Charleston, SC

I started the real journey yesterday, when I left my parents' house for Charleston, SC. It was a relief to really get going--I'm excited to see new things, of course, but I was also anxious to leave my dad's anxiety behind. I know the constant questions were a way to relieve his own fears, but by the end, I was starting to feel that I was being constantly second-guessed.

And what better way to overcome that than on an empty highway, at 75 mph, with the XM satellite radio 80s station blaring? One of the many advantages to road-tripping alone is that no one judges you when you sing along to Tears for Fears at the top of your lungs. Turns out singing along to anything 80s at the top of your lungs is very therapeutic. I wanted to stay off the freeways, and it turns out that was the right move. The two- and four-lane highways I took to Charleston were largely deserted, and I got to see things I wouldn't have seen from I-95. 95 is a constant battle for lane supremacy; plus I got to avoid eastern North Carolina, which is nothing but hound dogs and scrub pine. I went down the middle of the state instead; old Highway 1 between Rockingham, NC, and Cheraw, SC (right on the border) was unexpectedly beautiful, especially when everything suddenly flattened out and the hills of Appalachia were left behind. Unfortunately, past Cheraw, the interior of South Carolina is exactly what you'd expect: flat, poor, and full of Jesus. The recession has hit this part of the world hard; at least one out of every two businesses I passed were shuttered.

Happily, Charleston is not like the rest of the state. It, too, is exactly what you'd expect--an antebellum town, full of lovely old architecture and lots of tourists. I wandered around for a bit, looking at the lovely old houses and trying to avoid the knots of slow-moving tourists. A couple of the restaurants I'd wanted to try were mobbed with them (note: never go to a restaurant mentioned in a guidebook), but never fear: my nose led me to ribs and beer at Sticky Fingers.

Once I'd checked into the hostel (Not So Hostel), I wandered over to the marina and treated myself to a real Dark and Stormy at a real sailor's bar, right on the docks. I sat on the dock and smelled the salt air and watched the sun set while I drank my Dark and Stormy and New York felt like a million miles away. I fell in with a group of boaters and we had a late dinner at 39 Rue de Jean . My first road trip friends! Today I plan to do more of the same: architecture, water, beer, etc., punctuated with fresh seafood and shrimp n' grits.

On the last night at home, my grandmother informed me that a driver's license was only good in one state. "No, Grandma," I said, "I'm pretty sure they're good all over the US." Then she wanted to know where mine was from. "New York," I said. "Oh, well, that's okay then," she replied. Glad we got that straightened out.