Tales from the South: Sunday and Monday

I. Georgia: Doctor Jekyll and Mister Isle

The supernatural High Sheriffs of Clement Weather have continued to keep half an eye on this expedition as, at each stop, the weather proves, however oppressive by the standards of coastal Northern California, less dire by far than predicted. The local television weather pixies promised us a “heat index” (a term that serves a function analogous to “wind chill factor” at the other end of the thermometer) of 117 for Savannah yesterday, and we were naturally apprehensive. Instead we found conditions largely at the upper end of bearable, particularly at intersections in the town’s gridded street plan when we had the benefit of breezes from the river. At other times the heat index still did not appear to us to reach the threatened levels: “No more than 110,” Greg opined at one particularly sultry stretch.

Savannah, which Rand missed seeing on his first visit to Georgia 27 years ago, was quaint and a bit tawdry—Greg remarked that the tourist tchotchkes seemed noticeably, even egregiously tackier than those observed hitherto on our travels—but features dozens of picturesque tree-lined squares, an enlightened policy on cooling adult beverages, which may be carried through the streets in sturdy plastic tumblers without summoning forth the ire of the constabulary, a handsome old customhouse (this class of structures having become something of a hobby of mine) and a great burger joint near our hotel.

Today we are en route to the southern terminus of our trip in Bradenton FL, with a side trip to Jekyll Island just behind us as I write. The four of us donned bathing costumes and waded into the bathwater-warm Atlantic, which appeared to have a higher saline content than our Pacific precincts, making our bodies buoyant and causing our eyes to sting. We spent two hours splashing about and even doing a little body surfing, the operative word here being “little” since the waves for the most part took the form of perfunctory swells. Rand as usual was the best on the beach (a status that does not remotely obtain in his native Southern California, but which is easy to achieve in regions where the pastime is not much practiced), but owing to a faulty drawstring displayed a distressing tendency to reach the end of a ride about two seconds in advance of his swimming trunks, thereby creating a potential affront to public decency. Returning to the car over powdery burning sands (Kinsey: “Ouch!” Rand: “Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”) we changed back into civvies and resumed our progress. Superficial non-beach memories of the island, now receding in the mirror: Spanish moss; stately ruins; footlong lizards with iridescent blue highlights and pale yellow racing stripes; colorful spiders the size of coasters.

Monday morning aftermath: Rand notes that his arse is speckled with tiny limpet-like shells somehow picked up in the course of Sunday’s sandy frolics, imparting to the flesh a pebbly, saurian surface texture. A morning shower is indicated.

II. Florida: Decidedly damp

At the moment (4:00 pm EDT; pay no attention to the blog timestamps, if any) we’re gliding over Route 301, a divided highway running down the middle of Florida’s northern portion, with the Kinster ably at the wheel. The terrain resembles my preconception of Alabama (we’ll see presently), with piney woods flanking the road, the distinctive Floridian touch being lent by the broad-fronded dwarf palms in stands dense as hedges that appear a couple of times a mile. Even before the light rain we’re now driving through began, the ground, or rather the omnipresent grass, looks to have the sodden quality that suggests a substrate of oozing mud just beneath. The occasional human settlements we pass through have a slightly backwoods quality, and the local economy appears to rely heavily on fireworks, boiled peanuts, motorcycles, lawn ornaments (“Hillbilly Rocks”), second amendment supplies, roadside smut emporia, cattle and various forms of that old time religion. I expect that the coastal urban centers ahead will display a different character.

II-point-V: Terminus

Monday: Early yesterday evening saw our arrival in Bradenton at the sprawling suburban manse of brother Richard and sister-in-law M.A., whose unexpected removal last year from metro Seattle is the only reason we’ve ventured into the Confederacy in the course of our continental jaunt. Their home is a handsome, high-ceilinged new thing with a bit more interior frou-frou than I think strictly necessary, but I am informed that certain of these, such as the non-loadbearing pillars here in the living room, are slated for eventual excision. I passed a comfortable evening here while my companions overnighted at a local hostel (we were all pressed to remain on the premises, but the commercial lodgings had already been paid for, and non-dedicated furniture would have to have been pressed into service in order to provide sleeping surfaces for at least three. And even though it’s family, one doesn’t want one’s hosts knocking themselves out providing for one [or four]—not when an innkeeper has already been paid to provide a change of sheets).

Richard cooked a magnificent tapas spread for the evening meal last night. This morning he and M.A., who earlier this year contrived to break her foot in, like, forty-eight places, are heading into town for a doctor visit. I imagine we’ll spend some of that time in their swimming pool, which looks to have been designed by and for hardened sybarites, and which is moreover protected by a cunning rigid canopy that admits sunlight and air while denying access to our too, too tender flesh by noxious insects, with which this region is overabundantly provided. In Greensboro one lucky mosquito scored a direct hit on one of the major veins on my left hand. I wonder that it could lift off afterward: it left a bite the size of a grape.

I hear stirrings at the other end of the house, suggesting that my hosts are up and about, so I’d best put this entry to bed. I have received assurances that the morning routine in this household includes the ritual ingestion of caffeinated beverages, and I am so looking forward to this.

Above: A Jekyll Island Six-Banded Jumping Spider. This small specimen, barely eighteen inches across at its longest dimension, exhibits the colorful markings characteristic of its species. Once hunted nearly to extinction for its plumage, it is now federally protected. Despite its formidable appearance, the Six-Banded Spider is actually known for its placid disposition, although it is of course unwise to leave children or pets unattended in any of the island’s designated spider sanctuaries.

Editor’s Note: The above caption omitted the photo credit. Picture by Jeanne Gibson. Also, the arachnid depicted here was misidentified as a Jekyll Island Six-Banded Jumping Spider when it is in fact a Golden Silk Orb-Weaver Spider. The Golden Silk Orb-Weaver is only about two inches from end to end, is not protected by federal act or statute, has never been hunted commercially and does not prey on children or pets. The management apologizes for any misunderstanding or inconvenience the caption may have occasioned.