REM of course. And the B52’s. And Pylon I suppose, but REM mostly. I’ve wanted to visit for years. I remember old interviews with the band where they raved about the city. I grew up on REM and I stick by them even now, in their run-out-of-tunes twilight.
Athens is technically a city, but with the feel of a town. The vast campus of the University of Georgia sits downtown and the place fans out around it. I could tell it was a university town because I was the only one about at eleven in the morning and, sadly, the only one getting ready for bed come eleven at night.
In Starbucks the barista asked my name. I was caught off-guard and (in typical English reserved formality), I said, ‘Mr Gregory’. This produced behind the counter mirth, “Can I get, ahem, Mr Gregory a tall latte to go, please?” He bowed stiffly as he handed over my coffee and I left in red-faced embarrassment.
Athens has attractive suburbs. Away from the buzz of the university, hilly residential districts hide wonderful homes. I discovered pristine antebellum houses framed by manicured lawns and arcaded porches. There was a tree that owned itself and a great vegetarian grocery, and behind the cash register, the prettiest girl.
I did the REM sites. Weaver D’s Cafe with its Automatic for the People sign (now placed well out of nicking it reach), Peter Buck’s old house, the 40 Watt club. Outside the club a guy stopped me and introduced himself, “I’m DJ Zee” He was handing out flyers for the weekend with his buddy. He asked if I had heard of him and I said I hadn’t. He looked upset, so I told him I was from England. He relayed this data to his mate who looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked me if I knew someone in Swindon called Kenny.
Originally posted March 21st, 2005
Showing posts with label Georgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Georgia. Show all posts
Monday, 26 March 2007
Thursday, 22 March 2007
Greyhound Travel
We all have romantic notions of travel. Often it's best to keep them this way. Reality can pinprick those dreams. Mine was a Greyhound tour of the States. For years I'd thought about it; the interesting characters I'd meet along the way, a smeary window on America.
Last year, I had to change planes in Atlanta, so I stopped for a week and joined the Greyhound squad. It was hugely lacking in romance. In a country ruled by the car, those who travel by Greyhound do it through necessity. It’s obvious, but my romantic notions didn’t factor in economic reality. The buses are often dirty and late and the terminals are in the scummy part of town, full of tired and irritable folk. I saw a fair amount of aimless aggression.
The redeeming feature of Greyhound travel is Pac-Man. Every terminal has one. I scored 50,000 in Athens, beat it in Augusta and by the time I got to Macon I had a crowd of impressed onlookers. I also had repetitive strain injury.
As for the characters, well it wasn’t what I expected. There's a kind of social bubble on the journey which you wouldn’t get on our more prissy isle. Much Chatter across aisles and lots of head swiveling as the conversations gain impetus and expand in numbers.
Two people spring to mind. A 19 year old Army kid struck up a conversation. He was proud of his country and wanted to tell me about it. He asked me what currency we used in England. I showed him a five pound note and he recognized the Queen. "Cool." He was like a blank canvas.
The other memory is Eric. Now, Eric seemed an intelligent man. Our taste in books was similar even if our taste in music was polls apart. What can you say when someone says they like Carcass? We swapped e-mail addresses. I wish I hadn't. I read the first three thousand word e-mail he wrote about his whole life. But not the second one a day later. Nor the one that started I HATE THE WORLD.
I stopped in Athens, Georgia for a while. I was heading for Savannah, but you can’t get there from here. It was in Athens that I hit the magic ton on Pac-Man and realised I was enjoying the stopovers more than the journeys.
Originally posted September 28th, 2004
Last year, I had to change planes in Atlanta, so I stopped for a week and joined the Greyhound squad. It was hugely lacking in romance. In a country ruled by the car, those who travel by Greyhound do it through necessity. It’s obvious, but my romantic notions didn’t factor in economic reality. The buses are often dirty and late and the terminals are in the scummy part of town, full of tired and irritable folk. I saw a fair amount of aimless aggression.
The redeeming feature of Greyhound travel is Pac-Man. Every terminal has one. I scored 50,000 in Athens, beat it in Augusta and by the time I got to Macon I had a crowd of impressed onlookers. I also had repetitive strain injury.
As for the characters, well it wasn’t what I expected. There's a kind of social bubble on the journey which you wouldn’t get on our more prissy isle. Much Chatter across aisles and lots of head swiveling as the conversations gain impetus and expand in numbers.
Two people spring to mind. A 19 year old Army kid struck up a conversation. He was proud of his country and wanted to tell me about it. He asked me what currency we used in England. I showed him a five pound note and he recognized the Queen. "Cool." He was like a blank canvas.
The other memory is Eric. Now, Eric seemed an intelligent man. Our taste in books was similar even if our taste in music was polls apart. What can you say when someone says they like Carcass? We swapped e-mail addresses. I wish I hadn't. I read the first three thousand word e-mail he wrote about his whole life. But not the second one a day later. Nor the one that started I HATE THE WORLD.
I stopped in Athens, Georgia for a while. I was heading for Savannah, but you can’t get there from here. It was in Athens that I hit the magic ton on Pac-Man and realised I was enjoying the stopovers more than the journeys.
Originally posted September 28th, 2004
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.
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.
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