Head South Pt. 4

From Tennessee we made our way to Charleston, South Carolina. South Carolina was pretty, and to a northern bumpkin like me, distinctly southern. So much so, I couldn't help but feel like some of its residents weren't completely happy I was there. The amount of Confederate flags in this state was astounding to me. I understand that until fairly recently it flew from the state capitol building, and I was sure it meant something different to the original "rebels" of South Carolina than it did me, but it was still a little off putting to someone that had only only experienced the south through movies like Mississippi Burning, and Martin Luther King documentaries. I remember passing one shop that was strictly devoted to the Confederate cause, it was as if the store itself was rebel yelling in our northern faces. The "bars and stars" of the Confederate flag were everywhere, printed on anything from sunglasses to pairs of suspenders. I remember thinking how odd it was that at the same time the store seemed to be completely unwelcoming to anyone of Union sentiment, I couldn't imagine the store surviving without curious northerners buying Confederate coffee mugs as novelty items. The only question was where the northern tourists found the Confederate dollars to pay for them.

From Charleston we started creeping our way towards Alabama through Georgia and Florida. I have an odd fascination with historical places. I love the idea of standing in a spot and imagining someone of historical significance once standing in the exact same spot. This kind of behavior can be troublesome. Two summers ago while in Virginia my wife and I toured Thomas Jefferson's home. With no regard for preservation or "please do not touch" signs, I couldn't help but subtly graze the arm rest of the chair he sat in while he was Vice President. After the tour of his house was over, I turned to my wife and told her what I had done. I wasn't at all sorry, in fact I was so giddy I might as well have said, "It was like we were practically holding hands." As we travelled through Georgia, I wanted desperately to walk on a genuine Civil War battlefield. To my undying appreciation, the rest of the group agreed to a quick stop at one of the many Civil War sites scattered along our route to Alabama.

We stopped at a place near a river where Confederates had dug themselves a series of tunnels and buildings into the ground. There were large mounds of dirt fencing the complex which were used to ward off the Union attack from ironclad ships firing from the water. I wouldn't say the rest of the group wasn't at all interested, but they certainly wouldn't have come to this place if they hadn't had me along. So I felt pretty bad when the lady at the visitor center all but forced us to watch a video before stepping on the grounds of the battlefield. I don't know if it was long, or if it just felt long, but it was so boring I nearly fell asleep. While in the middle of the viewing we realized how ridiculous this all was. The term "spring break" used to bring to mind tequila shots and sandy beaches. Here we were, 20 year old kids, in the middle of nowhere, watching an inappropriately intense video describing a soldier's life in the 1860s, just so we could walk around a restored battlefield where everything of historical significance was either burned by the Union victors, or had eroded away long ago.

When the video was finished and we were finally educated enough to approach the battlefield, it was all a little underwhelming. We walked around for twenty minutes following a self guiding tour map of the restored fort. It was still neat I suppose, but it was no wet T-shirt contest at Senor Frog's.