When Driving through Georgia with Jersey Plates, Know This . . .

You're going to be asked two questions. First, a total stranger walking past as you climb out of your (rental) car will look you right in the eye and ask, "how you doing today?" Upon answering, you will then be asked the second question, "you're a long way from home, aren't you?" A third question that may or may not follow, depending on the situation, is this: "are you married?", which I always find a bit forward. Why not let that topic just come up in conversation on its own? What's the rush? Anyway, this basically sums up my experience driving a rental car with Jersey plates through Georgia and Alabama, my home state. In just a three-day journey, I was approached by at least as many people. Having never been on the receiving end of southern hospitality as an outsider, I was warmed by the friendliness of my people. But, on second thought, I think they just wanted to hear the accent, and hear one they did, though sadly not the exotic, northeastern dialect they were probably hoping for. I think I revert to my native tongue the second my plane reaches the delta. However, as one who grew up on a military base surrounded by many varieties of accents and dialects, I pride myself on my ability to alter my accent such that it mimics those around me. I think it was a survival skill I picked up along the way, like a chameleon changing the color of its skin to blend in with its surroundings. But when I'm totally relaxed, or when I'm headed home, my true local color resounds from my mouth (my boyfriend says it's redneck-like, which is neither flattering nor true). It usually takes a few days for the accent to wear off when I get back to Austin. It usually takes a few days to stop feeling lost and homesick, too.

The 'Burbs

So, the other day I'm driving back from a friend's house, crossing the highway over the greenbelt and back into the city. The friend lives in a suburb at the southernmost part of town, not far, as the crow flies, but culturally leagues away from the heart of downtown. Many of the people I work with live out there and make this daily trek in to work. These 'burbs have everything you could want, a Target, Gold's Gym. It even has some of the things you'd find in the heart of Austin, some of the things that give Austin it's unique flair -- a Torchy's Tacos tucked into the corner of a limestone strip mall, next to a Costco. There's even a walking trail that winds around a grove of cedars. But still, something is lacking, you get the feeling (or at least I do), that something just isn't quite right. For one thing, it's too clean. The limestone exteriors of the strip malls are too pristine: they aren't weathered or worn. For another, with the exception of a lone retiree shuffling along the park path, there are no pedestrians, no kamikaze cyclists fighting for their share of the road. There are no siren wails or clock tower gongs, no jolly canines with tongues lolling out the sides of their mouths as they trot alongside their jogging partners. These things are the lifeblood of a city - they are what create the unique flavor of a place.

A suburb, on the other hand, is a fake city. It has the accoutrements, the facades, but no heartbeat. It is simply a manequin, a portrait, a reproduction. Not quite the city, but no longer the country, it is a limbo between heaven and hell, and a place where I could never live. In city or country, I could be happy; in heaven or hell, I can find my place, but not out there, not in fakeland. If I did, I'd probably go back to drinking and then die an untimely death.