Washington, DC

Driving through the District can be frustrating (wait, 17th is Connecticut? I can't drive in this lane before 9:30am? I can't park here ever?). Still, It's worth it. The Monuments, White House, Capital, all in plain view. Helicoptors circling overhead. Six consecutive Suburbans zooming down Pennsylvania. Flags waving, signaling embassies. Distinguished gentlemen shuffling down Maryland Ave. Cruising Constitution, waving to TJ, crossing the Potomac, I can't help but feel like I'm somewhere. 

Monday 9am, Saxby's Coffee on 35th and O. Pouring out, and there's a fire going in here, so I hold down my table by the window, watch Georgetown kids hustle by under umbrellas, and catch up on DC's layout / history for a few hours before meeting friends for lunch on 17th (Connecticut). 

After lunch, The Newseum, an impressive space paying homage to the world's journalists, photographers, and newsmen who bring the world's events to its people. We learn this can be arduous, indeed dangerous, work. The whole museum is compelling (including sections of the Berlin Wall, WTC 1), but when I walked into the Pulitzer Photo exhibit, time sorta stopped. Next time you're in the District, check it out. 

Around 7pm, rain stops, alas. Chris and I hit the street and jog from Iwo Jima to Memorial Bridge to Lincoln Memorial to Kennedy Center to Georgetown to Key Bridge. Either I'm a hell of a runner, or these things just happen to be kinda bunched together (the latter).  

Dinner with Chris and Tyler on the edge of Foggy Bottom / DuPont, so we're near a few hotels that might suit a diplomat or a delegate. Looking around, it seems we're surrounded the by educated doers of the world, the people who are making things happen. If I feel like I'm somewhere, it's because I am.

Charlottesville, VA

It's late April, Foxfield Weekend, which means the masses descend on Central Virginia for horses and carousing, mostly carousing. For UVA alums, its a chance to relive the reverie. Everyone's back and enthused. And Charlottesville rises to the occasion, offering constant reminders of the affection we all had for the place as students. The pillars and brick, trees and leaves, people and bars. Good to be back.  

Friday night on the Corner and bars are filling up fast. I pop into one of the smaller ones on Elliewood and Tiki is in the building. I offer a handshake and some light praise, soon we're chattin. He's totally articulate, sincere, really an active listener. We talk for a few minutes, it's like talking to a (really smooth, famous, rich) friend. What are you up to? What brings ya to the Ville? He crosses his arms, nodding, totally in it. What do you plan to do with an MBA? I tell him real estate. Turns out, Tiki's interested, knows some movers and shakers in the city, and has a project going in Virginia. He offers up his email address, suggests we chat more in New York, and we part ways. Tiki Barber, really a cool guy. I take my excited mood to Buddist and celebrate with a few hundred friends (maybe not that many, but it felt that way).

It never rains on Foxfield, despite meteorologists consistent predictions to the contrary. So when rain is forecast for Saturday, everyone dresses up in their seersucker and pastel anyway. And three hours into the event, thousands have gathered at the downs, the sun is out, and people are standing on truckbeds, consuming excessively. There might have been horses running around, too. But before things get out of hand, which typically occurs around 4pm, an announcer gets on the PA and warns of a violent storm headed our direction. Everyone looks up to see what the fuss is about. Almost as if on cue, lightning flashes in the suddenly ominious sky, and just like that, exodus. 

Sunday brunch, and several old friends gather on the Biltmore patio to download all that's transpired and say farewell. Three enjoyable hours click away, and soon it's time for everyone to get to their plane, train or automobile. As we all disperse to our own corners of the continent, the inevitable question arises, Coming back next year? Play it by ear. And we all know what that means. 

Charlottesville, VA

GREAT night. I'll explain later...

Friends, Friday, Buddist Biker Bar. 

Blue Ridge Parkway

Wednesday 3pm, I pull into sketchy gas station near the Virginia-North Carolina border to grab a map and a Perrier for the ride. The downhome woman behind the counter warns of fallen trees and the perils of driving after dark. I thank her, take my change and hit the Parkway. 

At first, just a lot cabins and cows grazing. Pretty scene, but having just read the all the superlatives in Lonely Planet and Wikipedia, I'm a bit underwhelmed. 

And then. 

Soft bends become hard curves and I'm climbing. The grade is steep and the Equinox is showing it's first sign of weakness. But he's a trooper and we summit, no problem. 

Now I'm weaving through the trees like through a greenlit tunnel. The sunlight coming through the leaves is creating a strobe effect, I'm listening to Two Step. This is pretty surreal. 

On my left, a clearing, and there's the view. Treetops and pastures and distant peaks. Dark blue and light green and every shade inbetween.  

I continue on. Clearing to the right, there it is again. Bright yellows and reds, purples even. And above, rolling mountains dissolving into blue sky.

This highway runs the crest of the Appalachians, a fact that my two-dimensional maps failed to convey. I was expecting to be looking up at mountains, not the case. I'm on top of them. 

I stop at a westward-facing overlook. Feeling very Alexander Supertramp, I climb onto the roof of my car. Sunset. I resist my urge to move, or to take a picture, and just sit there and breathe for a while. 

The landscape is varied and alive and sublime. Hard to have a worry, or an ego, or a small thought here. In the distance, Roanoke. I can see tiny buildings and the roads connecting them. Surely, people there are hustling and fretting, as people do everyday everywhere. A line from a book jumps to mind...

"And to think that all along, hidden from sight, our lives were that small: the world we live in but never see, the way we must appear to the hawk and to the gods..." 

-Alain de Botton, Art of Travel 

Some kids pull up in a convertible Mustang, blasting Biggy, and they spark a joint. Like I'm not having a moment, like I'm not even there. Interrupted, but having gotten what I came for, I start up the Equinox and weave down Mt. Roanoke to Buchanan to Interstate 81. 

The odometer hits 4,000. Wednesday night, 10pm. Charlottesville's not far, I could probably make it out tonight.  

A few shots from the parkway...

Chapel Hill, NC

I hit the Research Triangle Monday late afternoon. Took a while from Charlotte due to weather (sunshine, rain, repeat) and Carolinians not knowing how to drive. But anyhow. Brother Tom is a grad student at UNC. Here's our evening:

5-6pm: Capital Markets class. Heavy. I get it, sorta. Some kids are taking copious notes, others drifting. Professor is young, sharp, Australian. 

6-8pm: He's Not Here (bar with great patio) for socializing, Carolina BBQ and huge babyblue cups of beer. It's a cultured crowd, I get tips on where to live in Manhattan, when to go to Stockholm, where to eat in Hong Kong, etc. 

8-11pm: Bowling with classmates. Monday night Dollarama. Some Dukies are a few lanes down, words are not exchanged. Beers flow like Lebowski jokes.

Good to be back in academia. 

Tuesday. 10am alarm bell. Coffeehouse, WSJ, workout. Tom goes to class. I skip it, grab a bite on Franklin Street. Mid-afternoon, I meet Erika at Top of the Hill (bar with great view) for some hefeweizen. Clouds are moving fast above the chapels and trees of Carolina as if in time lapse. Sunshine, rain, repeat. Weather here's a bit fickle. 

Hadley and Justin join us for dinner at Tyler's, a cozy restaurant in downtown Durham that's been converted from an old tobacco plant (what would we do without the vision and ingenuity real estate developers?). 

Rain subsides in time for the Durham Bulls game. Our group takes half a section along the third-base line. I shake the hands of the folks I've not met, high five or fist pound the ones I have. Friends and fresh grass and beers and footlongs. I have no idea who won the game. 

Wednesday noon, I'm at Cafe Carolina on Meadowmont, checking email, weather, directions to Charlottesville... Blue Ridge Parkway to Skyline Drive. Shenandoah. Appalachia. Nostalgia. No where to be for 36 hours, I think I'll take my time on this one. 

I depart, rested and ready, leaning forward into the next crazy venture beneath the skies...

That's a little Kerouac for ya.

Tar Heel Country

Franklin Street, and Chapel Hill's namesake. 

Old Well, Carolina Icon

Charlotte, NC

We arrive in the Queen City a little beaten up from the night before. Thankfully, Courtney and Harlan, gracious hosts, have our remedy...

Price's Chicken Coop is discreet, but if you live in Charlotte, you know about it. The hole-in-the-wall on Camden Street has been here forever. Cornwallis probably ate here, maybe even the Cherokee. Anyway. Fried chicken is the only option. Ordering goes something like this: Quarter or a half? Hushpuppies or hash browns? Cole slaw or beans? Sweet tea? 

If it's authenticity I'm after, I'm getting it. No way a place like this stays in business west of the Mississippi or north of Mason-Dixon, but here... one the most popular spots in town. And I have to admit, the meal is pretty damn good. 

We let the grease settle, watch some hoops, pack a cooler and head to a backyard BBQ.  The yard is well-manicured and there's a nice fire going. There are many wines and cheeses from which to choose. There is also a keg, which I man for a while and meet some friends of friends. 

As a general statement, I would say the people of Charlotte are active and educated, friendly and family-oriented, interested in real estate and down with Jesus. This makes for a friendly, welcoming, small-seeming community. Sure, there are a few banks around, but I don't buy this 'New York of the South' talk...

After the BBQ, we take the light rail downtown to Dale Earnhardt's new bar. I'm not sure I could pick the guy out from a crowd of two, but he clearly carries some weight in this region, and his rep and financial investment have made Whiskey River a pretty fun place to spend the silly hours of a Saturday night. I test out some dance moves. They are well received. 

Sunday morning, I go for coffee. On my way, I pass a few young couples walking their labradors and toddlers down idyllic Tremont Street. Last night's rain lingers on leaves. Today is overcast and cool and quiet and beautiful. Seems even the birds are sleeping in. 

At Dilworth Coffeehouse on East Blvd, I thumb the Times, watch passersby, write a bit. The clouds begin to part around noon. Our crew of seven piles into cars and heads to Lake Norman. 

Okay. So I've snowboarded, wake-boarded, even surfed a bit in my day, but wake-surfing is a new endeavor for me. Water's a bit choppy, but what the hell. I jump in the water and Harlan throws me board and a rope. 

Attempts one through six are utter failures, seven through thirteen are a little better, but still end in faceplants. 

Water is frigid, bones are sore, muscles are spent. The boat is looking inviting, warm, safe. But my friends aren't having it....

You're thissss close! You've totally got it! 

And I persevere. 

On maybe the 16th attempt, I have lift off. Knees are a bit wobbly, but I find balance, plant my back foot, pull the rope..... and friends, I am surfing the hell out of that wake. 

A minor athletic triumph, but by the reactions of my friends on the boat, you'd think I just won gold. 

Dixie Pics

Amelia Island, FL

Whitaker Street

Old Savannah, GA

This is Atlanta: Mercedes Coupe, Caribou Coffee, High-Rise Condos and Construction. 

The Equinox Leaving Georgia

Interstate 75 

Greenville, South Carolina

Athens, GA

Friday 10pm and we're watching night unfold from a patio table at East West Bistro on Broad St. 

Foot traffic is picking up. Live music is pouring out of bars. Underclassmen are crossing College Ave in hordes.  Athens is abuzz.

First bar has a Mardi gras theme. Beads adorn the walls, it's unclear if they are decoration or last night's mess. Lots of Polo and khaki and New Balance. Natty Lights are $1 (Brian buys the first round with a five spot, this amazes me). We're feeling talkative and make a few new friends.  Freshman from Augusta, freshman from Macon, freshman from Charleston. We head to the next bar. 

Sideways is the quintessential college dive.  Pretty girls negotiate the crowd in stilettos (a little overdressed? I ask Jonathan, our all-knowing guide. "Lot of competition here." Agreed). Guys in raggity bar hats are making aggressive advances. People are drinking with reckless abandon. A cover band is busting out frat anthems, breaking strings on their stratocasters.  Everyone in the vicinity of the stage is holding up a fist, squinting, screaming. Whooooaaa.... we're halfway there! This is awesome. This is exhausting. 

Onto the next place. En route, we pass at least 30 bars, all at capacity. We buy pizza from sorority girls raising money for a cause.  I attempt an athletic maneuver that rips the back out of my jeans. It's that kind of night. 

At 8E's, another classic dive, I'm feeling a little self-conscious dancing to Journey with my wardrobe situation and decide instead to observe the scene from the corner. These people are partying. I estimate that no one in this bar has any plans before 1pm tomorrow. And I realize, neither do I. Robby comes over and we line up a shot. 

To college. To life. To Athens.  

Atlanta, GA

Two pm on a Thursday and I'm jogging through the tree-lined trails of Piedmont Park, breeze at my back. The park is green and hilly and teeming with bike-riders, stroller-pushers, frisbee-throwers... the energy is tangible and springs my gait. I'm running like the wind, like Michael Johnson, I am the fastest man in this park right now. In this entire city... 

I clean up, grab a smoothie (peach), take a walk down Juniper, and six o'clock comes quick. Josh picks me up after work, we go north to Buckhead and have a few beverages in a bar overflowing with professional types in skirts and ties (the ties could have easily been removed, but it's that kind of place). It's happy hour and Atlantans are a thirsty bunch. Long week, says Josh. Good week, I add. And we have a good chat over guac.

Robby and Brian join the fold and give us second wind. We make our way to a pub near Virginia-Highland, grab a booth, order pitchers. Female strangers surround, introductions occur. We are unemployed vagabonds from San Diego. We are real estate entrepreneurs from Montana. Cowboys from Arizona, pimps from Oakland, something about an emerging maple syrup conglomerate. We are drunk. 

Atkins Park, Atlanta, GA - April 17, 2008

I run into folks from UVA, UGA, Emory. We play the name game and agree it's a small world after all. Robby takes over the jukebox (I've got soul but I'm not a soldier) and it feels like Friday night... except it's not. Soon, the bar is empties, the pizza joints close, and we crowd into Josh's living room for a little Sportscenter and sleep. 

Friday noon, brunch behind us, and the park looks enticing. We need a football to toss around. Robby, Brian and I cram into the Equinox and go looking. Nothing on 10th, nothing on Monroe. Traffic's a bear. My know-it-all navigation lands us in rough part of town. This is a goose chase. I get on the I-75. 

The interstate splits, straight to Atlanta, right to Athens. I click over. 

Atlanta Pre-Noon

I wake up on a couch in Midtown and am giddy to get out. Not really enthused to see the World of Coke or Olympic Village or the Georgia Aquarium... but the Atlanta where people live and interact. Google and guidebooks are not particularly helpful in this regard. 

Caribou Coffee, 10th and Piedmont. I really dig the log cabin theme and take a table by the fireplace. The barista is a sweetheart and gives me refills for free. Maybe that's the program here, but she makes it seem like she's sneaking them for me, furtively looking both ways before refilling, and I appreciate this. 

So by 10am I'm thoroughly wired and talking to strangers. The guy to my left (28, caucasian, presumably gay) despises the AJC (the local daily), Starbucks, John McCain, real estate developers... unoriginal but vehement in his cynicism. I comment on the midtown neighborhood, really a hip area...

Too many straights, he says. Something you're gonna have to get used to, I say, and find myself a little offended. I'm wearing checkered vans and a fidel hat and am blogging away on my MacBook and feeling rather hip, thank you. You see this shirt? Thrift store in Savannah. 

Two homeless men walk in, one black one white. The place gets edgy, the innocent little barista braces herself. A quarter is dropped and fought over. Loud cursing and pushing ensues. In a very United 93 moment, two large male customers stand up and control the situation, pushing the bums out the door. I've never seen anything like it. Seconds later, bums are gone, Norah Jones is playing, and everything's peaceful pleasant again. 

Almost lunchtime, I ask the cynic where I can get a good sandwich. I figure someone so critical of everything must have discerning taste, right? Alon's Bakery on Highland. I go. 

Place is great, the turkey avocado baguette amazing. I sit an outside table, people are are eating croissants, birds are chirping. Mercedes coupes come and go. I casually thumb a book I brought, Steinbeck. I study maps of Atlanta, Manhattan, America. I YouTube 'fainting goat'.

Noon on a picture-perfect April day in Atlanta, and I've done virtually nothing today. I should go exercise or something. 

Savannah, GA

I'm checking into a hotel in Savannah when I get the call. 

The Police. 

It takes a minute for the officer to introduce himself and explain his business with me. In that minute, I recall every mildly illegal thing I've done in the last week. I'm busted.  For not paying parking tickets, for stealing wi-fi, for driving 100 mph through New Mexico, for all of the above. It's been a fun ride, but now it's coming to a screeching halt...

So it's a relief when he tells me he's with the San Diego Police Department, and they've located my Jeep. This is good news, though at the time, it's a bit inconvenient. I need to call my insurance company, the DMV, the tow yard, and a friend in San Diego to pick it up (which will require a signed and notarized letter, a copy of my driver's license, my keys, $229). Problem is, I'm in Georgia, dog tired. I've just walked 20 blocks into the wind and I just want a hot shower and a nap. 

I put my cares on hold long enough to get some rest, then hit the town again, looking to pick up some espresso, poach some wi-fi, make some calls. A short while later, my life is neatly stacked again and there's a city to see. I walk onto Broughton, through the Historic District, down Bay Street to the river. The Warehouse advertises 'the coldest, cheapest beer in town', which lures me in. 

A few cold, cheap beers later, I'm deep in conversation with a Gulfstream pilot from Munich who explains to me the differences in aerodynamics between the Leer, Citation, Falcon and Gulf Stream, the latter being the Rolls Royce of the sky, manufactured right here in Savannah, Georgia.  

On my way home, I pass a street musician who is playing the harmonica, drums and guitar simultaneously... with a kitchen pot on his head (Mr. Pothead is his stagename, and he introduces himself as such). I applaud him, tip him, and he expresses fatigue. "Wanna play one of these?" Absolutely. 

He hands me the guitar, we jam for a while, Petty, Marley, Dylan. Then he teaches me his hook, The Mr. Pothead Song. It's actually a catchy tune.  Crowds shuffle past, laugh a bit, tip. The crowd gets up in the 10-15 range a few times, and I feel like I'm playing Woodstock. This goes on for an hour, and it's a blast. A thank Mr. Pothead for allowing the cameo, and get on my merry way.

Mr. Pothead and Me

This morning, I'm back on Broughton watching the good people of Savannah walk to work. Tonight, Atlanta. I realize that it's a few hundred miles in the wrong direction, but friends and kicks are there, and I don't have anywhere to be for awhile. 

North Florida

It's Sunday afternoon and I'm standing in a stranger's backyard in Gulf Breeze, Florida. The owner of the house is trying to yank a rubber chicken from the mouth of a shitzhu. A peacock is on the roof of a toolshed flashing his feathers. A fainting goat (youtube that) is nudging my leg. How in the hell... did I wind up here? 

Well, dad and I are on a little trip down memory lane. He grew up in Gulf Breeze in the 1950's and hasn't been back since. Earlier, we mapped his old address and here we are, taking pictures of the tree he used to climb as a kid. We drive around Gulf Breeze and see where he used to go to church, elementary school, little league practice. It's a touching afternoon for father and son, one we'll long remember. 

And the goat, who could forget the goat?

Later, Bo meets me at a dive bar in Pensacola Beach and we get to talking. He and I each grew up in Arizona, attended college in Virginia, then moved to Southern California, so we share a few sensibilities. However, at 25, we find ourselves on two very different paths. Me going to grad school and pursuing a career in business, and him in the thick of Naval training and headed toward a career in aviation. 

But we're both learning, and growing up a little, and pursuing something that is challenging, exciting, and important to us. Knowing the difficulty, we congratulate one another for discovering what that is. Bo does a good job describing the military model and mindset; talking to him teaches me a lot. I share a few thoughts about my travels and plans after. We part ways, glad for the paths we've chosen, and glad for friends who have 

chosen different ones.

Lunch in Tallahassee is a cultural experience. Around noon on a monday, we stumble into the Creole Cafe on College Ave. The walls are covered in Nascar memorobelia. Competitive fishing is on the television, and people seem to be watching it, glued to it. Dad orders a fried grouper po boy, I go for the gumbo. Students in frat gear shuffle in and out. Was I that unkempt in college? God I hope not. Dad wants to ask them what's wrong with FSU football, but I dissuade him. We slow cruise through Tallahassee, and the place is impressive. Bricks, columns, tree-lined streets, parks named after generals, monuments. But after an hour, we've seen most of it, and get back on the 10 East. Three hours later, Jacksonville. 

Seven days and 2,600 miles gone by, and there's the Atlantic...