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Road Trip: Charleston by Wilson 6-9-06 Spring and summer
semesters are inherently connected to one of a college student’s greatest
adventures: the road trip. Four weeks ago Auburn students were stressing about
exams, studying, and finding a temporary home at the library. Exams were pulling
close, and their ominous presence incited some to worry. Therefore, for my
friends, it seemed the next logical step to take a road trip to Charleston.
Dude: Dude is not to be confused with “The Dude” from the Big Lebowski. Dude from Auburn has no interests in rugs, bowling, or light-skinned Russians (using the parlance of our times.) Although, in an interesting aside, Dude does enjoy the German culture. Instead, Dude is a free spirited, open-minded musician who rejects modern day mainstream culture and chooses to live as a real individual. Dude’s somewhat sophisticated personality sometimes lands him in trouble with his girlfriend, Girlface, as he tends to be aloof and inconsiderate while referring to “the Proletariat.” Girlface: As previously mentioned, Girlface is Dude’s romantical interest. Girlface is a down-home country Republican girl who “doesn’t appreciate the Dixie Chicks political views because she loves President Bush, but still likes their music.” Conflict easily arises when Dude’s free-flowing, liberal train of thought collides with Girlface’s traditional southern values. Their relationship is basically the exact same as Larry David’s and Cheryl Hines in “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” Wilson: And yeah, I went too. I usually serve as “the man” in Dude’s and Girlface’s relationship. I drive, navigate, grill out, and administer discipline to the arguing couple. Dude is usually too busy pondering about the queries of futile embellishment in post-utopian societies. But someone has to take out the trash. At least I don’t have to pay for Girlface’s dinner. And so we left. The drive is about six and a half hours. And let me tell you, if you’re going to take the trip I highly recommend it. I’m not sure if it’s possible to say this but the 6.5 hours are really quick. We cut under Atlanta and drove through some real nice strawberry fields. Girlface thought they were pretty and wanted to get some fresh fruit. Dude mused on the follies of growing ancient plants in modern sub-tropical Georgia. I had to drive because no one else wanted to. We made several stops, one for ginger ale – the ultimate road trip beverage – and one because this trucker was tailing us because he was staring at Girlface. Considering I wasn’t sporting my summer beard and Dude had not equipped his vintage Arthurian sword, we couldn’t put up a big fight. So we chose to bail. 200 miles, one Braves game, and 2 questionable turns later, we arrived in Charleston. It is really an unbelievable place. It’s right on the water, huge homes, great food and entertainment… it’s all there. We happened to be staying with Other Girl, who lives in downtown Charleston, a block from King St. King Street is basically the most popular place to go for tourists and features many shops and restaurants. However, Dude and I would have nothing to do with shopping. Friday night dragged on into the late hours of the morning since we had arrived late & were an hour behind everyone else (to them, 1 am was our midnight.) Saturday, we wasted half the day in true college form by sleeping until 12. Dude, Girlface, Other Girl, and myself finally summoned the strength to traverse the town and go to the beach for some genuine seafood. We headed to the beach, but only to meet 50 mph winds, and a strange visual of light, soft sand snaking through the hard-packed brown sand. While Dude pensively compared this to the duality of light and dark in Antebellum fiction, I tried to see how far my hat would fly if I launched it hard as I could with the wind. During this process, Girlface and Other Girl complained about being cold so we left. Driving across
town and being up for about an hour and a half had taken a toll on most of
us so a nap sounded pretty good. In typical Girlface fashion, she gave me
orders to wake her up at 4 so we could walk around a little and “check
out” Charleston. (That’s the “cool” way to say I’m
going to go sightseeing like a tourist.) Note that Dude was not given this
honor. After unsuccessfully trying to sleep on a 4 foot couch (I’m 6’2’’)
we awoke and toured around. Our tour guide was the lovely Another Girl. And
let me tell you, if you think walking on the Haley concourse was difficult,
never go to Charleston. The sidewalks there look like they’ve seen several
beatings a la Auburn vs. Bama 2005. The chances of walking in Charleston go
as such: When it was nearly 5 PM, Girlface suggested that we head back because, “girls take forever to get dressed and cry and waste a lot of time.” Direct Quote. I brush her off and say, “I guarantee it will take Dude and I 10 minutes total to be ready.” So we wasted some more time, and returned to Other Girl’s place to get ready. Well, Girlface began to, while Dude and I sat out on the porch and enjoyed a spring afternoon accompanied by some Sufjan Stevens. Great artist. So, the 15 minute deadline arose, and we needed to be in the car then to meet our reservations. Dude clambers back into the shower and apparently he sings the entire fourth movement of Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique. Actually, it was totally my fault that we were late. For the next 2 minutes the women heckled me until they saw a pretty house and forgot about me. We ate, etc., and then went downtown to a place that happened to have a foosball table. We engage in a heated match in Girls vs. Guys and I’m pretty sure we lost 10 – 1. During the match however, this guy comes up to us and says, “ Hey are y’all done yet?” We were clearly ALL still playing and having fun, so I think Dude told him to wait a minute and then we’d be done. Regardless, the guy persists, saying, “What is this, amateur hour? Alright you guys are done.” Unfortunately it was loud in the place and I heard very little of this conversation – if I had, my bodyguard (Ryan) would have immediately pounded the perpetrator. Dude took care of the situation by reciting a dissertation based on Socrates’ “Fighting with Verbs not Swords.” The guy was so overwhelmed by pretentiousness that he had to leave. That’s
basically our trip. I met a half-Brazilian and Portuigese dude that I kept
calling a German, and I used a German accent to talk to him. He had a girlfriend
that looked like Mena Suvari or Mischa Barton or one of those weird names.
Girlface kept saying, “Y’all she is just so naturally beautiful”
in a Southern accent. |