Deep South USA - Atlanta, Georgia

We spent 5 great days in and around Atlanta, Georgia. We were lucky enough to stay in the beautiful house of our friends Adam and Paget. It was a great base, first and foremost due to how welcoming our hosts were, filling us with fantastic southern cooking and hospitality, as well as taking time over a few drinks to educate us about the city and region.

What was also remarkable was the setting. I knew they were based in an affluent suburb of northern Atlanta, but did not expect anything like what we found. Yes, all the houses were much bigger than I anticipated (I have never – and I mean never – seen so many massive houses in close proximity than driving around the local area), but the main difference was the nature. The neighbourhood appeared to have been carefully plonked into a steamy forest of effervescent green and giant trees. Walking out from the deck of the house, their garden stretched down through the trees to a wild creek. Birdsong was everywhere with bright red cardinals dropping in and, on one morning, a deer carefully stepping by and stopping to stare in our direction as we tried to not make a noise (not easy with toddlers). This within the bounds of one of the largest metropolises in the States! A quite ridiculous, lovely surprise.

DOWNTOWN

All of this leafy serenity is worlds apart from downtown Atlanta. From my limited experience, a relatively standard, if large, American city centre. Bricks, steel, glass and more tarmac fed by humongous inter-mingling highways which suck people in like over-filled conveyor belts. 

I will not forget in a long while journeying back into Atlanta from NC in a torrential storm, straining to not aquaplane as we first encountered en masse nut crazy driving (who doesn’t swerve in and out of bunched traffic at 90mph when the rain is so heavy the fastest wiper setting is sub-sufficient) and then solid jams as no less than three different car crashes blocked up the interstate. Not fun with a 9-month year old projectile puking white vomit in the back of the car…

 

While Atlanta is not the prettiest city, it proved to have some really interesting sites, which kept us more than occupied. Home to such giants as CNN, Delta and none other than Coca-Cola, it has all the associate commerciality, with the oddity of the Coca-Cola museum being a particular temple to American consumerism right in the heart of the Olympic Park. On the more traditionally educational side, while the Fernbank Museum of Natural History and fantastic Children's Museum were a hit, the Georgia Aquarium absolutely took the biscuit.

 

The largest aquarium in the world, it houses a mind-goggling array of marine life. Whole sections dedicated to different environments, from a polar zone complete with Beluga whales, via the minutiae of reef life, to the enormity of pelagic ocean goers. The coup de grace is the vast Ocean Explore tank, filled with some 6.3 million gallons of water. It was awesome to lay back beneath the main viewing window and watch creatures large and small swim by in the blue. Turtles, massive groupers, giant manta rays and, amazingly, whale sharks. Yes, whale sharks. Swimming about in the heart of inland Georgia are the biggest fish in the sea in all their blue and white-flecked glory. My boys could not quite digest it, eyes wide open and jaws dropping to the floor.

POLITICAL LEGACY

Atlanta’s most celebrated son is Dr Martin Luther King. He was born, grew up and later returned to Atlanta as pastor of Ebenezer Baptist Church, a post he was to hold up to the day he was assassinated. Consequently a few square blocks of downtown Atlanta are maintained and preserved in his honour as a National Historic Site. 

 

We spent much of a day learning about Montgomery, Birmingham and Selma at the thought provoking museum, as well as standing outside the house he grew up in, walking the streets he walked and contemplating in the church where he preached. The power of his oratory came across so clear through the crackle of half a century. 

 

I was very moved by this touching tribute to Dr King and the movement he so courageously led. As a Brit, I am well aware that my forebears are very much on the wrong side of history when comes to the past of African Americans. It says a lot about Dr King’s message and legacy that we felt so welcome. Given the current political climate, it is as vital as ever that places like this exist to illustrate how peaceful collective action can push prejudice and injustice back into the shadows. Here’s hoping.

In a lighter moment, I could not help but be amused by a Park Ranger driving by in a full blown muscle car, rev’s and all. His beat was 3 or 4 blocks. Only in America.

POLITICAL PINTS

I enjoyed Atlanta. Like much of America, an interesting conglomeration of extremes. Nature and concrete. Affluence, aspiration and deprivation. Faceless architecture around fascinating sights. Politics divided.

Aptly perhaps, I said farewell to this city knocking back the beers with Adam at Manuel's Tavern, a renowned Democrat bar deep in the Republican South. It is a remarkable place, having that American knack of making places that really aren’t that old feel genuinely historic. Every inch of the walls is covered in political, drinking and sporting paraphernalia, slowly fading with time as they merge into one another. JFK holds pride of place above the bar. Once Jimmy Carter’s local, I could only but imagine all the chat that these four walls have soaked up. Apparently Obama dropped by just days before to chuck some darts. No better place to talk shit and put the world to rights with an old mate until the lights went on and we were told to go home...

 

The next morning I learned the real value of the Waffle House. A mountain of fat-filled hangover cure to make the flight home more bearable!

Deep South USA - Blue Ridge Road Trip

I have been quietly interested in the Southern USA ever since I touched upon the American Civil War when studying history as a kid. This interest has grown over the years through the drip-feed of innumerous cultural references, chance meetings with Southerners, and periodic delves into the history, culture, and society of the USA.

The incentive of visiting an old mate who married a Southern belle and settled in that fascinating corner of the world was all the excuse I needed to come explore.

The old mate was (and is) Adam, the belle Paget. Together with two lovely children, Iris and Tanner, they live in a beautiful, affluent suburb of Atlanta, Georgia. With the keen hospitality for which the South is famed and being wonderfully forgiving of the severe reduction in serenity that it entailed, they put Chris, me, and our three little ones up in their house before, after, and in between two road trips into the South. The first of these was to the mountains.

TO APPALACHIA

On Paget’s recommendation, we set off on a north-easterly direction in search of Asheville, North Carolina. The first thing that struck me as we turned onto the 10-lane highway out of the city was the scale of the everyday automobiles. Our Grand Cherokee was the biggest car I have ever rented (the airport rental company had suggested it was too small for us!), but it was nothing compared to all these giant SUVs and 6-wheeler pick-ups ploughing the road with a penchant for undertaking.

The second thing was just how green everything was. Verdant, steroid-fuelled green, dominated by huge trees that hemmed in the road for mile after mile. For some reason, I had expected Georgia to be dry and dusty cotton land, but instead we found what felt like temperate rain forest.  To my amazement, I later discovered that this forest stretched in an almost uninterrupted line for over 1000 miles all the way to Canada. Who said all the wilderness was out West?

Our long day at the wheel was only broken by two very different, but each quintessentially American, pit-stops. The first was to a highway Waffle House. An American institution I had never heard of, serving cholesterol-fuelled diner food and waffles to some of the more skint and hungover members of society since God knows when. It sounds strange, but visiting this small roadside diner complete with distinctly shifty looking guests and a waitress who slipped effortlessly between giving the locals an earful and acting sweet as pie to us was one of my top cultural experiences of our trip. Akin, I imagine, to an American visiting the UK and stepping into a middle-of-nowhere pub full of half-pissed locals.

Southerners do indeed love their God...

...and their Guns

Finally turning off the highway onto smaller roads, we found more forest, interspersed with farmland, as we briefly crossed into South Carolina. This was where we took our second stop, in the small middle-of-nowhere cross-roads town of Walhalla. I was in heaven. As well as the gun shop, multiple Baptist churches, and pick-ups to burn, this two-horse town is home to a dainty, prim little café run by people that are so inordinately friendly that it set my cynical European mind on edge. The South really is different.

On we went, back through the forests and into North Carolina, before arriving just before dark at the little piece of vintage Americana we were to call home for the next few days. A small wooden cabin at an original 1920’s motor lodge (the precursor to motels). Though just off I-25 and only a couple of miles north of Ashville, we found ourselves surrounded by towering woodland, cardinals, chipmunks, and, our kids aside, quiet.

WATER FROM ABOVE, WATER FROM BELOW

Above all else, we had come here for the Blue Ridge Parkway. A highly unconventional road which owes its existence to desperate times and grand gestures. Part of FDR’s New Deal to provide work to the unemployed masses and give a Keynesian kickstart to the US economy ravaged by the depths of the Great Depression. The Parkway stretches 469 miles, snaking south from Virginia to the Great Smoky Mountains at the very edge North Carolina. Apart from its roots, what makes this road stand out is its extraordinary setting and protection. It purposely clings to the higher reaches of the Blue Ridge Mountains and is protected by Federal law as a National Park. No HGVs, gas stations, lights, or traffic, just glorious open road cutting in and out of the clouds.

The college town of Asheville is the main stop at the heart of the Parkway, nestled in a valley famed for its beauty. When we awoke the first morning, we could see none of it. Dark clouds had closed in to swallow up the mountains and it was pissing it down relentlessly. We decided to brave the Parkway anyhow. We chose south, climbed out of Asheville, and were delighted to join the Parkway in a gap in the clouds. We were greeted with a magnificent view back across a river valley and out to the forests. It lasted all of 5 minutes and then the weather closed back in, drearier than before. Within half an hour, we could barely see 10m in front of us, enveloped as we were in dense, dripping fog.

We cut our losses and quit the highway, descending on a small road which twisted through the Pisgah National Forest in a southerly direction. The mist slowly cleared until we reached a large waterfall (Looking Glass Falls), bursting through the trees and dropping 18m into a splash pool. The kids had seen nothing like it and were happily over-awed. On we headed to the town of Brevard, nestled in the wonderfully named Transylvania County. We settled in for lunch at a seriously quirky  50’s diner, where we were informed by a ridiculously sincere yet friendly local that we would find even better waterfalls in the Dupont State Forest, only a few miles out of town.

Given the weather we had little to lose, so we drove on, parked up and, in spite of the incessant drizzle, put our small one in the baby-bjorn, gave each of the boys a mini umbrella, and headed off round a well-marked trail through dense forest. It was awesome.

We trekked for an hour or so, following a 3-mile trail next to a river that intermittently found dramatic ways to transverse a troublesome landscape. First a sheer drop, where the whole river poured over a ridge and dropped 40m in a violent cascade.

Then a series of smaller, but no less beautiful, falls, funnelled by large chunks of granite. Climbing down a steep set of steps, we were able to get right up close and personal, feeling the spray. The rain then closed in and we ended our adventure jogging through the trees to our car with the kids on our shoulders huddling under umbrellas.

RIDING THE RIDGE NORTH

Fortunately, the weather improved and we spent the next two days exploring the Parkway to the north, entering on the first day up a rather interesting dirt trail that made me happy we had a 4x4. Once atop the Parkway, we were greeted with the most astonishing views of thick forests falling down from the mountains and out over the valleys, sporadically carpeted with thin streaks of pure white cloud.

As the smooth, empty road meandered high up on the ridge for mile after mile, the Appalachians threw up one amazing vista after another. A truly majestic part of the world.

Like so many National Parks in the USA, the Parkway is brilliantly organised, with maps, resting stops, and countless trails. We took the three small ones up one of these trails which led through Craggy Gardens.

Though only 2 and 3, the boys trekked a full couple of miles up hill through increasingly spooky terrain to the summit of Craggy Dome at 6,085 feet. As we climbed, the trees shrunk to gnarled, oxygen-starved beings covered in dripping moss and lichen. The clouds closed in to a claustrophobic mist, muffling sounds and enveloping whatever lurked within the otherworldly undergrowth.

By the time we reached the summit we had climbed into the clouds. A surreal, but fun experience. Staring out from the peak at wisps of white-washed nothingness all around.

On our way down from the Parkway, we chose to take back roads and found ourselves in rural Appalachia. Sticking God radio on the stereo (I kid you not, the first station I found had linked Hilary Clinton, gay marriage, and the coming apocalypse within 30 seconds), we passed through small villages cut out of the woods, lined with Baptist churches and the odd Confederate flag.

This was real, hard, red, back country, which shared little in common with the isolated blue speck of Asheville. Each evening we discovered a bit more of the joys of this laid back college town. Fantastic food, craft beer, and chilled-out atmosphere came as standard, alongside a fair chunk of interesting architecture. The latter, at least in part, thanks to money that poured in from the late 19^th century onwards from the locally resident Vanderbilts (a big local tourist attraction is their grand country house of Biltmore, the largest privately owned house in the USA).

RIDING THE RIDGE SOUTH

Taking the Blue Ridge Parkway south-bound, the sensational views stretched on and on, reaching a crescendo at and beyond Mount Pisgah, where the road clung to a cliff edge at an ever greater height and stark rocky formations littered the forests below.

We stopped off for a snack lunch at the foot of the Waterrock Knob Trail. Starting at a thinning out of the ridge where you could see out to the East and West, the trail headed in the latter direction up and through the forest. The trees then receded as the path strung back and forth up a steep ascent. The boys clambered up without any concern, clutching on steps, rails, and roots.

Approaching the 6000 ft plus summit, the forest thickened around us. A little out of breath we made it to the top and strung out on a bench handily positioned before a cliff edge and yet another stunning view. I was so impressed with our two boys for trekking up the whole way.

We had the place all to ourselves in the sunshine. It was marvellous. Relatively care free, I left Christina to keep our 3 year old and 9 month old away from the cliff edge, and took our 2 year old into the woods for a pee. As he was doing his business in a small clearing, I noticed something more than a little disconcerting. By his side was a massive paw print in the mud, much like a dog’s but on a multiplied scale. Further, it looked VERY fresh - deep, clean edged and untouched by the recent rains.

My mind immediately jumping to the rather large black bears that frequent these parts, I picked up my boy, headed back to the others and, deciding that there were advantages to explaining the situation later, hurried my small family back down the trail.

When back in the jeep it is fair to say that my other half was not impressed that I had waited until after the event to tell her, meaning she did not get the chance to see the print. An awesome reaction, but at least I had taken a pic to show her.

ON TO THE GREAT SMOKY’S

The plan was to follow the Parkway all the way to its Southern terminus. Unfortunately, the small matter of landslides put paid to that. This was announced by an unexpected gate across the road. There was nothing else to do but back track a good half hour and head down into the valleys to find another road.

While this was disappointing, the Blue Ridge Parkway redeemed itself with a parting gift as we made our exit. A massive raptor swooped down in front of us through the trees, before sharing a sharp turn in the road just meters in front of us. It was startling.

Who can spot the raptor?

We ploughed along the local roads, having that slightly dirty sensation of being surrounded by everyday life after touching wilder places. We eventually made it to the odd, rather sad town of Cherokee. A tiny enclave for the Cherokee Indians to sell tat and gambling in a place that was once the heart of their rich territories before most of the nation were forcibly resettled (where they did not perish on the journey) in the wake of a local gold rush to land far away that the white man did not want. This is part of what has become known as the “Trail of Tears”, a scar on the conscience of the US. I felt more than a pang of guilt as I passed through in my Chevrolet Grand Cherokee.

We soon moved on and arrived at the goal of our long day driving from Asheville. The Great Smokey Mountains National Park.

Thanks to a quirk of the last ice age, among other factors, this over 2000 square km mountain park is remarkably bio-diverse. Wildlife from colder northern climes were pushed south by the last great ice age and, unlike in the rest of the region, managed to stay put when the glaciers receded (thanks to the high altitude and unique climate) and now share the park with more natural southern dwellers.

I am a little sad to say that we only popped our noses a few miles into the park, rather than passing all the way through to Tennessee or exploring its wilder parts. One for next time. We did though encounter some great wildlife on our mini trek through the forest and along a clear water river bank. Chipmunks, wild turkeys, squirrels, deer, and, best of all, a group of ground hog. I am not sure who was more excited, the boys, Chris, or me. OK, probably me!

Before jumping back into the car for our long trek back to Atlanta, we just had time to go see a park ranger and ask the key question of the day. She carefully considered our photo and, to my caveated delight, confirmed that it was a black bear print!

Helau! Karneval Düsseldorf Style

 

Sometimes the insularity of us Brits gets to me. How can I have grown up a short hop across the Channel from (arguably) Europe’s biggest annual party without ever having heard of it? Bigger than Glastonbury, madder than Octoberfest, in a different league from the Notting Hill Carnival, I am of course talking about Karneval on the Rhine. Had I not had the fortune of befriending various Germans, I would have no doubt continued in my ignorance and missed out on this awesome manifestation of human eccentricity. Fortunately for me, my friends Thilo and Kat live in Düsseldorf and invited us to Karneval 2015.

WHAT'S THE BIG DEAL?

There is a long and grand tradition of Karneval amongst the cities on the Rhine, principally in Cologne, Düsseldorf and Mainz which today house mass celebrations. It is the “fifth” season of craziness. Officially starting in November each year, but coming to life on the six days which lead up to Ash Wednesday and Karneval’s close.

 

While Cologne is the biggest and oldest (over a million people turn up on Rose Monday alone), Karneval is huge in Düsseldorf, attracting hundreds of thousands of people, national coverage, and tonnes of what you may think as uncharacteristically German odd-ballness. From the opening by the “official” jester, via women ceremonially storming city hall and cutting off men's ties, to Tuntenlauf, rather oddly described as the “Homosexual Race” (meant in a positive liberal sense), a conglomeration of strange traditions and party mix together to cause havoc.

Having bailed on Karneval 2010 at the last minute due to illness (we were literally on the way to the airport), I was desperate to make amends and grabbed the offer with both hands, booking flights to Dusseldorf for Chris and our three small ones, Niko, Alexi and Aria.

JUGENDUMZUG

One of the more major sub-events of Karneval in Düsseldorf is the Jugendumzug (the Youth Procession), where thousands of children parade through the centre of the city. This was to be our introduction to all the silliness. 

 

The kids slipped into their fancy dress costumes (two dragons, a hippo and a princess) and, guided by Thilo and his daughter Marie (the princess), we headed into the crowds to witness the parade first-hand. 

It was brilliant. Thousands lined the streets of the parade route, cheering troop after troop of kids.  Each troop had a zany theme, competing to be the most ridiculous. We were passed by bees, clowns, octopi, cowboys, aliens and a number of unidentified species. Bands played and everyone smiled.

 

The kids were enthralled. At the start they stared, riveted but bemused by the strange passers-by. This soon turned into cautious participation and then frantic, head-long mixing it up. The catalyst, of course, were sweets.  

 

As each troop passed, they ceremonially threw sweets to the side of the road and into the crowd. A small one here, a couple of small ones there, a whole bag further along. With each throw, local kids would jump into the road to collect the sweet manufactured nectar. Our kids soon realised proactiveness was necessary to beat the crowds, standing on edge, ready to pounce and push their way to any stray candy. Chaos, only increased by the sugar intake. We tried to collect as many as possible into our bags – as opposed to their mouths – but with only limited success. They loved it!

When the kids had completely over-cooked, we made our way across to the Altstadt and the beautiful  brewery street by the Rhine. This was thronging with revellers swilling down the local altbier (a dark, but surprisingly light, brown beer served in small glasses). Fancy dress everywhere and the slight hint of on-coming carnage in the air. 

We joined in, had a couple of beers and then, with the kids literally asleep on our shoulders, crashed out for the day.

ROSE MONDAY

 

The BIG event. A REALLY BIG event. An estimated 800,000 people squeezed along the parade route in 2015 to watch the 5km long procession of floats wheel by.  

 

Somehow, thanks to cunningness of Thilo, we managed to find a relatively easy route street side (via a railway track!). By the time the parade started, the crowds were a dozen deep, nearly everyone dressed up in zany attire. We were likewise, the kids this time being accompanied by a pirate (Thilo), Pooh Bear (Chris) and Batman (me).

With the exception of one angry drunk man who took candy from children (confrontation was only narrowly averted), the crowd were in a happy, positive, party mood.  It was a wonderful atmosphere.

To my surprise, the floats were fantastic. Sarcastic, funny, political and rude. Political sensitivity went out the window as ridicule rained down on may a target - the papacy, the EU, fundamentalist Islam. Here are some of my favourites.

It went on and on. A great example of competition pushing on people to do ever more creative things. 

As with the Jugendumzug, candy rained down and the kids, who like us were loving the whole thing, steadily moved into a state of hyper-happiness followed, predictably, by the odd tear.

ROSE MONDAY NIGHT

The kids safely and deeply asleep after their day’s excitement, Thilo and I ventured back into town to join the evening’s entertainment. We arrived reasonably late to a scene of drunken carnage. The streets were packed, people in often risqué costumes pouring out of every bar. An 'anything goes' atmosphere. It was brilliant.

Needless to say we tried out a few bars. While I particularly enjoyed a student rock bar, the brauhaus scared me. Nowadays I do not find much intimidating, but pissed, loud, promiscuous, middle-aged German women are an exception, and the brauhaus seemed to specialise in such clientele. 

Karneval is known as the night when relationships start and end, and I could see why. People were all over each other and having a great time.

The remnants of the night’s carnage literally littered the streets. On our walk back to the metro, we passed through steets ankle-deep in paper cups, rubbish and the odd worse-for-wear party goer.

HELAU TO KARNEVAL

Karneval exceeded my expectations. On my travels through Germany, I have been continually surprised by how a country so famous for being conservative and efficient has bursts of left-field craziness and counter-culture that puts other countries to shame. Perhaps it is the everyday conformity which gives birth to and allows that otherness to flourish.

 

Needless to say, by the time we arrived back into town the next morning, all signs of carnage had been efficiently cleaned away and, bar some obvious killer hangovers, things were back to normal.

I would like to say a special thank you to Kat, Thilo, Nora and Marie who put us up so magnificently. To all those celebrating Rose Monday 2016 tomorrow - “Helau Düsseldorf”!