I am charmed, charmed to make your acquaintance

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I arrived early afternoon and enlisted a local B&B expert to find me a room. This is after I attempted to stay at the Historical Charleston Hostel, which was not only closed, it was far away and not pretty.

The Bed & Breakfast chosen for me is run by a charming old couple, in a charming eighteenth century building, with a charming lack of a real shower, on a charming historical avenue.

I was pleased but a wee bit apprehensive about my lodgings. I was pleased for the obvious- the house (The Bennet-Hayne House, circa 1799) was large but homey, comfortable and safe, run by a calm but somewhat protective couple- and my room was just splendid. During the 19^th century, parties among the aristocracy were held on the second floor (often to show-off the size of the staircase, which in this phase of architecture meant wide, spiraling, and supported only by the wall) in an ornately-decorated room and parlor. The first floor would only entertain guests of secondary social stature. My room was the party room. I was a bit apprehensive that I was far from the things I needed- notably gas, good food, and activities, because the house was near the northern end of the historical district. Later, my hostess clarified the original outlay of the city, revealing that we were within an impressive proximity to the town center- two major streets have been added to the waterway, making the peninsula larger, and in effect growing the historical district. But this was in fact the least of my worries. After I settled myself into my room (one of my favorite parts of each day) and “showered” in the tub that had no curtain but a faucet on a long arm, I looked at my map and discovered to my delight two bits of relieving data: I was in walking distance to the library and aquarium, the restaurant that I wanted very much to try was ‘off the beaten track’ but only three blocks from my house. My mood only improved when I walked toward the library and discovered I was but two blocks from a gas station.

The aquarium was closed, but I was starving so I walked to the Hominy Grill. The meal was pleasant and light but real Southern fare, and now that I barely eat anything all day, found that two glasses of wine widened my smile. When I walked home I met Mrs. Wade, who welcomed me into her home and warmed my hand in hers. She and her husband, Harold, moved from Cornell in the fifties, but were every bit a southern charm couple. They had no detectable accents, but, well, I’ll get to it. I did not feel like socializing after dinner (sorry, not lonely once yet- I really am my own best friend) so I went up to bed. The clock read 6:15, and I chuckled to myself at my new schedule. I finished ‘The Mother Tongue,’ a really fabulous read if you like interesting nonfiction, and began ‘The Curious Incident of The Dog in the Nighttime,’ which immediately grabbed my attention so I read until about 9.

When I got up for breakfast I knew it would be with other guests, which meant that they weren’t from Charleston, and that there was no chance that they had much in common with me. Oh yes, sometimes I hope to find a single-serving friend at breakfast, but it’s just terribly unlikely. I was up early so I read in the parlor and listened to the other guests- quite the thick accent on them (I hope to be able to distinguish region by the time I get out west). We met in the dining room and dug (literally) into some unripe cantaloupe and conversation. Breakfast was served in lovely presentation, with a plop of grits and a pool of butter, a few scrambled eggs that were surprisingly bland, and some fruit. Oh, and corn muffins. I'm sorry, but grits are just not tasty food. I like the texture, but the lack of flavor is just too much nothing for me.

A fine family from Tampa, Florida, in for the Jack Hanna wildlife weekend, my companions were charming and honest and so I was honest with them. The parents were probably in their early fifties, and I reckon their son was in his early thirties. He was in the oil business, and was looking for antique decoys and interesting artisan décor for his house (that he just built, a perfect match with his parents’ house that his father designed and built a few years before. In’t that precious?). The father was quiet, and read the paper for most of breakfast. He may have been reading the headline article about he show, or the article directly below it, headlined “Woman who believed she was haunted by ghosts found dead in her home” (That’s a real quote, the Charleston Courier) and continued below “Missy Green (name changed to protect pride) died Wednesday night in a strange Valentine’s fire that destroyed the rear of her house, which she claimed was haunted by evil spirits” and so on. Anyhoo, I learned all about their family, heard a wonderful story about a baby squirrel that was caught in their home for a week, and learned the dangers of hunting mountain goats in Canada- not only must you be careful negotiating the terrain they love so (because you can’t just leave the bodies on the cliff where you shoot them, stupid regulations) but the grizzlies are out there. Steven went on to describe the fear and awe that strike you the first time, well, every time, that you see a grizzly. But what a man, he still sits and eats wild blueberries next to smoking bear shit.

I learned about some local Tampa artists and the dog demonstration to rival the Dog Show- Webfoot Retriever Demos, which are far more interesting. Instead of watching dogs run around and through obstacles really fast, you get to watch them fetch false kills really fast. They parted as I finished my third cup of coffee, and Mrs. Wade moved in to chat with me. I learned all about the fascinating history of Charleston, a true survivor city, for the next eighty minutes or so. Then she asked me about myself and what I was planning on doing with my life, and the more I explained, without being too specific, the more she seemed to pity me, and by the end, she offered some hope that someday, I’ll find him. But I had already learned that she was from, and preferred to live in, a different time. And that, that’s a luxury that Charleston allows. So I took her daughter’s story with that grain of salt in mind, because maybe she inspires more ladies with the story that her dyslexic daughter married and divorced young, determined herself to never depend on a man again, went to school and applied herself so that she would be accepted to Veterinarian School, did that for three years, found her husband, and quit and made babies. Honestly the last bit of the story was told with a broad and proud smile and that startled me, so I changed the subject.

The aquarium was full of students. It was smaller than I expected, but not to my dismay, I had much to accomplish and bet myself that I could get through the place in an hour. The exhibits were mostly displaying South Carolina’s wild zones, with a mountain region full of birds and river fish, a salt marsh where a lot of local seafood is caught, and the coastal beach life. A small and very child-oriented Amazon wing displayed interesting beasts, large and small, and I was happy because I had been to the Amazon and if I had shelled out more money I could have seen those things, but instead I shelled out $16 and saw them in a cage.

The ocean tank is always my most favorite. I feel sorry for the fish but I just adore watching them, how huge they are. The South Carolina Aquarium boasts a 330,000 gallon ocean tank, and they have a loggerhead turtle and two sharks and these grotesque bonefish and other primitive-looking occupants that I didn’t read about. I stayed and watched the fish for a while, there were four viewing areas and I moved around the most open windows, but there were many students and they like to follow the shark and bang on the glass for evil looks from the divers and the shark. I checked to see if any squid feedings or some such were planned, but the next fun show was scheduled for mid afternoon so I bought a postcard and walked home.

After lunch I packed up my stuff, signed the guestbook and thanked Harold for his hospitality. I spent a little time in historic downtown, as Jean had instructed me, and went to the Nathaniel-Russel House, evidence of the great wealth of the city (in a sharp whisper, Harold had said at breakfast, “rich because of the slaves” like it wasn’t obvious). The tour cost ten bloody dollars so I looked around the gift shop and decided to purchase “George Washington’s Rules of Civility & Decent Behavior in Company and Conversation” because I think he probably writes about the manners that I have forgotten or never learned, although they are very few I am sure. I took some pictures of the gardens and decided to get a move on because I wanted to visit a plantation. Harold had recommended the BIG ONE to me and that seemed like a good idea, no matter how uncomfortable I expected to feel while walking the immense grounds.

And they were immense. I would guess a few square miles- the plantation contained a farm and a rice mill, which was the first in the area to harvest that crop, at one point the gold of the state. The rice was grown in man-made lakes at the far end of the grounds, below a few acres of the first landscaped grounds in the country. Harold is a landscaper, and I suppose that fuels his favoritism somewhat. The hillsides were carved and the gardens were massive but had an organic flow to them. I took many pictures, because I was at one seduced by the beauty of the estate, and disgusted. Those are odd reactions to have within a place, and I think they are shared somewhat by the caretakers. The place is a cash cow now, with huge costs to tour and be educated about the history, but there was defiance in the air.

While I looked at the ruins of the first mansion, destroyed during the civil war by the 56^th Volunteer Infanty of the Union Army (I am in a doubly challenging situation, being from the north and from New England- so much so that I’ve twice been motivated to say “my ancestors moved here in the twentieth century. To Minnesota.” but I hold my tongue because that’s a silly excuse to a silly indictment), the plaque haughtily reads that the poor, poor Middletons were able to rebuild from a wing that was preserved. Funny, when I got to the Slavery Museum (within a preserved cottage kept by an ex-slave, so although honest, the museum was both way off the main trail about the place and rather brief), the story of the ruins was told differently. The house had been built by a couple Middletons and a lot of slaves, and the 56^th Volunteer Infantry happened to be a division comprised mostly of slaves, many of which originated from Middleton, and they were the demolishers and they knew where the good silver was kept, and that, well, who doesn’t like sweet revenge? Inside the museum hung a poster of all the slaves purchased (with their cost next to the name), but did not include those born to enslaved parents. The seduction of the place was ruined, knowing that maintenance had required hundreds upon hundreds of laborers, and now demands huge admission fees to pay workers.