My infatuation with the South started with Colby from the second season of Survivor, the strapping young man with perfect teeth, skin, and forearms. I loved Colby, mostly because he brought a Texas flag for everyone to enjoy, charmed the old women, and spoke with a lullaby Texan lilt. So when I was invited on a Southern spring break road trip, I accepted instantly—my intentions were to gauge Southern charm, get fat off Southern food, and surround myself with Colbys.
Our first night in the ATL (home of Bone Crusher, BBQ ribs, and the gallon of soda I drank at the Coke museum), the five of us found ourselves at a club that seemed promising. We had just settled into a groove on the dance floor when the DJ called out “Holler if your passport’s not from America!” and we realized we were surrounded almost exclusively by middle-aged and mildly drunk Eastern Europeans on a group tour. We danced with them anyway because they seemed so taken with us, naturally. When we stopped to cool down, the DJ seized the moment and shone a strobe light on his face, impressing us by throwing a huge stack of napkins into the air as he lip-synched the first chords of “Sweet Child of Mine.” I couldn’t tell if the party napkins were a Southern thing or an Eastern European thing.
After an oil change the next morning, we set out for Nashville, Tennessee. We arrived, stretched, someone donated a cigarette to a man wearing a Confederate flag as a cape, and we lunched on pancakes and grits. That afternoon we strolled through Vanderbilt University, admiring the campus’s manicured lawns—I was struck by the proliferation of perfectly pony-tailed girls and strikingly fresh-faced young men, all with flawlessly tanned limbs. They’re so beautiful, I love them all.
That evening we attended a Vanderbilt frat party, which I hyped up as a potential catwalk of beauty and homogeneity—everything that Wesleyan, alas, may never be. I kept my eyes peeled for Colby-the-Survivor-esque boys and girls, but most people were just polo-shirted co-eds, clutching cups and talking loudly. I felt pasty and underdressed, but otherwise, I fit in, which was encouraging.
After the party we took a cab to downtown Nashville and showed up at “The Stage,” a bar/music venue where I was instantly smitten by a wholesome band of beautiful country boys singing, clapping, and playing guitar. When the band took a break, a woman came around with a hat asking for their tips—I gave her a dollar only after I asked if it meant that one of the boys in the band would be my boyfriend. She put her hand on the side of my face and said “Of course, sweetheart,” in a reassuring Tennessee drawl. I smiled, deliriously happy.
We stopped next in Lexington, Kentucky, where we surveyed the monolithic University of Kentucky and got lunch at Tolly-Ho, a cheap 24 hour diner. When asked, the waitress informed us that a “Tolly-Ho” is a quarter pound of meat. Any meat? Unclear. The menu featured Country Fried Ho, Super Ho, Mega Triple Ho, and Ho Cakes. I was wary of the Ho, so I enjoyed a buffet of biscuits with gravy (buttery dough balls drowning in a gelatinous sea of white deliciousness), fried chicken, fried okra, and peach cobbler instead. We rolled into the car and hit the road, headed for the alluringly mysterious hills of West Virginia.
At that point the novelty of driving had worn off and our collective patience was wearing thin. Even though I’d packed a suitcase promising a clean outfit every day, I’d lazily worn the same t-shirt since Atlanta except at night when I wore the same party shirt, and I hadn’t put on deodorant in over a day. For future roadtrippers, I recommend bringing as few items as possible and wearing/using them repeatedly. Too many things are unnecessary. And definitely don’t bring homework.
We stopped for gas and a flea market in rurally industrial West Virginia, where we appreciated Dixie memorabilia, homemade NASCAR pillows, and old cowboy boots. I bought a piece of homemade fried apple pie and talked to an old man watching March Madness on a dusty TV—I explained where we’d been and where we were going but he couldn’t hear me and only wanted to sell me musical picture frames. A few minutes later, I found myself evaluating my greasy and disheveled reflection in the mirror of the flea market bathroom, wondering how fried food can taste so good but be so bad. It’s a confusing world.
The next stretch of driving from West Virginia to Washington, DC took all day. Our last night, the fourth and final time I’d wear my party shirt, we lived it up at American University and met, among other new friends, a drunk man claiming to work for the Department of Defense. For no apparent reason we called him Sparkles, and pressed him for national secrets, but he only told us his SAT scores.
In the morning we hit the road for our ultimate drive back to Middletown. The landscape became progressively bleaker as we reached New England’s snow-crusted highway banks that, though ugly, still feel like home. Between naps I glimpsed a Schick billboard and was shocked to recognize the face of its enthusiastic shaver—Colby the Survivor/model, looking awful. His eyes were vacuous and his smile garish—his Texan charm was lost in translation, his face awkward in its towering T.J. Eckleburg placement. I sighed, realizing that in my search for a Southern Colby, I had found him trapped on a peeling Connecticut billboard. At least I had gained several pounds in southern fried goodness and could recall the soothing lilt of someone saying “Y’all drive safely now.”
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