Finally, Fast Food

I've been very good. Today, in a quick bid to avoid putting a loved one in hock just to procure a meal at the airport, I dined at the Burger King drive-thru. This is the first fast food meal I've had. I don't count the Chick Fil-A sandwich last Tuesday. For some reason I'm in denial and don't rank them with other fast food restaurants.

The meal was tasty. The fries still taste like salty cardboard. But I like a little salty cardboard at times. The Whopper Jr., though, was just the jolt of artery-clogging comfort food goodness I was craving. Topped off with an ice-cold Coca-Cola and I'm good to go.

Speaking of meeting one's meal needs, I ate at the India Pavilion restaurant last night. Mixed vegetables and garlic nan bread with just enough spice to induce a light sheen of perspiration and a wake-up call to my taste buds. Take that all you "country cookin' boiled vegetables!" This is how you were meant to end up. Displayed on a bed of pilaf, not drowning in grease and your own disintegrating innards.

Rainbreaker:Rainmaker

I had a scrumptious lunch today. Shrimp and Scallop Pasta at the Charleston Crabhouse. It was very filling, so I stopped short and boxed a bit for dinner tomorrow. Then I had a piece of Key Lime Pie and a cup of coffee to complete my meal. Glancing to my right, I notice the oddest thing occurring just beyond the windows. I gravely took stock of my options, factoring in my girth and the proximity of the rental car and came to two obvious conclusions: NOT having a Gore-Tex jacket available seems to foster cloudbursts; and somebody was fixin' to get wet. That is correct. I left my jacket on the Southern Cross. It is stuffed into a little cubbyhole where I feel certain it is nicely dry. Would that I had been in the same condition when I reached the car. My predicament was compounded by my dissatisfaction with the heat inside the car earlier in the day. I tidily fixed that by leaving the windows open a bit. Not too much. Just enough to dampen the upholstery before I returned.

My priorities are intact, however. I begged a plastic bag before I left the restaurant. For the food? Heavens, no. I carried that. It was for the book I was reading at the time. I got it back to the hotel with nary a bit of the text smudged. This afternoon I finished that book, am about two-thirds of the way through another, and have no desire to eat anything until morning. And I'm still (but only just barely) within my per diem.

p.s. I was happy to be served Crab Puppies as an appetizer. They call them something else up north. Based on the name alone at home I've always wondered how they find them and how they expect to make a meal of them. The Southern nomenclature makes no more sense (although I didn't see any dogs in the area and that may or may not be cause for concern), but it does assuage my guilt for the anguish we may have caused all the little boy crabs out there.

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.