Travels- Day 2 (Charlotte, NC)

As I was descending into Charlotte this morning, I got to thinking about the reasons why I love flying. Sure, it's a pain and a half taking off your shoes and belt, and it's always a delicate balance taking enough food and clothing to last you the entire flight but not so much that you need to check it and pay exorbitant fees. But all that flies out the window (pun intended) when I'm sitting on the runway, waiting for the roar and bassy vibrations that signal the jet's readiness to take off. And once that thing finally does take off, sprinting down the runway as if in pursuit of an Olympic gold, I know that it's only a matter of moments before I experience that feeling of weightlessness once the plane's wheels stop making contact with the ground and a sense of magic replaces my scant knowledge of physics. I have a rudimentary idea how planes get in the air and don't fall out, but it doesn't matter: Every time I fly, all good sense disappears in favour of awe.

It only gets better from there when the plane keeps tipping upward, streaming through wispy clouds. I have the best vantage point in the world and it's pretty humbling to see it's actually the sun that cuts a line across the land, not your countrymen.

The wonder recurs as we're landing and those school buses that looked like pencils from way up in the sky now morph into a living community. Whenever possible, I choose a window seat so that I have the best view for seeing the flaps unfold, their mechanical whirring reminding me of the dentist's, and the tarmac loom closer. Part of me doesn't want to feel the plane hit terra firma, but the other part of me is a little relieved when I feel the plane's wheels make hard contact with the runway and it's yet another flight I've been on that's turned out okay.

I've waxed so poetic about planes taking off and landing that, three paragraphs later, I haven't even described the rest of my day, my incredibly jam-packed day! I'd changed into shorts at Buffalo Airport in anticipation of the hot and humid weather that'd greet me in the Gateway to the South, and I wasn't disappointed. From the second I exited Charlotte Douglas to when I returned hours later, shorts and a t-shirt more than sufficed. It sucked having to carry around two bags with me, but such is the lockerless life after 9/11.

First stop on the list was the plantation, but not before I'd asked two security guards where they'd eat if they had a quick lunch break (answer: Taste, inside of Founders Hall by the Charlotte Transportation Center). Thanks to my tourism, I was just about late for the bus but managed to catch one that'd get me to the Rosedale on time. Turns out what actually made me late was missing my stop by two. The plantation was fascinating to learn about, made better by the engaging and knowledgeable Beth Harris (great accent!) and the accessibility of the house and its objects.

From there, I decided I'd walk the 3mi back to town so that I could get a closer look at Charlotte and get some sun, but gave up after about a mile. It just sucked too much to be walking with 20lbs' worth of baggage and shitty thin shoes. Now my feet are so sore and I don't like resting back on my heels, just on the balls of my feet. Oh well, lesson learned.

Next stop- supposedly the only other stop in that city (yeah, right)- was to the Bechtler Museum of Modern Art where, based on how things went at the plantation, I decided to shape my article on Charlotte as a contrast between the past and the future. But all throughout the museum's four floors, I couldn't get the words of Beth Harris out of my head, urging me to go to the Levine Museum of the New South and talk to Tom Hanchett, aka Mr. History.

So I did.

I ignore the throbbing emanating from the soles of my feet, the straps digging into my neck, and the slight headache brought on my dehydration, and marched on until I talked to another one of the lovely people I've encountered in this city. Tom was so friendly and quick with facts that I'm still not sure I managed to retain even half of what he said. He took me on a quick tour of the place and it was neat to see how Charlotte was the epitome of many changes that occurred in the postbellum States.

There was the small matter of food, which I was more than curious to experience in a South city like Charlotte. I'd only ever been exposed to Southern cooking in a cheesy, Boston Market-kind of way, and I want my grits and hash, gosh darn it. I'd asked Beth where a good place was in the city and right away she answered, 'Lola's'; I was fully intending on going there but along the way, got sidetracked by the $15 prix fixe lunch at Ruth's Chris Steak House. Yeah. A bowl of lobster bisque and five veal ravioli later, I was a little stuffed to the gills and my thirst was slaked...but no Southern food. This is one 'sacrifice' I can happily live with.

I think it's a pretty accurate measure of how much I got out of Charlotte by the unexpected pangs of missing it I felt when I got to the airport. This is a city that's green, floral, aromatic, friendly, spacious, and even featured a car with a licence plate from Nova Scotia. I also got a big kick out of their accents: twangy, yet sweet, and touched with that Souther charm that's so famous in literature.

Next stop: the west coast.