Sunday in South Carolina

After snagging an apple from the breakfast bar of the Wingate Inn in beautiful Irmo, South Carolina, I headed into Columbia. Specifically, I headed back to Five Points. I'm not a huge Starbucks fan, but this morning it seemed the thing to do. Following such a basic, caffeine-craved instinct, I dutifully pointed the car toward town.

Five Points early on a Sunday is a darn sight different than a crowded free concert venue. An older gentleman was seated outside the coffe shop. He had his right leg thrown over his left, a cup of steaming coffee beside him on a small table, the morning paper in his lap, and a white curly-coated doggy at his feet. The music of Ray Charles, accompanied by many of today's established artists in cameo duets, played over the sound system from inside Starbucks. The streets were nearly devoid of traffic.

I procured a cuppa joe and went outside. Metal tables and tall chairs presided in the area where the bands had set up on Thursday. A low brick wall defined the square. Settling in, I sipped a sip, opened a book, and relaxed with a light breeze on my cheek. The only noticeable noise was the pleasant, steady sussuration of the fountain as it jetted streams behind me. The sun gradually warmed the morning.

City employees with dustpans and brooms quietly walked the side streets swishing away reminders of weekend revels. Another refugee joined me in the enclosure, sipping his brew. I read. Two ladies came by and sat at a nearby table, chatting amiably with one another. I looked up and realized a quiet man was sitting across from me with his morning paper. I read. Coffee gone, I packed my things, walked away, and stowed them in the car. Donning my iPod earbuds, I strolled the village.

That's really what Five Points feels like. A village. Eclectic shops and eateries cozy up to cobblers, auto parts distributors, and hardware stores. A shop dispensing tie-died shirts, reggae decals, and huge boxes of patchoulli incense is organic leavening for a mercantile mix that includes conservative clothiers, framers, art pottery dealers, and a musical instruments store. The vibe is funky.

Now I have returned through quiet streets to a hotel room with a stripped bed and an elevator incessantly clanging as its carriage is stuck on the fourth floor, Part of me wants to be somewhere doing something. Another part of me says, "Rest." But I'm restless. I'll happily pick up a book and read, but not here. It's a pleasant room, but I feel the need for dynamic surroundings. I want to be a bit of quiet at the fringe of a world on the move. I want to feel life going on around me. This room is too separate. Too insulated. I'll close now and find a place to nestle in and rest on the periphery.