I was going to put up some photos of Steve and me, and some of the scenery on the south end of the Blue Ridge Parkway. When I work out how to unravel and save the photos, I will. In the meantime, if I find a 10 year old kid that can help me, it will happen sooner. So, no photos for a while, just read on.
So, here's the thing. I could not help noticing that there are lots of strange looking people around here. The South has a reputation a bit like Tasmania, if you get my drift. I was standing in a servo at Bryson City when a beaten up old pick up truck pulled in alongside. Out gets Li'l Abner, about 350 lbs and wearing denim bib and brace overalls and chewing nineteen to the dozen. There is a confederate flag on the pickup. That figures. He looks in my direction, makes eye contact, then ejects a stream of dark coloured saliva from his mouth on to the driveway. I think the guy was chewing tobacco, either that or he should see a doctor. He checks me out, then dismissively walks into the shop, no doubt to buy a ton of pork rinds for breakfast.
In fact, a visit to a servo or Wal Mart, or just a walk down the street is guaranteed to turn up some pretty strange people. I mean, you 'd give the average dill a fair go, but I'm starting to think there is something in the water around here. The number of people from Central Casting who look like Cletus, the slack jawed yokel from The Simpsons, is just plain scary. Its the shallow end of the gene pool for sure.
I haven't finished yet. Yesterday I made a detour to Lynchburg, Tennessee. Not my spiritual home, but the home of my favourite spirit, namely Jack Daniels. I walked into the visitor centre and yelled "Honey, I'm home!" Aaaah, what bliss! Unfortunately I was unable to fall into a vat of the stuff. Shortly afterwards, I called into a shop in the town to buy a souvenir, and while I was there a 300 lb new mother walked in, covered in tatts and wearing shorts and a t shirt bursting at the seams, and clutching the world's unluckiest baby. Apparently hubby wanted a shot glass with the baby's name on it in case he forgets it. The staff went gaga (anything for business) and asked the kid's name. "Stormy", answered mum. Groan! Right in front of me stood the concluding argument for the Affirmative case on the License To Breed issue, if not compulsory sterilisation.
Permit me another politically incorrect observation. For the fourth night in a row, I am staying in a budget motel, all of them different franchises, but I am getting a weird vibe. They are all run by Indians. Not your native Americans, I mean the "It Aint Half Hot, Mum" type. On the first night at the Relax Inn, the guy just overcharged me on the internet booking rate, but I couldn't be bothered making a big deal over it. But when the rest of the Ulysses contingent turned up and looked like leaving again due to ripoff, the guy dropped the price, and I even got a $10 cash refund the next morning. The next night at a Motel 6, first the key card wouldn't let me into my room. Back to the office. Next minute, three other Indians turned up to pull the lock apart, all jabbering away like monkeys in Hindi, then the manager showed up. So there were four guys standing in my room discussing the condition of the lock while I am trying to unpack, one even took a stroll around to see what the room was like, and nodding his approval, even turning on a tap or two. He left footprints on the carpet, which was covered in Gyprock/Drywall dust due to the recent renovations that hadn't been cleaned up. When they were all satisfied that the lock was fixed, I brought them back to earth by reminding them who spanked their arses on last summer's Test Cricket tour of Australia, and they rapidly buggered off. Next, the wi fi didn't work. So back to the front office to use the facilities there. They didn't work either. Why was I not surprised? When is that goddam country going to stop haunting me?
After checking in to motel no.3 and staring incredulously at the sub-continental trifecta winner behind the desk, I had no complaints about the third night, you will be pleased to hear, other than the fact that I finally got a room with a fridge in it, only to find that the supermarket across the road (or any other shop in town) didn't sell grog, as the whole County was dry. Tonight I am in a town called, coincidentally, Kosciusko, Mississippi. Not sure what if any connection there is with Australia's highest peak. But here at the Super 8, there is a fridge, there is grog, there is a Pizza Hut next door, and yes, behind the reception desk is Apu from the Quickie Mart. "Thank you, come again!" This is getting scary. If it wasn't for the $7 a bottle Chateau de Weasel I am quaffing right now, I'd be really freaked out.
I have spent the last four nights in four different states, which is weird. The bit of Alabama that I saw was noticeably rougher and not quite as prosperous as North Carolina or Tennessee, but Mississippi is decidedly worse off again. However, I spent about 100 miles on the Natchez Trace Parkway today, which was pleasant enough, but not nearly as scenic nor as much fun to ride as the Blue Ridge. For those at home, this parkway is an old Indian trail (just like the one I'm on, see, there I go again) which was used by the early river traders. Apparently they used to build timber boats to transport produce down to the mouth of the Mississippi River, sell the produce, and the boats as well, then walk all the way back home. to Kentucky and points north. How long that took or what tribulations they faced, I have no idea, but it sounds like hard work to me. Not too many fat bastards around in those days, I imagine.
So, here's the thing. I could not help noticing that there are lots of strange looking people around here. The South has a reputation a bit like Tasmania, if you get my drift. I was standing in a servo at Bryson City when a beaten up old pick up truck pulled in alongside. Out gets Li'l Abner, about 350 lbs and wearing denim bib and brace overalls and chewing nineteen to the dozen. There is a confederate flag on the pickup. That figures. He looks in my direction, makes eye contact, then ejects a stream of dark coloured saliva from his mouth on to the driveway. I think the guy was chewing tobacco, either that or he should see a doctor. He checks me out, then dismissively walks into the shop, no doubt to buy a ton of pork rinds for breakfast.
In fact, a visit to a servo or Wal Mart, or just a walk down the street is guaranteed to turn up some pretty strange people. I mean, you 'd give the average dill a fair go, but I'm starting to think there is something in the water around here. The number of people from Central Casting who look like Cletus, the slack jawed yokel from The Simpsons, is just plain scary. Its the shallow end of the gene pool for sure.
I haven't finished yet. Yesterday I made a detour to Lynchburg, Tennessee. Not my spiritual home, but the home of my favourite spirit, namely Jack Daniels. I walked into the visitor centre and yelled "Honey, I'm home!" Aaaah, what bliss! Unfortunately I was unable to fall into a vat of the stuff. Shortly afterwards, I called into a shop in the town to buy a souvenir, and while I was there a 300 lb new mother walked in, covered in tatts and wearing shorts and a t shirt bursting at the seams, and clutching the world's unluckiest baby. Apparently hubby wanted a shot glass with the baby's name on it in case he forgets it. The staff went gaga (anything for business) and asked the kid's name. "Stormy", answered mum. Groan! Right in front of me stood the concluding argument for the Affirmative case on the License To Breed issue, if not compulsory sterilisation.
Permit me another politically incorrect observation. For the fourth night in a row, I am staying in a budget motel, all of them different franchises, but I am getting a weird vibe. They are all run by Indians. Not your native Americans, I mean the "It Aint Half Hot, Mum" type. On the first night at the Relax Inn, the guy just overcharged me on the internet booking rate, but I couldn't be bothered making a big deal over it. But when the rest of the Ulysses contingent turned up and looked like leaving again due to ripoff, the guy dropped the price, and I even got a $10 cash refund the next morning. The next night at a Motel 6, first the key card wouldn't let me into my room. Back to the office. Next minute, three other Indians turned up to pull the lock apart, all jabbering away like monkeys in Hindi, then the manager showed up. So there were four guys standing in my room discussing the condition of the lock while I am trying to unpack, one even took a stroll around to see what the room was like, and nodding his approval, even turning on a tap or two. He left footprints on the carpet, which was covered in Gyprock/Drywall dust due to the recent renovations that hadn't been cleaned up. When they were all satisfied that the lock was fixed, I brought them back to earth by reminding them who spanked their arses on last summer's Test Cricket tour of Australia, and they rapidly buggered off. Next, the wi fi didn't work. So back to the front office to use the facilities there. They didn't work either. Why was I not surprised? When is that goddam country going to stop haunting me?
After checking in to motel no.3 and staring incredulously at the sub-continental trifecta winner behind the desk, I had no complaints about the third night, you will be pleased to hear, other than the fact that I finally got a room with a fridge in it, only to find that the supermarket across the road (or any other shop in town) didn't sell grog, as the whole County was dry. Tonight I am in a town called, coincidentally, Kosciusko, Mississippi. Not sure what if any connection there is with Australia's highest peak. But here at the Super 8, there is a fridge, there is grog, there is a Pizza Hut next door, and yes, behind the reception desk is Apu from the Quickie Mart. "Thank you, come again!" This is getting scary. If it wasn't for the $7 a bottle Chateau de Weasel I am quaffing right now, I'd be really freaked out.
I have spent the last four nights in four different states, which is weird. The bit of Alabama that I saw was noticeably rougher and not quite as prosperous as North Carolina or Tennessee, but Mississippi is decidedly worse off again. However, I spent about 100 miles on the Natchez Trace Parkway today, which was pleasant enough, but not nearly as scenic nor as much fun to ride as the Blue Ridge. For those at home, this parkway is an old Indian trail (just like the one I'm on, see, there I go again) which was used by the early river traders. Apparently they used to build timber boats to transport produce down to the mouth of the Mississippi River, sell the produce, and the boats as well, then walk all the way back home. to Kentucky and points north. How long that took or what tribulations they faced, I have no idea, but it sounds like hard work to me. Not too many fat bastards around in those days, I imagine.
1 comment:
You will never get better from India mate, it will always come back to haunt you, like a program when I saw a woman put water from the Ganges in her mouth ugh!! still makes me shudder. Like John said to a guy who was enquiring what the rooms were like "it's run by indians, not naitive, red spot." Made me laugh. Keep the posts up, your making me laugh. Chris.
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