magical locale perhaps similar to a Disney resort. They promised waterslides, adventure golf, diners, sausages, antiques, clothing, sporting goods, fireworks… It appeared to be an east coast Ozarkland. I kind of wanted to stop. I didn’t, but I took a picture from the roadside. Of course, I neglected to recognize that since South of the Border is literally on the meridian between the Carolinas, I missed the South Carolina state sign. Actually, I caught it slightly. What I really missed was the Georgia state line. Oh well, it’s not like the point of this trip was to drive to Georgia.
Oh.
I passed a sign welcoming me to the Lowlands. I believe the lowlands include Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana. Maybe Arkansas. Maybe South Carolina, who knows really? I just know this is the so-called backwoods area of the country. And there are some sights that certainly do not refute this. One such area is outside Savannah, maybe even in Savannah, I don’t really know. What I do know, is that there’s a town called Pin Point, Georgia. It’s one of the most squalid places I’ve ever seen. It’s like… chickens running around alongside people, backwards. It’s like… outhouse, backwards. My favorite pubic-hair-on-the-coke-can senator, Mr. Clarence Thomas, he grew up here. There’s one gigantic mansion that looks totally out of place in Pin Point. I’m pretty sure he bought that house for his mother.
By the way, South Carolina? It’s a pretty nice state. It doesn’t get any radio stations though. That kind of sucked.
I listened to BRMC’s Howl, Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited and Yume Bitsu’s self-titled album.
This community in Savannah is alright. It’s very spread out and there are four different gated entranceways. There are some enormous houses. The whole stretch of land includes something like six full-length golf courses. There’s also a ton of government protected marshland, and one particular area by the house, aptly named Sunset Park, provides one of the most stunning sunsets I’ve ever seen. Naturally, I forgot my camera at sunset.
The house itself is nice enough; I’m still very confused about it’s purpose so I’m not going to talk at great length about it. It looks new and was mostly empty. In the yard I waded my way through some Spanish moss and a tiny little wooded grove (filled with Chiggers, watch your feet and legs) and found myself on the 18th fairway of one of the golf courses. I’s a par five, with a dog-leg left that wraps around the cul de sac where the house sits.
Dinner was steaks and potatoes and salad and Heineken. Tomorrow I’m getting a tour (via golf cart) of the community. Then I’ve got the rest of the day to kill, so I’m going to hit up downtown and lose myself. Sorry these entries have been void of life or pictures, but it’s been just driving and eating for two days. Different kind of scenery than the part of the country I saw this summer. I’m tired of shooting pictures while driving, it gets old.
