The South’s Gonna Do It Again, Part Two

In times past, Husband and I would choreograph our vacations by plotting out a route on a map and consulting travel books and the Internet to arrange stops in historic little towns at quaint bed and breakfasts.  Nowadays we’re still drawn to the picturesque towns but for the last year or so we’ve gone for Embassy Suites or the like because we enjoy the wireless hookup and basic guarantee that the rooms aren’t going to be flooded with Glade Plug-ins or scented something or other to hide some more objectionable fragrance and all of them make me feel like I’m gagging on a spoon.  I may be high maintenance but I’m worth it.

So for this road trip from south Florida to Nashville we figured we’d throw caution to the wind and just pull over wherever we damn well felt like it since you can always find a national hotel chain nearby and chances were slim there would be hordes of tourists streaming through panhandle towns like Sopchoppy, Florida on a weekday in April.  Speaking of Sopchoppy, don’t go on a Monday because the town is closed.  I don’t mean that some things are closed.  I mean the TOWN is closed.  There were signs posted in dark shop windows advertising the upcoming 7th Annual Worm Gruntin’ Festival but unless they celebrate by shutting the town and going somewhere else we had no clue what this desertion was about.  Husband had been carrying around a letter he promised to mail for his parents who we had visited a day or two before so when we passed the Sopchoppy post office he said to pull over and he’d run it in.

He came back to the car a few seconds later which made me ask him if the post office was closed.  “Let’s just go, GO!” he said and I noticed he was holding something in his hand and there was a funny look on his face.  I asked him what was going on since a quick glance around confirmed the fact that there wasn’t anyone to notice if we go’d or if we stayed.  “Pull away from the curb and I’ll tell you.”  I drove forward slowly while he unrolled the sheet of paper to show me a notice about the Worm Gruntin’ Festival we’d seen advertised in the shop windows.  I asked if we were hanging around for it to begin and he said no, he wanted to frame the notice because he likes to do that with funky small town ads and menus and we have others on our wall at home he’s collected.

Then I said, “What are these two holes at the top?” and that’s when I figured out why he was looking so guilty and insisting we make tracks out of town.  He’d taken it off the bulletin board at the post office.  Husband is so law-abiding and has such positive karma sometimes it just brings out the pixie in me.  “You stole this?” I demanded.  “From the Sopchoppy post office?  In broad daylight?  Christ, now we’ll never be able to come to the Worm Gruntin’ Festival.”

He shot me a look.  Husband spends an inordinate amount of time shooting me looks and I spend an inordinate amount of time earning them although this look wasn’t as potent as the one he gave me at the end of our trip as we were heading into Nashville.  Our pattern was that I’d start calling hotels about 40 miles before our destination and we’d be booked in time for our arrival.  Forty miles outside Nashville, in the pouring rain, we discovered Nashville was booked.  Solid.  There were kids’ sports tournaments in town and an animation convention and a dozen other things we wouldn’t be at but whose attendees would be staying in our rooms.  Finally, I hit on an Embassy on the outskirts of town with ONE room left and I told the desk clerk we’d take it.  Of course he asked for our credit card number to hold the reservation and I told him I don’t give out my number over a cell phone because of the possibility of identity theft and he said he totally understood but nevertheless he needed the number if we wanted the room.

This dilemma reminded me of that African tribe (Aboriginal?  Amish?) who are fascinated by photos but won’t allow their picture to be taken because of the fear it will steal their souls.  Well, times have changed and these days your identity is worth way more than your soul and I felt I was on solid ground here until I looked over at Husband who was giving me a look.  The look said, “See that cup holder?  That will be your bathroom at two in the morning unless you give the freakin’ number.”  Which made me think this might be a good topic to discuss with the Wise Man, this modern form of paranoia, but I don’t have to now because I gave the guy the number.  So I’m cured.

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