November 15, 2009 – Tropical Depression in South Carolina

The Blue Ridge Parkway is a narrow ribbon of pavement winding southwesterly for 469 miles along the crest of the Appalachians.

From its starting point near Washington, DC, to Great Smoky Mountains National Park in North Carolina every sharp corner and s-turn provides a stunning new vista, in various hues of – you guessed it – blue.

And when you’re sick and tired of the view – one can handle only so many oohs and aahs at a 35mph speed limit- just pop off to the adjacent interstate and high tail it at 70 straight to the Smoky Mountains for some great hiking and fishing.

When we first left Canuckistan I sort of regretted not signing up for satellite radio to pass the time on the long miles of travel. That would have been a big mistake. The constant change of radio stations as we move from town to town and state to state has supplied an endless source of entertainment, not so much from the music as in the advertisements:

“Stop by Vern’s Garage and Jiffy Lube where today, while you wait, you can enjoy a cold beverage and any of our eight VLT options”. And I thought Albertans were inveterate gamblers.

Or, “Have you considered a bulletproof backpack for your grade-schooler?” Not until now I hadn’t.

South Carolina has some interesting liquor laws. Every State in the Union is pockmarked with a multitude of counties. In SC many of these are “dry counties”, unless you are within a municipality or qualify as a recreation zone. We stopped for a lunch of trout patty cooked Creole style (skip this questionable treat if you happen to drop by) while enjoying the serene view of the Nantahala River with its cascading falls. Nearby, mallard ducks humped casually, oblivious to the effect their webbed-footed abandon wreaked on my digestive system.

Over a dessert of peanut butter pie we inquired about the adjacent overgrown tennis courts and were told that the $20,000 put out for this never-used amenity had reaped a “ten-fold benefit in beer sales now that we qualify as a recreation zone. And it’s not even high season!” The ducks, nonplussed, carried on their feathered foreplay. Ducky delirium. Quackie quickies. You alliterate.

The newest slang for African-Americans, a group apparently categorized as bad tippers, is – are you ready for this – “Canadians”. So when our Charleston, South Carolina restaurant waiter “Gauge”, a native of Georgia, told us that his hourly wage was $2.13 – a man therefore reliant entirely on tips for take-home pay – he also confided that he was happy to “seat any table of Canadians” in his fellow server’s section. Prejudices die hard in the South. Google this new epithet and you’ll encounter some disturbing hits.

Our quaint hotel in the heart of old Charleston offered a complimentary afternoon wine and cheese served with good old-fashioned southern hospitality. We met Phil and his wife Donna over a glass of Chablis. Phil, a spry personable 72-year-old Jewish chap – and a dead-ringer for Woody Allen – told us how he was “retired 24 years now from the Federal accounting department” while Donna (“originally from Connect-i-cut”), as if to fend off any doubting Thomases, vigorously nodded her confirmation. Phil mentioned to us “if they’d a’ told us all this weather was coming, Ida stayed home in Daytona Beach… Get it? Get it?”

Yeah Phil we get it, but we’re getting sick of it. This poor weather is hanging over our heads like the sword of Damocles. So we’ve packed up and are headed away from the monsoon. Maybe.

We’ve now arrived on Hilton Head Island where we’ve booked long-term into an upscale RV resort and Marina, right on the Atlantic Ocean. The nightly rate is also up there. I’ve stayed in cheaper Westins. We were encouraged to use the courtesy golf cart to tour the park and personally select our campsite. And you can actually purchase your own 55×20 foot strip of paved paradise for only $248,000. If you step up, for a few dollars more, you can also get access to a waterfront dock. I hope your $750,000 motorhome fits on the lot.

Gerry and Florence