Charleston, I'll Come Back Now, You Hear?

Last week, I took Joe Biden's favorite mode of transportation -- Amtrak -- down to Charleston, South Carolina for the Capital Bookfest's last 2010 date. I've never taken Amtrak overnight before, but flights to Charleston were running at near $700 when I was ready to book, and I figured the night I'd spend on the train would save me a night's hotel charge. Also, after my "doobie"-precipitated pat down and luggage debacle in Maryland/DC, I was excited to be able to skip the whole airport metal detector process and keep my little roller bag tucked right under my sneakered feet.

I've always loved road trips for the scenic shifts so I settled into my seat, head trained out of the window trying to absorb all I could before the afternoon sky faded to black. But the real scene was happening on my train car.

My neighbors plugged in their portable DVD player, pulled out a buffet of Dunkin' Donuts coffee and sandwiches, and commenced to chomping and watching a Martin Lawrence movie with the volume on loud. As I watched them eat and cozy up under the comforters they'd brought with them, I looked down at my flimsy pink wrap that was doubling as my duvet (and covering my growling belly), and realized I had brought a knife to a gunfight, as it were.

After they polished off their packed dinner, I ventured into the snack car pissed at myself for not thinking to pack any food. I also wondered what would be on the menu in this car right next to the pissy restroom. But it was actually pretty palatable. Nothing scary at all. I ordered a DiGiorno pizza and a beer. While I waited for the pizza to be microwaved, a slurring, splotched-faced, bloodshot-eyed woman tried to convince the snack car attendant to sell her a screwdriver. "Ah cah walk a straight lih," she boasted. Very responsibly, he advised her to return for her orange juice and vodka once we got to DC -- two or three hours away at that point.

Bus stop near the train tracks in Charleston

DC is where the train had to refuel/switch to Diesel and apparently, the train we were supposed to get the fuel from had derailed. I never got he details on what exactly happened, but we were stalled for two hours. I believe the conductor who'd been with us from Penn Station also ended his shift and so, for the new conductor, we had to show our tickets again. This was a problem for the old man sitting behind me.

He was traveling on a Thursday ticket, but we were on a Friday train. Lawdamercy, the new conductor argued with this inebriated 76 year old man (I'd overheard him tell his age to the guy sitting next to him) about the ticket for damn near the entire two hours we were waiting for the fuel change to happen. My Martin Lawrence movie neighbors even offered to pay the difference in the ticket just to end it all, but in the end, the conductor let it go with a warning and soon we were back on our way.

As we approached South Carolina in the wee hours of the AM in the pre-Daylight Savings pitch black, panic suddenly seized me. I was originally scheduled to arrive in Charleston at 5am. It would have been black as night and I was alone; thank God for that that unexpected two-hour layover! I ended up getting to Charleston station just as the lights were turning on in the sky.
It was going to be a 40-minute wait for a taxi -- "It's a Saturday morning," the station attendant explained, helpfully calling other cab companies for the packed station of haggard travelers -- so I followed Mike, a vet who grew up in Charleston, and "Mike" (Michelle), the Baltimore-raised wife of a Nigerian man who was surprising her son, a student at Citadel military college to the nearby busstop.

We waited by a train track for like 20 minutes before a bus came, during which time Auntie Michelle explained how she got the nickname "Mike" growing up in B'More in the '60s and '70s then leaving America behind in the '80s for Nigeria without knowing a soul in the country. "I always knew I would go to Africa, from a young age, and it's where I am. Whatever you want, wherever you want to be, speak it, and you will get there," she told me before we parted ways.

Mike & "Mike"

When I got downtown, the city loudly advertised the book festival. A banner streamed above Calhoun Street, and people were already streaming toward the Charleston County Library which was hosting the event. By the time I'd finished my southern breakfast of "fluffy" pancakes and made my way to the venue, the library was packed. One of the officiants said the library clicker broke at 300 people; the Charleston Post and Courier got the final headcount at 5,000! The place was packed as parents corralled their kids through the book-lined rooms for face painting and storytelling sessions while booksellers and vendors set up. And many many many people were already buzzing about the marquee guest: Nikki Giovanni!

I co-hosted a panel on "Getting an Agent and Getting Published" with publisher Lily Herndon-Weaks that was really well-attended, and had the good fortune of doing my post-panel signing right next to the table Ms. Giovanni was scheduled to sign at. People had already started lining up so I got up from behind my signing table and took advantage of the crowd, pitching just about everyone on that exponentially expanding queue about Powder Necklace. I was just a pitch machine. My goodness. I don't think I've talked that much or that fast in my life. LOL. I thank God that I was able to give my pitch unbroken on camera for a local Charleston magazine. A gentleman watching not only bought a copy of the book, but invited me to visit his church afterward as his priest is Ghanaian and he thought it would be nice if we could meet.


I was hesitant at first. I was exhausted and also didn't know this man from Adam, but I saw him chatting with the festival founder and many people who looked respectable greeted him warmly, so I went with him to church which ended up being a nice break from the non-stop my day had been. I'd spent the past to weekends out of town so I had missed my own church, perhaps God sent this man my way. After the service, I met the priest (who ended up randomly knowing a family friend!), and joined the congregation in the basement for chili and gumbo (!) for a fundraiser. I was so psyched to have some authentic gumbo and chili in the South! I gobbled my gumbo up and took the chili as a doggie bag for the Amtrak ride back.

The following day, I was the one chomping my chili and rice loudly as my seat mate expressed regret at not packing a snack. He grew up on a farm so he became my unofficial eco-tour guide, pointing out tree types and explaining water tables and patiently letting me lean over him to catch a shot of the cotton fields that were whirring by. The cotton looked like marshmallows! So fluffy and white standing on those straw-brown stalks. I got chills imagining great-great-great cousins and aunties and uncles plucking the white blossoms, marsh and swamp nearby...

Cotton!

As the lansdcape slowly changed from cotton and cattle, colored weaves, clapboard houses, and covered cars to tall buildings and bubble jackets, I marveled at how it always seems to go faster when you're returning home than when you're leaving home. I got a little wistful as we drew closer to New York. I felt my guard going up too with each stop, especially as the gentleman in the opposite row of seats loudly expressed his desire for some "f*ck and s*ck" action to whomever he was speaking with on his cellphone. When the train doors finally slid open at Penn Station, I split for the subway, making sure Mr. F*ck and S*ck was nowhere near -- familiar territory for the NYC Girl that I am. It felt great to be back home and know exactly where I was going, but I'd definitely like to visit Charleston again with more time to be a tourist.

(I've got more pictures on my Facebook page.)