From South Carolina to Georgia...

I haven’t had time to write about anything over the past two nights, as we’ve been too busy trying to maximise our limited time in Charleston. Such a charming city and we really needed seven nights there, rather than just three, but none-the-less, we were very fortunate to have the time we’ve had.

There’s a lot to write about with regard to what we experienced during our two full days and nights in Charleston (remembering that we arrived in very late on night one), but in brief... we packed in quite a lot: three fascinating guided tours of grand historic homes (Nathanial Russell House, Edmonston-Alston House & Aiken-Rhett House), a three hour foodie (and architectural) tour of six gourmet providores, a city history tour by horse and cart, independent wanderings around the Battery, private art galleries and through the city craft markets, brunch at the acclaimed Hominy Grill, plus a visit to a twenty-somethings' Oyster & Beer Bar. Utterly amazing architecture everywhere – a total visual overload for history lovers like us.

Yesterday was the one year anniversary of the horrific death of 9 people in the church service massacre and commemorations were held all over. This city's people are proud and resilient, surviving civil war, financial ruin, earthquakes and hurricanes. What has really impressed me is their considered and serious approach to preservation and restoration. They’ve had one Mayor for forty years, and by all reports he has enabled and nurtured Charleston to become the successful heritage tourism city it is today, in terms of a balanced approach that is appropriate and tempered. There’s so much more to write about Charleston, but I think I’ll need to do that in a formal article write-up or two or three or four, for publication.

This morning we packed up our stuff, and drove into town hoping to get a table at Poogin’s Porch for the best shrimp and grits, but there was a 55 minute wait, which we couldn’t afford, so as we’d parked the car very close to the ‘Fast and French’ (an indie place we visited on the foodie tour) we popped in there for croissants and café cream instead (which was plunger coffee with vanilla ice-cream - a much weaker version of what we in Australia would call Affogato – Italian espresso with ice-cream).

We then left Charleston to visit two plantations, which involved driving over a bridge and then through a residential suburb called west Ashley. It seemed a reasonably nice middle class area with new heritage style homes on big blocks, and a fairly black neighbourhood, which makes sense given the proximity to the places where multiple generations of Afro-Americans lived for so long.

We went to Drayton Hall first, which was on my ‘must-see’ list, as an example of an unrestored house and property. It was well worthwhile. We looked around the beautiful grounds for half an hour, then did a one hour guided group tour of the house.  Next we went 4 miles up the road to visit Middleton Place, which was on my ‘we probably won’t have time’ list, as it’s absolutely huge and there are 5 different types of tours included in the entry fee, so you could definitely spend a full day there. The gardens are the most extensive and oldest planned gardens in the U.S. It was a working plantation and the outbuildings and livestock areas are the most magnificent I have ever seen. The gardens make our Paul Bangay Gardens (superb as they are) in Victoria, look like modest beginner gardens. We spent an hour or so self-touring the property, the extensive camellia gardens, the many lakes and waterways, the enormous octagonal garden and so on and so forth. It was all huge.

Unfortunately, the next (one hour) house tour didn’t start til around the time we’d planned to head off, so we could not do that. Still, it’s pleasing to me that we had the opportunity to view this extraordinary plantation, and also view Eliza’s House and see the slaves’ Chapel. I would dearly love to have done the African connections tours at both properties, but timing wise we just could not do it. Given how grumpy J was about the whole idea of human slavery, I doubt she'd have let me do it anyway. She was quite annoyed that we'd paid 'the owners' money to go into these plantations. The larger value of historic social memory, for multiple communities and for various reasons, is a bit lost on her as yet.

Next we found our way back to highway 17 and drove through into the 'low country' swamplands to Beaufort, which was a 25 minute (each way) diversion off the main freeway. I’ve been looking forward to visiting the township as it’s where ‘The Big Chill’ was filmed in 1983. We got into Beaufort at 4.45pm, with a rather frazzled driver, as he’d been concentrating terribly hard on staying on the right side of the road in all the traffic. We managed to find a park on the main tourist oriented Bay Street, and dash into the Visitor Information Centre five minutes before it closed. It was inside some sort of military fortress that looked mock Medieval. I really should have planned an overnighter here, because there's historic tours, a museum and its a chilled out sort if place to be, with a curious ambience.

We then went straight toward the waterfront in the historic part of town, and found Plums, which is the main eatery everyone recommends on Trip Adviser. There we spent over 90 minutes, enjoying what was effectively both lunch and dinner, involving dishes we’ve wanted to try all our lives. For Laurie that was gumbo. For me that was fried oysters. J had seared Cajun shrimps for starters. It was delicious. For a second round of ‘starters’ (which we call entrée in Australia) Laurie had scallops on flavoursome Cajun rice, I had fried green tomatoes with crab meat, and J had a crab cake with salad. It was all utterly delicious and generous in size. It was everything we’d hoped it would be all these years, so that was a really great reward for all that rather stressy driving. Afterwards we walked along the waterfront, past a public concert for the Afro-American communities, the marina and then a short walk up the esplanade to view enormous mansions. We only had time to see half a dozen, but they all screamed ‘The Big Chill’ to me!

At 7ish we left town, via a supermarket to pick up some vino and rye bread, then drove straight to Savannah, in a race to beat nightfall. Just as we approached a big bridge leading into Savannah, we hit a stand-still, due to an incident on the bridge. We had about 70 or more cars ahead of us, and thought we were in real trouble, but when I got out and walked up to see if I could find out what was going on, a guy told me they were about to reopen the bridge. Phew! 

So before long, it was all about navigating through the city. Didn’t have much brain space to notice too much about the architecture, but being focused on the roads, my first impressions were that I really like the planned, grid style layout of Savannah with all the square and rectangular parks. It may sound unlikely, but it reminded me of Adelaide, in South Australia, where I grew up. We’re looking forward to checking it all out tomorrow. We got an easy park directly opposite our AirBnB place, and opened the front door at 8.45pm, just as last light was disappearing: Mission accomplished!

Transit trials and tribulations...

Big day of travel and transit. We’d booked a taxi to collect us outside our front door at 10am and take us to Quebec City Airport for our flight to the U.S. It did not arrive. This, as it turns out, was the sign of things to come…

Instead of the taxi driver we needed, some people from Coober Pedy in South Australia happened along our rue, and were delighted to hear our accents. They were keen for a big chat, which would have been fine, except we were standing there on a slope propping up our roller wheeled luggage, so it didn’t slide down to the river, anxiously awaiting our taxi, and realizing that it was probably never coming. We gave up on the taxi and our new friends by 13 past and raced up the hill, and around a few corners, heading toward the main eat street.

Fortunately, I saw an empty taxi straight away, with its windows down, and hollered ‘Bonjour!’ and he took us. Lovely man, and quite a chatterbox. The only worrying thing about that journey was that he liked to take both hands off the wheel whenever he was explaining some new aspect of his life, which was constantly.

Spent an age at check-in, stuck behind just two cohorts: a heavily tattooed dude, with nostril and ear modifications via extreme piercing, and a skateboard, who the check-in girl was clearly seduced by (as he was taut and good looking with dreamy Quebecois eyes). She kept him talking so she could flirt overtly with him for 25 or so minutes (I am not kidding). At the other desk there was a young couple with some enormous sports vehicle (like a toboggan or something in a massive case), who were there in conversation with the desk woman for half an hour before we were served by the girl at the next desk, and they still there when we left. There were people behind us as well!

We got through customs and security and eventually boarded a tiny little plane (seating 72 people only) and were set to fly from Quebec City to New York. This would have been fabulous if I didn’t have to worry about whether or not I’d get a seat on our onward flight to Charleston. They’d given L & J a boarding pass each, but said there was no seat for me, despite the fact that I booked one year ago, and reconfirmed all flights before we left Australia.  Apparently United Airlines over-book most flights… It’s their ‘policy.’

My instinct told me I would most likely be OK, because I’m told they try to prioritise putting a family together, but there were no guarantees. I did not want to be left behind in NYC, and poor L & J certainly did not like the idea of going forth without me. I am the most experienced traveler here, by far, and the ring-leader. In addition, we’d booked a car to collect at the Airport in Charleston which Laurie was to bravely drive downtown, without a GPS, and I was meant to be his navigator and moral support. We therefore travelled to Newark rather nervously, with clenched teeth most of the way, trying our hardest to think positive thoughts… 

We spent the one-hour flight nibbling incredibly good but stinky aged cheese in flakey chunks, like you see the mice eating in classic American cartoons. We’d brought this with us from Montreal five or so days ago, and did not want to give it up! I’d also bought some hickory flavoured French Sticks with the last of our Canadian coins from the Airport Lounge. They were delicious, but only after we finished the pack did we note that they were packed full of trans fats (the worst kind, and the type we normally avoid). We were only given an orange juice on the flight, and a tiny packet of Asian crackers with wasabi peas, all of which I gave to Laurie. We flew over New Jersey coming into Newark, and I was lucky enough to have a full view along the length of Manhattan Island all the way while descending. The Statue of Liberty looked tiny from where I was sitting. I took a bunch of photos, but it was fairly smoggy, so they’re not particularly good photos.

We landed perfectly on time, and naively thought that 2 hours and 15 minutes until the next flight would be manageable and that we would even have time to grab some lunch. Not so. It took an age to get through immigration. We were in that queue was for 80 minutes. Luckily I had some Hazelnut chocolate wafers with me, so we could have a bit of a sugar boost to keep us standing during that most tedious period. J was fine with the time there – She used it to play Minecraft, and enjoyed creating new ponies and foals for her virtual collection.

Next we had to find a United customer service attendant to get me a seat allocation and a boarding pass, and she managed it – Hallelujah! We were then told we had to find our way to an entirely different terminal, using a transit shuttle. We had to go through security, which took an eon for L & J, but for some reason I was whisked through, popping out at least ten minutes ahead of them. Our boarding process at the gate was almost closed when they finally made it through. For a moment it looked like I could fly to Charleston, but they may not make it.

We all made it onto the plane, only to sit on the tarmac for 45 minutes, before they announced they didn’t have enough fuel and had to go back to the gate and get more. They then told us it was due to bad weather ahead and we’d been given a new and longer route to avoid the bad weather, hence the need for extra fuel. At that point I did not mind the delay because I was just thankful to be on the same flight as my family, and still thought we’d make it to Charleston in daylight, in order to drive our hire car.

After they’d refueled, we progressed toward the take-off area then stopped there for 30 minutes, after which they said there was a problem with one of our wing flaps. They’d go back to the terminal and get maintenance. Another twenty minutes later they decided it was irresolvable, and we all had to disembark. They said they’d try to find us a plane and seemed to be negotiating to bump all the people bound for Baltimore off their flight, in order to give that plane to us.

As it was 6pm by this stage, and we’d still not had lunch, I made a mad dash to the place with the shortest queue at Newark. That was ‘Aunt Anne’s’ Pretzel Dog Stand. I spent US$20 on pretzel dogs for the three of us and US$4.50 on a small Starbucks Vanilla Frappacino, while L & J spent US$10 on sour worms and Asian crackers. We had to because we knew we’d get nothing on the next plane, if and when we ever got that plane, and that the earliest we’d make it to our place would be about 9.45pm, and even then we’d have no food in the house. So there’s about AUD$50 blown on absolute junk food.

As we attempted to gobble our (surprisingly delicious) pretzel dogs, some nutcase women became fascinated by me, and intent on asking me question after question, during the exact four-minute period I was standing there trying to consume the pretzel dog as elegantly as possible, under the circumstances, while standing amid a crowd, clutching various bags and keeping an eye on the boarding gate action all at the same time.

Meanwhile, an American woman who was sitting with Laurie on the first flight, as we were not allowed to (!), told us that the car hire place would give our car away and mark us as a no-show, because we were unable to phone them and update them (this turned out not to be true – They said they hold it for 48 hours).  None-the-less, as Laurie had been very nervous about driving, we decided to just let the car go, and rebook one to collect on Friday afternoon. He does want to do it, and we absolutely need a car to travel on Saturday, and do stuff on Sunday, so that’s our new plan. I know he will feel very proud of himself once he gets the hang of it – Driving on the wrong side of the road, that is. At least Charleston is only a small city of 130,000 – Not that that much bigger than Ballarat really.

Anyway, following five hours at Newark, we got on our new plane, took off and flew loudly, at low altitude, all the way to Charleston, to avoid a storm overhead, somewhere up in the sky. I never thought I’d hear myself say that I was delighted to be leaving New York!

After a free white wine each and a can of Sprite for J (big whoopee UA – Thanks so much!), we landed in the sleepy South at 9pm. Remarkably our luggage joined us here, and then we thought we’d simply grab a cab…

There was only one cab there, and the driver wore a classic old fashioned black shiny cap and looked at least a decade older than Morgan Freeman in ‘Driving Miss Daisy’ at the end of the film… And so we embarked on what turned out to be the most excruciatingly slow and painful taxi ride we’ve ever taken. Our driver had no idea where anything was, no street directory, no GPS, no interest in looking at the THREE maps I’d printed, no ability to hear my directions, no clue at all, and he actually drove at 25 miles an hour on the Freeway, and about 10 miles on the backstreets, drove into low hanging branches in obscure and irrelevant parts of town, mumbled incomprehensible things, tried to do text messaging while driving in a four lane freeway, then went back the wrong way on the freeway almost to the Airport, was consistently abused by all passing drivers, continuously took wrong turns, and on and on it went. It was very trying...

Never, ever, ever have we experienced anything so beserk. I could write a whole short story on this experience. I guess I just have. Eventually, however, we got him to where we needed to be, which was perfectly clear to us all the way through, and we don’t even live in this country. The poor man said Charleston ‘keeps changing all the time’ which we very much doubt. The fact is this elderly gent should be given a pension, and not required to work at all, let alone be on the road. He looked so hurt when we insisted on taking our own luggage down the street to our place. We were kind and jolly about it, but we really couldn’t take a moment longer (as we’d already spent an hour with him, on what was meant to be a 20 minute drive).

All up, it’s been a 12.5 hour journey getting here, and it’s a very late night, after a crazy long day, with no dinner. But we are here safely now, together, with all our luggage, in our darling Southern cottage, and I’m happy with that. L & J are even watching a kid’s film on Netflix.

Visas, house sitters and climate change

I've been wondering what had become of our application to visit the U.S., so just went into our online data, and found that it's now marked 'Authorization Approved', followed by "Have a nice trip. Welcome to the United States." So glad!

These days, Australians travelling to Canada and the United States do not need Visas, as such. Not of the old fashioned type anyway, but we do need ETAs (Electronic Travel Authorizations). These are not expensive: They cost CAN$7 p.p. and US$14 p.p. respectively. You just fill out all the basic info required online, which takes about 15-20 minutes p.p. and pay the money. Usually they notify you to say, yes, you're in! But as I just found, sometimes they forget, so best you make sure you double check how things are going, and not just wait anxiously.

So, anyway, we're good to go now. Just have to think about packing now, and getting our teeth, eyes and general health checked, so as to hopefully avoid any costly, unanticipated surprises while away. We also need to prep our home for our house sitters who arrive the day before we leave. They're a nice American couple of grey nomads. Having sold their life-long home they've spent the past year or more roaming around the US and Canada, then New Zealand, and now Australia. We hope they enjoy their time in our neck of the woods, or green fields, as the case may be. They're here for the whole time we're away, which should be good for them, as they've been hopping around Australia at an exhausting pace. 

It is somewhat disconcerting that they've spent the last month or so in the tropics though. It is certainly not at all tropical down here! It is mild now, as we're experiencing later Summers due to climate change, and thus much warmer Autumns than ever before, but come June it will start dipping to below ten degrees celcius for daily highs. Laurie has been putting in extra effort to ensure our wood stocks are high, so they can easily stack the fireplaces with custom cut wood, light the fires and make things toasty and warm. It's a real treat to live with authentic home fires burning. Admittedly June is not too bad, and by July the cold is so clear and still novel that it's almost enjoyable. It's August that is the truly hideous month in our parts. That's when the cold has gone on for far too long. It feels bitter and damp and almost everyone's mood and outlook becomes negatively impacted, to some degree. In an ideal world, I think most of us would go away each August. I should remind myself of this thought for next year!

Where we're going it'll be the beginning of Summer, so again quite lovely, at least in Quebec. I'm expecting it to be high twenties in Montreal and QC, and low to mid thirties in the South. But I know it will be sultry heat down South, and maybe a bit sticky. Time will tell. I'm looking forward to that slow Southern sensuality. And all those mansions and droopy, drippy trees. I started reading Berendt again, for the first time since 1998, but soon decided it's best read on the plane down there, to introduce the mood, once we leave Quebec. That's 'Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil' for those of you unfamiliar with the novel. It placed Savannah firmly on the map of readers at the time, and for many years thereafter.

Going back to that topic of ETA's. The 'Department of Homeland Security' always ask what your address will be in the U.S., which strikes me as a non-sensical question, as anyone going as a tourist is likely to be tripping about from place to place.If there was space to list everywhere we're going I would, as that's the type of gal I am, but they don't allow that fuller explanation. So I always choose the first destination. In this case I was somewhat surprised to realise that Charleston, South Carolina, is our first stop in the U.S. That's the Airport where we leave the terminal, collect our car and drive off in the dark, on the wrong side of the road!  So that's the address I gave them. I told our host, so she's in the loop. She's so lovely. But again, there was no opportunity to state what type of accommodation that is, or offer any context whatsoever. Seems weird to me that they don't require context. For a detail pedant like me I find it hard to understand why they don't want to know. Just sayin'...

Snail mail, books and foodie tours

I am feeling most relieved to have the door key to our Boston residence for 5 nights.

I remain highly suspicious of the likelihood of us successfully making the 40 minute transition between our two supposedly connecting flights in Washington's notoriously congested Dulles International Airport. If we get bumped there's only one later flight which will get us into Boston, and that will be well after Midnight.

For this reason, our AirB'n'B host has kindly sent us the door key to our grand 1890s building, just in case. I've seen historic photos of the (former hotel) foyer, and I can not wait to tip-toe through there, on the way to our 'condo', after our double flight journey. The word 'condo' sits uneasily with my Australian sensibility, but I admit I am curious to assess for my self what this translate as, in real terms.

Clearly snail mail is still perfectly functional for such purposes (those which it was intended for, such as transporting small and light materials across the globe). Still, it seems wonderful to me that one little envelope with an unidentified key in it can make its way safely from the North East Coast of the U.S. to country Victoria in Australia.

Which reminds me, I'm anticipating that we may need to send a box of goodies home at some stage. We sent a box home from Manhattan seven years ago, and it was here before we were, which was a nice thing to come home to. Not that we intend to buy much at all, but you just ever know.

Being, as I am, the Artistic Director of a major book festival, I have found myself researching the best pre-loved, English language book stores in Montreal, which is probably a dangerous move. Montreal is renowned as a city of book lovers and literary events, so I can't help but feel I need to check some of them out, at least in a window shopping sort of way... I often find myself drawn to architectural coffee-table books or cook-books when abroad. This is craziness as they're generally hard back and always heavy, but oh, so tempting. I'll have to exercise some considerable self-control.

We are doing a three hour foodie tour in Charleston, South Carolina with a company called 'Chow Down'. It should be lots of fun. We did one, as a family, on Hong Kong Island three years ago, and that was just brilliant. Not only were the food offerings supreme quality, we learned a whole lot about the political economy of urban change in Hong Kong and it's civic history. We walked and walked and it was an architectural and visual feast, as well as a greatly educational experience.

I was fortunate enough to do a cooking session in the French Quarter of New Orleans back in late 2002, and although that was entertaining, and the host was a charm (a true Southern Belle, in fact), it was not my thing exactly. I much prefer walking tours that mix in opportunities for different types of tastes and support a range of diverse small traders. If there's some consideration of architectural, local community and political history thrown into the tour, even better. That's just me. To each their own.