First of all, I’m not sure that you know this about me, but hiking isn’t my first choice of a vacation activity. I prefer shopping. Which is why I’m in Charleston, the perfect Southern escape where art, architecture and history collide under a veil of Spanish moss, dialoguing between the natural – and stores. Travelling solo.
When you picture the kind of person who might embark on an expedition such as this, visions of burly men might come to mind: the sort of individuals who wear scratchy wool pants and exclusively eat their meat on the bone. But don’t worry, I use a knife to cut my meat.
Friends of mine tell me that the mystical jungle drug ayahuasca can also help, but it seems to me that gin is simpler, more convenient and on the whole, less risky.
Hobo travelling means I can sing to my favorite tunes with no one asking to change the playlist or to please stop singing. It’s cathartic. It also allows me to reenact my reclusive tendencies and be as antisocial and ornery as I want to be. Or more than usual.
Although it can be nice to have a non-whiny companion for such a solo adventure, like Tom Hank’s “Wilson”, or Dervla Murphy’s bicycle “Roz”, so in leu of a basketball or bike, I have tenderly named my rental car, “Rav Four”. (Incidentally, the back of the driver’s mirror already fell off, and it’s still not complaining.)
Here, look at this.
So every day I take to the streets, giving myself over to the art of seeing. I remind myself to linger, to not consume a lot of images, but to savour a select few. It’s a function of selection. No words are necessary; there are no conversation partners.
I venture in all directions, fuelled by serendipity. I turn corners following my unsuspecting feet, elated at discovering and uncovering. Wonder can thrive in the most unexpected places. Because I’m just wandering, my focus shifts from getting somewhere to just being there.
But there’s a huge difference between spontaneous exploration and that unnerving feeling when I don’t know where I am, or how to get back to where “Rav” is parked. Which unfortunately, happens a lot. My sense of direction and knowledge of my left from right is, for the most part, nonexistent. I have long given up hope for someone to invent a GPS that points.
Nevertheless, I roam in Charleston’s famous alleys, straying away from sidewalks and ordinary touristy expectations. After all, what does it mean to have our choices curated by others? How does it impact us to have been told in advance whether a certain location is recommended or necessary; to see a star rating? There’s a certain dystopian quality to the notion that every aspect of life has been evaluated and scored.
One of my first jaunts, after stocking up on wine and Cheetos, is to find the woven wonder of the unique and beautiful sweetgrass baskets, as Charleston is the geographic home base for this tradition of Gullah basket weaving, a craft transported by West Africans first brought in slavery, which has evolved to a singular decorative art.
Contained
I find rows of these baskets in all sizes stretched out across tables at the historic City Market. Basket weaver beside basket weaver, bundling and coiling dried sweetgrass, pine needles and palmetto fronds in circles, the craft passed down from generation to generation, from mother to daughter since the 1700’s. The grasses are pretty in soft yellows and greens, their scent like freshly mowed hay. Truly, works of art. It’s hard to decide on just one – until I see the prices.
Now if you’ve never seen the masterpiece of a movie, “Steel Magnolias”, you need to hunt it down right now so you understand the magnificence that I am about to describe to you. Note: Julia Roberts is in it, the patron saint of airplane movies.
Certain cities have distinctive colour palettes. And the “Holy City” is one of those places. From the pastel milk-paint hues of pinks, yellows, peaches, corals, greens, violets and blues, reminders of colonial Caribbean, to the infamous dark “Charleston Green” on trims, doors, and shutters, to a light blue called “haint blue”, painted mainly on ceilings, which is believed to ward off spirits in the Gullah culture.
There are swaying palmettos, the tremendous Angel Oaks, and Spanish moss dripping off the cypress trees, but I’m sorely missing the heavenly perfume of the magnolias and my favourite – gardenias.
Swig and Swine
I have to rest from the interminable number of wrong turns taken, so I stop for the staple beverage of the South – sweet tea. Now if you think sweet tea is something similar to iced tea, you are very much mistaken, my friend. True sweet tea has to be tasted to be believed, as it involves at least six bags of sugar.
I also order the “She Crab” Soup, a staple for Charleston, as fall is it’s peak season. Orange roe tops it to make it specifically a soup made with female crabs. Don’t even ask me how they know the difference between male and female.
Nightly Spirits
No, not rum. Ghosts. Charleston is also known for being one of the most haunted cities in America. Apparently it’s hard to find an area that doesn’t have some creepy, chilling tale associated with it, from it’s ties with voodoo, pirates and superstition.
We will see come October 31. Known for my allergic reaction to captured spirits, I’m staying in that night and watching an old movie someone recommended. I think they said it has Anthony Hopkins in it.
Until next week, I’m wishing you a thousand glimmering spider webs along the way.
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