Moooooving.

Unfortunately, due to formatting issues with blogspot, I've moved the blog over here. Same wannabe-Southern feel. Same West Coast flavor. Better formatting, and more pictures. Hope you'll check it out!

Some Southern Un-Hospitality

While the majority of my stay in the South thus far has been marked by unprecedented friendliness, good cheer, and relaxed attitudes, one experience was not up to par. Despite a prominent feature in "Southern Living," the 74 Ranch, where David took me for a birthday surprise, was nowhere near the epitome of Southern life, Southern comfort, or Southern Hospitality. Check out the review below, posted on TripAdvisor:

"If anything on the property breaks, be prepared to take out YOUR wallet. The beautiful property and novelty of the ranch can’t compete with poor customer service, rudeness, and verbal harassment.

We scheduled our visit to 74 Ranch to coincide with a person special occasion. When we arrived, we were told the booking had been lost and we’re offered two alternatives to the room we’d originally booked: the honeymoon suite, or a cabin without power. Pam seemed a little miffed that we would choose the honeymoon suite, but took us up anyway. We enjoyed our afternoon, exploring the property, our generous room, and playing with the animals. That evening, we ran a bath in the clawfoot tub. Shortly after sinking in, we noticed the water level in the tub drop dramatically. We could’t figure out how or why this had happened. After a few minutes, we heard knocking and yelling at the door. It was Larry, demanding to be let it in. He was shouting that the room downstairs had flooded. We quickly jumped out of the tub, trying to dry ourselves and put some clothes on; all the while Larry keeps shouting, haranguing us, and banging at the door. When he gets in the check on the tub, we explain that we’ve done nothing out of the ordinary—we ran a bath and then got in. He accuses us of overflowing the tub, despite us pointing out that the sides of the tub aren’t wet. When we try to show him where we think the problem might be—a leaky pipe and a poorly connected faucet, he waves us off and leaves, telling us not to use the bath.

The next morning, upon checkout, we are greeted with the news that Larry and Pam expect us to pay for the plumbing and damages. Apparently Larry had told Pam that we had admitted to causing the damages--a blatant lie. My boyfriend politely and tactfully tells Pam that we'd never admitted that, and since we didn’t cause any of the damage, he was uncomfortable leaving his credit card information. She marches us out to Larry, and before letting us speak, or work anything out, mockingly parrots what my boyfriend had said to her. Larry tells us coldly to get out. Ok. We start to walk away, and he yells after us, “And grow up!” My boyfriend, frustrated with the poor treatment we’d been getting, yells back that we’d found a mouse in our room as well. Larry counters with, “I’m sorry it didn’t bite you!”

Needless to say, we were VERY disappointed. We might have tried harder to come to an agreement if Pam and Larry hadn't handled the whole situation with such absurd rudeness. And in fact, the whole situation never would have happened if we'd gotten the room we had originally booked."

All that to say, the property was very picturesque, and the afternoon time we spent on the ranch before the owners went pyscho was well enjoyed indeed. If only Pam and Larry could have been as sweet as their horses.

“Are You Eating?” : Snackin’, Yakkin’, and Rackin’ Up Food Bills

At a recent job interview, I was asked what I like to do outside of the office. “I’m a Groupon/Half-Off Depot/Scoutmob fiend,” I replied. They laughed, but it’s the truth. As soon as I’ve gotten my morning coffee and sat down in front of the screen, the first thing I pull up is Gmail. Once upon a time it was a big deal to have five new messages—now it’s standard. I can’t help it—I love saving money (mainly because I haven’t gotten much), and it allows me to be budget-concious (we’re living on $100/month play money each) and still get out and start learning the lay of this new city. We’ve been everywhere from Buckhead to Old 4th Ward to Decatur to Midtown, and never spent more than $15 for dinner and drinks. Here’s the run-down on two of our favorites:

Name: Café Instanbul

Price for Groupon: $2 for a $20 credit (the groupon was originally $7; David had a referral credit for 5 bucks)

Location: Decatur

Sunday night saw us steering the car into a tiny lot in front of a unique building on Lawrenceville Highway. Sandy brown siding was ornamented with blue and white Arabian flourishes. As we minced our way around puddles, we saw a rag-tag bunch of tables beneath a wide awning. A cluster of people sat around one, blowing hookah smoke out of their noses. I made a face at David. The place looked sketchy. But once I stepped through the door, I realized that appearances were deceiving. While outside, Café Istanbul looked dumpy and ill-reputable, stepping through the door was like stepping off a plane. The inside was covered in rich red rugs. Slim columns held up a cobalt roof spangled with glowing stars. I turned at the sounds of clinking—a bellydancer was undulating in the middle of the dining space, which consisted of pillows and midget tables. It was one part “Big-R, bygone era” Romantic, two parts pure kitsch, and I was pretty charmed. David and I plopped down on some cushions and picked up a menu. A few minutes later, a more robust (*ahem) woman appeared in front of our table. She introduced herself as something that sounded vaguely like “Namasteza,” which took me aback as she both looked and sounded like someone from Michigan. Just as I was chiding myself for jumping to conclusions again, she laughed and added, “But you can call me Paula!” She then clarified that she was not our bellydancer (David was immensely relieved), and said if we were interested, she was available to read our fortunes. After consulting with our server, David opted with the beef gyro, and I decided on the Turkish meatballs, called “kotjes.” Our guy returned a few seconds later with a basket of warm, seasoned flatbread and a dish of red chili paste. Perfection. It was so good that I was almost too full to take a bite out of my kotje’s when they arrived. But that one bite was explosively good—the meatballs were a little better down than I thought I’d like, but the smoky flavor really enhanced the combination of herbs and spices flavoring the meat. When mixed with the garlicky, buttery rice below, with a forkful of red cabbage and lettuce on the side, each bite was better than the last. David scarfed both gyros in record time, though I had enough leftovers to save for (a very fulfilling) lunch the next day. Our server even walked us to the door, refusing to let me carry my bagged dinner!

Name: Treehouse Pub

Price for Groupon: $8 for $20

Location: Buckhead

Google told me Treehouse Pub was in Buckhead, a notoriously swanky/fratty/Beamer-heavy neighborhood in Atlanta. In prior experiences, David and I had showed up to dinner obviously (and uncomfortably) underdressed. So when we walked up to Treehouse (David in a button-up and khaki shorts, and me in a maxi dress and heels), we were pleasantly surprised at what we saw. Treehouse is aptly named—it looks like a grown-up version of a well-loved neighborhood playspace. The majority of the seating it outside on a massive veranda, which is overhung with hanging plants, colorful pots, birdhouses, and windchimes. On the night we went for dinner, they even had misters going, which increased the fairy-tale/Peter Pan fantasy ambiance. We took a seat under a red canvas umbrella, made friends with the dog at the next table (Treehouse is very dog-friendly), and were served water by someone I’d previously though was a fellow patron. Their wait staff is incredibly casual—they have no uniforms, but seem encouraged to wear “conversation starting” tee shirts (one waitress had a Cookie Monster shirt on), and though the service was prompt, no one seemed rushed or stressed. It was a very lazy, relaxed vibe that melded perfectly with the porch style dining. One glance at the menu and we immediately saw what we wanted to order. For $8, Treehouse offers a California burger, which comes with a ½ lb patty, jalapenos, guacamole, and mozzarella cheese, along with a generous portion of fries. I’ll be honest, the fries weren’t anything to write home about, even when I dipped them in guac. But the burger was other-worldly good. Tender, juicy, spicy, smooth… I don’t think we said one word to each other during dinner, we were so intent on finishing our food. We liked this place so much I bought another groupon and we came not a week later, this time with friends in tow.

Things to Do This Weekend: Diversity in Atlanta

When I was a senior in high school, surveying the country in terms of finding the state that would house me for the following four years, I remember looking at Emory University. Beautiful campus, fantastic housing options, a faculty that included Elie Weisel and Salman Rushdie... though the glossy pages of the brochure appealed to me, I scoffed and pushed it away. "Why would I want to live in Atlanta?" Far from the beach or coast, this legendary capital of the South did everything but call my name. I listed every generalization possible to excuse my going down there, but the leading factor was that I did not believe it would be diverse enough--racially, ideologically, culturally--to make me feel comfortable.

I am now five months into my Southern living, and my position on diversity in Atlanta has shifted. In fact, it is usually the first thing I exclaim about to out-of-state friends and family, "It's nothing like what I expected." Martha Farnsworth Riche, former director of the U.S. Census Bureau, said, "Atlanta is incredibly positioned to embrace diversity as a positive force, perhaps the leading city in the country in this regard. Anybody in the world can come to Atlanta and be at home." And to some extent I am finding this very true.

Take this past weekend for instance. In celebration of Labor Day, the city hosted the following events:

• College football kickoff, featuring the University of Georgia Athens Bulldogs vs. Boise State
• Dragon*Con, the largest multi-media, popular culture convention focusing on science fiction and fantasy, gaming, comics, literature, art, music, and film
• 15th Annual Black Gay Pride Conference
• The Decatur Book Festival

Walking through downtown I shared the sidewalks with Storm Troopers, go-go dancers, Sorority sisters sporting "Theta's love the Dawg's," and countless people in "I [heart] NERDS" t-shirts. We made it to events for all but one of the main weekend attractions--attending a (free) OAR concert at Centennial Olympic Park to support the Bulldogs, mingling with Darkwing Duck and the numerous incarnations of True Blood's Sookie Stackhouse at the Hyatt in downtown, eyeing in awe the line for Wiliam Shatner's panel that snaked around four city blocks, and spending a lazy Sunday morning wandering around downtown Decatur picking up freebies and talking shop with local authors.

I was wrong in the sense that diverse options do exist. But what I have noticed is that between the options, the diversity slows. How wide a berth did the football fans give the pride go-ers? How were Michael and I the darkest ones (barring the over-tanned sorority girls) at that OAR concert for the Bulldogs? The "if you build it, they will come" theory holds true, but instead of building one giant place for everyone, it seems like dozens of little option houses have sprung up. And what we need to do now is get people to mingle.

“Social Irrigation”: Thursday Night Cocktails at The Atlanta Botanical Gardens

“And that’s what we call ‘Sex in the Garden.’” My head jerks in surprise; then I realize I’ve just overheard a grinning bartender suggest a drink recipe to a couple on my right. David and I are standing on a brick pathway in the Edible Garden, noses appreciatively sniffing at an air scented with fresh tomatoes, bell peppers, herbs, and the juicy catch of hangar steak curled in lettuce leaves and dolloped with a scoop of kimchi so spicy that my sinuses are howling ten yards away. It’s a Thursday night, part of the Botanical Gardens’ “Cocktails in the Garden,” and tonight’s alliteratively liquor-based theme is Shots in the Shade. Just ahead of us, under a black and white canopy, another bartender sits surrounded by Mason jars filled with vodka and various fruits and vegetables, explaining the difference between infused vodkas and flavored vodkas. For a dollar each, David and I purchase tastes of two different vodkas—I the sweet smelling pineapple vodka, and he the botanical vodka. A second later we swap. The pineapple is too cloying for my taste, and the botanical, David cites, isn’t sweet enough. That may be, but even my untrained nose can detect the hints of mint and rose in the tiny tasting cup. Delicious.

But we didn’t purchase our tickets simply to come and sip vodka. This find, one of my favorites on Atlanta Groupon, cost me $9, a hair of the price of regular admission ($18.95). Before moving, David and I did research and created a list of things we knew we wanted to check out in our future city. Upon arrival, we quickly had to scratch a number of them off, due to the steep prices of local attractions (over $20 to visit the zoo!) But by keeping a close eye on local deal sites, I’d finagled us in for cheap.

The gardens are plush and wildly colorful. One of my favorite sections are the greenhouses, which host whole rooms of various orchids and hot-house plants, as well as vertical greenery that makes the walls look soft and colorful. The humid air and colorful blooms make us instantly nostalgic for our time in Thailand, where every Saturday, merchants filled the sidewalks hawking the speckled flowers, and every yard had a tree hung with coconut planters filled with orchids.

A section of the greenhouses is home to an active amphibian conservation program with live displays in the Fuqua Conservatory. The collaborative amphibian conservation efforts between the Atlanta Botanical Garden and Zoo Atlanta can be seen here. We spend several minutes peeking into glass tanks to spot the tiny, neon frogs.

Outside, hidden in the foliage, are different sculptures and glassworks, part of the Garden’s efforts to marry natural art with fine art. We sip a second beverage while seated on a comfortable wooden bench in front of a frog pond bedecked in lilies, contemplating whether the “Frog Baby” sculpture in front of us is male or female. From the center of the gardens come the first strains of Lethal Rhythms Atlanta DJs. As we meander closer, we see bar tables set with roses and hydrangeas (bit of a wedding feel) surrounded by a gorgeous blown glass fountain—apparently the residing piece from Dale Chihuly’s exhibition back in 2004 (the Botanical Gardens do a fair share of art exhibitions and special events—more than I’d’ve guessed for a Garden). It is definitely whimsical, almost amphibious.

Another high point of our visit was strolling along the Canopy Walk, a 600-foot-long skywalk that allows the visitors to stroll through the treetops of the Storza Woods from around 40 feet in the air. The vantage was definitely unique, and apparently, no other city boasts such a treetop sidewalk.

Cocktails in the Garden is set to run until the end of September. Check out the Botanical Gardens website here for more info: http://www.atlantabotanicalgarden.org/events-classes/events/cocktails-garden.

“Singing ‘What Kinda Gone’: David is Appalled” : Friday Night at America’s Largest Dance Hall

Being from the South, David has done a great many things that I have not. This includes, but is not limited to: catching fireflies, sipping water from Mason jars, shooting rifles, using “mater” and “tater” to describe vegetables…the list goes on. In fact, he has a pretty healthy appreciation for most things associated with the American South, barring, of course, ignorance, racial intolerance, teenage parenthood, and apparently, most country music.

This past weekend we got a full-on education not just in country music, but country dancin’ too. Our good friend from Boston and recent Nashville transplant, Dana, came to visit. And as Dana is always down for a “G with an O, O with a D, T with an I and an M and an E” (that spells Good Time for all of you unfamiliar with Alan Jackson), we were more than happy to let her plan our evening. Turns out that a band she follows in Nashville was having a concert just outside of Atlanta at a venue called Wild Bill’s (http://www.wildbillsatlanta.com/), “America’s largest dance club and concert hall.” We agreed to go, if for no other reason than to see if that claim was truthful.

The club was large (though it is still dubious whether it is, in fact, the largest), the drinks were good, the band played well. But what really fascinated me was the dancing. I’ve never been to a nightclub where people aren’t dancing in pairs, or really even solo, but line-dancing together. Granted, I earned my Girl Scout square-dancing badge, but that was many moons ago, and my cowboy boots had forgotten pretty much everything beyond the Electric Slide. After an hour or two, I hit the floor and start following along. Heel toe, heel toe, rock step, kick… it was quick and exhausting, but I found myself laughing like crazy as I tried to keep up. Closer inspection of my fellow dancers revealed stylistic quirks, and one couple broke the mold and began to freestyle in a corner. It was surprisingly graceful. I asked David if he wanted to dance with me, and received an emphatic head shake no (he changed his mind when the music shifted from Honky Tonk Badonkadonk* to more mainstream pop; even I was slightly put off by Trace Adkin’s attempt at a rap video).

At a break in the dancing, Dana, David, our roommate Michael and I sat around a bar table catching up. Over the speakers suddenly came Chris Cagle’s “What Kinda Gone” and three of us (guess which three) burst into song. The look on my dear boyfriend’s face was hysterical—shock mingled with mild perturbation. Dana translated it into “appalled.” She then turned to me in surprise. “I didn’t know you liked country music.” It’s a statement I’ve heard quite a bit. In Boston and California, my immediate response is almost defensive—“It’s my guilty pleasure.” As in, I don’t listen to it all the time, isn’t it silly of me?

But down here, where it just makes me one with the rest of ‘em, I finally had the guts to reply, “Yeah, I love it!”

**Also, you're going to need to watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vNVguvNE7qc

"Will Cure All Ailments (For A Time)": Savannah, GA

Trees draped in Spanish moss. Soft, buttery sunshine slipping through branches to frolic on cobblestone streets. A green and yellow trolley, slipping up the street on shining metal tracks. A three-tiered steamboat, strung with lights. The hint of jazz and blues filtered through glass windows. The crisp, sweet taste of a handmade praline dissolving on your tongue.

Savannah welcomed us in the early afternoon. We were fresh from the beaches of Hilton Head Island, South Carolina—an enjoyable two-day stint that kept us busy (and in the water) in near-melting temperatures. The drive from South Carolina back into Georgia was riddled with country music radio, towering pines, and small peach stands (South Carolina actually outranks Georgia in terms of peach production). Our first exposure to Savannah was a-typical. We’d booked a room at the Thunderbird Inn, a delightfully retro joint right off the highway. With its iconic looming neon sign, fresh-faced staff, and boutique interiors, we knew we’d gotten a steal-of-a-deal (thanks Half Off Depot!) the moment we walked in. But as groovy as our temporary crib was, it was a far cry from the straight-laced, mysteriously graceful and elegant Southern city most people know Savannah to be.

As soon as we crossed Martin Luther King, Jr. Blvd into the heart of the city, we found what the postcards had been heralding. Despite the sticky heat and the nearly overwhelming humidity, David and I strolled up and down the River Street shopping area, poking our heads into curio shops that sold shells, T-shirts, knick-knacks and bric-a-brac. We stopped for dinner at Spanky’s Galley and Saloon, which provided us with some excellent chicken strips and fat-cut French fries. Following our munching, we journeyed upriver, enjoying the sight of the steamboat dinner cruise, chugging along beside us, and glowing softly in the twilight.

We caught up with the statue of Savannah’s Waving Girl, whose story was told to us by another couple. According to the couple, the Waving Girl was the daughter of a local merchant. She was deeply in love with a boy who’s ill-fate it was to be drafted into war. The night he embarked, she ran to the wharf, waving a scarf to let him know she would be waiting for him. Of course, in the tragic way of Southern Gothic love stories, the boy died at war. His broken-hearted young lover never recovered, and spent the rest of her nights at the wharves, waiting for him, waving for him.

I asked David if he’d known the tale. “I’d heard she just liked waving at ships,” he replied with a shrug. Truly a romantic.

Our night ended with drinks at the Shrimp Factory. Granted, we were in the mood for a little fun, but we wound up spending over two hours at the bar, held hostage by an incredible thunderstorm and driving rain. We made friends with several of the patrons, and tried the Artillery Punch, “guaranteed to cure all ailments (at least for a time).” Concocted with gin, brandy, whiskey, vodka, and a champagne cap, the drink came with a complimentary souvenir glass—after a few sips, I realized the souvenir glass could well function as a necessary reminder of where you’d spent the previous night.

The next day brought us relief from the heat. We nabbed two Krispy Kreme donuts, complimentary from the hotel, and headed out into the sunshine. The morning was spent exploring Savannah’s multitude of historic squares, visiting the Pirate House (where Robert Louis Stevenson set part of Treasure Island), and playing Frisbee at Forsyth Park, where the national Porche parade was assembling (good thing we’re pretty handy with a Frisbee...imagine if the disk went astray and knocked into one of those cars…).

Overall, it was a low-key, down-home sort of place, and we fell right in love with it. It’s true that Atlanta holds all the excitement and adventure of the big city, but as Mammy says in the movie, Gone With the Wind, “Savannah would be better for ya. You'd just get in trouble in Atlanta.”