Southern USA 2003

Rainy Nights in Georgia
There is a simple way to get to Central America and then there's the way that goes via Spain and the south eastern states of America. I chose the less direct route.

I left Europe in a sunny haze and touched down (or deplaned as the Americans say) in a torrent of rain in Atlanta. I delighted the guy sat next to me by spilling hot coffee into his lap. However much I apologised, we were never going to be friends. It took forever to clear the immigration controls at the airport. After a couple of hours they concluded that I was probably not a terrorist, 'Too clumsy'.

Atlanta was a huge urban sprawl, so I caught a Greyhound bus to Athens, Georgia. I've long had a romantic vision of traveling around the States by Greyhound. The reality is less appealing; the buses are often dirty and late and the terminals are in the scummy part of town, full of loners muttering to themselves. I blended in seamlessly.

The redeeming feature of Greyhound travel is the Pac-Man arcade game. Every terminal has one! I scored 50,000 in Athens, beat it in Augusta and by the time I got to Savannah I was topping 90,000 and had a crowd of impressed onlookers. I also had severe blisters, repetitive strain injury and was going blind. I took a break and booked into a hotel in downtown Athens.

Athens is basically the University of Georgia surrounded by a perfect circle of dorm towns. Although only 100 miles distant, it was half a world away from Atlanta. I could tell it was a university town because I was the only one about at 10.30 in the morning. Sadly, I was also the only one getting ready for bed at 10.30 at night. Athens was a chronic town to catch up on your sleep. I went to find the river and ended up in Weaver D's cafe. Their Automatic for the People sign was appropriated by some local residents for one of their albums a few years back.

What made the town for me was its residential districts. In England suburbia has derogatory implications but in Athens, the houses are full of character. I picked up some maps and legends and discovered pastel painted properties, framed by manicured lawns and arcaded porches. I would have liked to stay longer but I was running out of time. I looked for a bus to Savannah but you can't get there from here, so I took the Greyhound over the border into Aiken, South Carolina.

The man at the Aiken bus terminal said, "I went to England once. Do you know Swindon?" I said I did and hoped he didn't think all of England was like that. I went downtown on Saturday night, looking for adventure. I found a beer hall, ordered a Budweiser and sat at the bar to watch some all American sports on widescreen. Instead the TV was showing cricket. The owner of the bar turned out to be from south London and had a fanatical love for the game, much to the consternation of the locals. There is no better definition of bewilderment than an American watching cricket; "So you're telling me this game goes on all day?" "Yep, this is a short one, test matches last five days." "FIVE whole days?" "Yep, and even then, it's often a draw." "What? After FIVE days? Is this a sport or a punishment?"

I joined several conversations hoping to hear some reactionary southern stereotypes, but everyone I met was a liberal, albeit with Elvis accents and unsightly mullets. "Mike, I'm sorry we're not the rednecks you were looking for" said one. I found myself talking to a retired colonel, but even he voted Democrat.

Aiken was a pretty town and epitomised southern hospitality. I read the papers, ate all I could at the all you can eat buffet and even said, "uh-huh" with an Elvis inflection. There was even a prom dress shop straight out of a John Hughes movie. Everyone lived in huge houses that appeared to be auditioning for parts in the Gone with the Wind. I was sad to leave Aiken, but pleased to have my preconceptions shattered.

My final stop was Savannah, unusual in terms of American cities in that it was navigable on foot without the risk of being mown down by traffic. It poured non-stop in Savannah, but the grand pre civil war mansions and leafy squares still looked pretty in the rain. It was also an outside Hollywood studio, home to Forrest Gump, Cape Fear and Midnight in the Garden of Good & Evil. The latter sustaining a tourist industry all of its own.

I took my final Greyhound bus back to Atlanta, breaking through the magical 100,000 barrier on Pac-Man at a stopover in Macon. My hotel had a 10th floor view of the Atlanta skyline and near midnight, a spectacular storm framed it beautifully. I've only ever been to the States once before, on a family holiday to Florida in 1982. I spent most of that holiday playing Pac-Man. I obviously haven't grown up much.