Visiting museums as an adult can be a surreal experience, especially traipsing through one so complete as the Museum of Natural History.  Here, on thematic display, are all the best parts of your biological, anthropological, geological, and zoological education.  From Pleistocene to Plato, from hominids to Hammurabi, the Smithsonian houses a collection of skulls, gemstones, artifacts, and relics that will solidify in your mind how unequivocally stupid you are.  Room after room, mobs of children point to items you vaguely remember once learning about, you think, but can no longer summon even a sentence to accurately describe.  What you initially believe to be the skeleton of a small monkey turns out to be badger.  You were not even in the same Order, let alone Family!

To further our demoralization, the place was teeming with children more knowledgeable on everything than us.  Even listening to them correct their ignoramus parents with barely-contained exasperation (e.g., when one balding fat-man called the Allosaurus a T-Rex, or when a mother referenced the Hope Diamond as a “damn fine sapphire”) did little to lift our spirits.  Nothing makes you feel worse than being confronted in graphic detail with (a) how much you have forgotten and (b) how little you even knew in the first place.

The wise Owl bucks up in these scenarios to occupo scientia — to seize the knowledge, grip it by its throat, and drain its life-blood as your own.  But not us.  We opted simply to capture photographs of the sparkly and the macabre, forgetting everything the moment we walked away from the placard.  We literally can not tell you one thing we learned today.  What differentiates malachite from hematite?  No idea.  Why were swaddled babies in the 17th century Chesapeake colonies more prone to lethal illness?  Don’t ask us.  What kinds of antemortem skull wounds were early humans able to survive?  Seriously, stop asking.  We do not have a clue.

But what we do have are pictures of cherry blossoms in full bloom.  They are everywhere and the city is gangbusters for them.  The pink-and-white theme is omnipresent and who could blame the urban planners for wanting to embrace such a consummate symbol of Springtime?  With the day sunny and bright, we took our shoes off and walked barefoot through the cool grass, smiling at the flowering trees and watching kite-flyers maneuver in the refreshing breeze.  It was a day of days and the entire city breathed easily; that is, until there was a drive-by quadruple homicide.  Newscasters were quick to point out 2010 has only experienced twenty-four shooting murders thus far, which is supposedly still low from a historical perspective for DC.  Understanding absolute vs. relative statistics goes a long way toward helping the skittish traveler feel safe.

Reasonably far from the gun violence (which started, as all great gun violence should, over a bracelet to a girl), we ventured into the Aeronautics and Space Museum.  We bought a space suit for our little Owlet and several pounds of space ice-cream — its the dessert of the future — and everywhere we looked, there were rockets and capsules and fighter jets dangling from huge wires.  It was like stumbling into the rec room of a titan with a model airplane addiction.  Could that really be the Spirit of St. Louis hanging above us?  This is actually Skylab?  It all seemed a bit much to accept.  We snorted in disbelief and spent most of our time in the Early Flight section, where the term “aeroplane” not “airplane” was appropriate and most of the fanciful designs reminded us of Terry Gilliam illustrations.  We may or may not have an unhealthy attachment to all things turn-of-the-century.  

With a bit of time left in the day, we decided to further abuse our tormented feet and walk twenty city blocks down the Mall to visit Abraham Lincoln’s memorial.  There he sat, surrounded by throngs of popcorn and waffle-cone-munching visitors, and looking all the more august because of them.  They worship him and he gazes across the duck-filled reflecting pool at Washington’s monument, a gentle smirk on his marble face.  On the wall to Lincoln’s right is carved the Gettysburg address.  We were transfixed by its eloquence and profound brevity and Writer Owl sighs at the realization he is only playing at becoming a wordsmith.  Such is the majesty and tragedy of Lincoln. 

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Driving through Roanoke, Virginia, we were dazed at its juxtaposition with the still-easily-visible Blueridge, which mocked us from afar.  After passing four train-miles of fully-laden coal cars and a gigantic scrap-metal graveyard in the first ten minutes on the road, we wished Water Raleigh had just left well enough alone and drove away from the industrial grime as rapidly as we could.

The Chesapeake watershed basin, however, was quite lovely, with rolling hills of emerald-green crop-grass, happily-ignorant livestock, and plenty of old-timey grain silos and barns.  There were also numerous advertisements for cavern tours; having forgotten to bring our spelunking helmets, we decided to slum it and join some local white people and their terrified children at Grand Caverns in Grottoes.  The girl explaining the caverns went to the same school as every other tour-guide.  We endured stories about the facile names and shapes people see in the stalactites, columns, flows, and stalagmites (e.g., garden gnome, hitchin’ post, the bear, and cave bacon); elaborate and effusive stories about sections of the cavern we are not able to see because it is too dangerous (e.g., “you can only get there after a 45 minute belly-crawl, but once through, it is so pristine and breathtaking — way larger and more spectacular than what you see here”); and, the ever-popular, shutting off of lights.  The three-year-old in his adorable red hoodie was instantly vociferous in his appreciation of the inky darkness.  So, to express our discontent with the tour guide’s cruel banality, we hung back, ignored her, and snapped photographs, demonstrating both our cool rebelliousness and impeccable sense of composition.   

But the afternoon was upon us and we covered the rest of the way to Washington with the expected amount of frustration, getting lost twice and driving on the wrong side of the road straight through the heart of downtown.  For reasons we still cannot fathom, the road leading up to our vastly over-priced hotel had been turned into a one-way four-lane road, but the double yellow lines remained intact.  The only thing preventing other drivers from coming headlong into us were occasional small, wooden saw-horse barriers.  Because we were in the nation’s capital, it felt like a metaphor for something, but we were too unnerved to figure out what.

After getting settled, we sprinted off into the chilly late afternoon, hoping to catch sight of some cherry blossoms, which were in full bloom all over the city.  The subway was packed with commuting zombies, all glaze-staring into the empty air pocket 17 inches in front of their face.  One dude, gripping the handrail with his greasy forehead, appeared to have the following afflictions: severe leather-hagism, lifelong alcoholism, two enormous black eyes, and a demeanor that suggested the Lord Almighty despised his very existence.  We thanked him for not vomiting on us and sprinted off to the National Mall where we amused ourselves with the highly original concept of forced-perspective photography, inspiring no fewer than nine other tourists in the process.  Basically, we are trend-setters.  

The wind kicked up to uncomfortable, bang-ruining levels and we darted inside the Museum of American History until the attendants kicked us out.  We did have just enough time, however, to assess which First Lady of the United States looked the hottest in her inaugural gown (hint: it wasn’t Mamie Eisenhower).

We ended the evening eating passable sushi at Tono, where we eavesdropped on a nearby table of twelve astrologists.  They were part of some kind of meet-and-greet pastiche of local Washingtonian oddballs.  The key pieces of information we learned were: (1) having a college degree in psychology is quite valuable for a practicing astrologer and (2) astrology informs us the economy will never again recover.  

We fell asleep disturbed at this revelation, but happy we had not seen a gigantic rat running down Pennsylvania avenue less than two feet away.  Oh wait, never mind, we did see that.  Nightmares commencing shortly…

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Instead of returning to Savannah, we decided to keep driving North.  After all, we were already in the mountains, why not see them through to the end?  The Blueridge Parkway, that four-hundred mile scenic drive lauded as America’s favorite road, was only a few minutes away.  So we gassed up the Scion, eager to drink up all the natural beauty Appalachia could offer.

Two detours and three hours later due to sectional closures along the Parkway, we managed find an entrance at Linville Falls, where we abruptly ran into another roadblock.  Ice, it seems, is pernicious at 4500 feet above sea level.  Grumbling, we parked and set off in search of the actual Falls.  Our butter-clogged arteries cried terribly as we trudged up and then down, following the Linville river’s descent into madness.  When we reached the rock tunnel, with water roaring headlong through as if fleeing a mighty god, all pain was forgotten.  We stood in shock.  This was the sort of rapids your mind had no trouble extrapolating just how fatal slipping over the edge would be.  

Circling around, we found another viewing area beneath the main gush-point, though still considerably above the Linville river gorge itself.  And that, dear reader, is when vertigo set in.  Or, perhaps more accurately, when the knee-shaking chill of acrophobia set in.  

Though it sounds silly, we had never properly internalized that the Blueridge moniker was fully and accurately given — like the ocean, these mountains have an azure constancy which is beguiling.  Despite being in the passenger seat the entire day, Acrophobic Owl was beside herself because of this blue emptiness.  The countless mountainscape overlooks, though stunning, were also fundamentally terrifying.

We took a well-earned break to lunch at the Tartan Inn.  There were books on Tartans inside, statues of kilted men, newspaper clippings of the local Highland games, old paintings of MacGregors and MacPhersons; in fact, the only indentifiable item in the restaurant that was not Scottish was the menu.  The food was execrable versions of American diner-cuisine with not-so-clever Scottish-sounding names.  We each ordered a ham sandwich, described to us “Salt cured ham with your choice of condiments.”  What we received was a thick hunk of unchewable salt-lick between two white buns.  It had the vaguely porky taste of ham bouillon cubes.  

Unsatisfied with our actual food, we survived on the amazing scenery of the drive, which continued on for hours and hours.  We would squeal whenever a new animal was spotted, pulling dangerously off to the road’s shoulder in an effort to snap a picture, which was a near-universal failure except for livestock, who mostly just wanted us to shut up and allow them to graze in peace.  There may also have been multiple unlicensed urinations at various locations along the parkway, including, but not limited to: behind a pine tree, behind a spruce tree, behind a dogwood tree, just over that hill right there, and inside the historic but derelict church.

More hours of scenery.  So much scenery.  At some point, it began to blend together and the immortal words of Meg Ryan came to mind: “Gorgeous.  Beautiful.  Wish you were here.”  

Though one hundred more miles of Blueridge scenery exists for us to drink, we found ourselves too bloated to continue.  Instead, we stopped in Roanoke for the night and will leave the mountains behind us tomorrow as we head east.  There are blossoms to be seen, after all.  

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Unless you are an ascetic seeking enlightenment through pilgrimage, what is the point of travel if you do it alone?  Sure, we Owls are never without our entourage, but each new location brings the possibility of new members for incorporation into our parliament and Asheville was no exception.  

While waiting patiently for the slitherings of Le Serpent Rouge to begin, we decided to strike up conversation with two nearby gals.  One of them, whom we will call The Lady of Guadalupe, turned out to be a dedicated belly-dancer and the other, whom we will call Toonz, was her partner, side-show clown, and all around beam of sunshine.  We were all fast friends and Belly-dance Owl and The Lady of Guadalupe suffered untold cruelties at the hands of the Indigos during the next day’s nine-hour workshop.  Nothing brings women together more than the shared agony of strained lower backs and enfeebled buttocks.  

The gals turned out to be 89% vegetarian and, after sufficient muscle recovery, everyone met for dinner at the Laughing Seed Cafe.  Delicious food and great conversation dominated the evening and Toonz even did handwriting analysis on our owl-scratch signatures.  It was as if we had visited a wizened old Hungarian crone at a fair outside Budapest, only without the warts, pollution, or female arm-pit hair.  

We were sad to bid the two farewell, but contact information was exchanged, along with hugs and tears, and we hope the serendipitous meeting leads to future escapades.  

When we awoke the next afternoon, we decided to remain in Asheville for another day despite the drizzly gray sky.  We bought locally-produced yarn for scarf-knitting, Black Cyrpus sea salt from a particularly knowledgeable spice vendor, and ate at two fantastic restaurants.  

For brunch, we endured a lengthy, but well-earned, wait-time at the Tupelo Honey Cafe.  We sat in the “chef’s seats,” and watched the line cooks dance the orders past.  As Anthony Bourdain likes to say, these guys, with their earrings and rebellious beards and swagger, are modern-day pirates, and more power to them.  Our goat-cheese grits and sweet-potato pancakes were fantastic.  For dinner, we took a turn for the Spanish at Zambra, a Tapas restaurant of exceptional quality.  Of particular note was the flank steak with cilantro butter, which we only agreed to order because cholesterol levels do not matter when on vacation, and the corn and chipotle ice-cream, which was revolutionary.  Our waitress turned out to be leaving soon for the Peace Corps — though we wished her luck, we pitied the shock of subsisting on beetles in the forests of Paraguay after taking home Zambra nibbles for however long she worked there.  Having a conscience can be a serious killjoy.

Asheville has much an Owl could want: fantastic food, an interesting past, respectable mountains, plentiful rivers, and a tolerable number of hippies.  We might even move here someday.  

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Belly-dancing, that composite form of rhythmic dance Orientalists first romanticized as the pride of Ottoman harem-life, finds its popularity burgeoning.  With that popularity comes innovation and a dismantling of traditional versions and morays.  So to come the women.  Crowds of zaghareet-shrieking women now haunt the entire Eastern seaboard in search of spirituality, fitness, and sorority.  We Owls decided to again take part in all the fun when our favorite form of modern belly-dancing, termed “tribal fusion,” came to Asheville, North Carolina.  

Asheville is one of those beautiful Appalachian towns nestled in former Indian territory, ironically populated with huge quantities of hippies and artists who draw inspiration and creative strength from various native and indigenous peoples around the world.  Everything comes full circle when the affluent tourist can purchase hand-made crafts from white-girls-with-dreads wearing a Cherokee Nation t-shirt and feel great about supporting the tragically disenfranchised.  

You see, art is in the mountain soil here.  Musicians and sculptors and dancers and painters and craftswomen seemed to be everywhere.  We felt strangely at home, in fact, and happily joined the screaming masses at The Rocket Club where Le Serpent Rouge tour performed.  There are not many shows where Russian accordion-music, bluegrass, turn-of-the-century instrumentation, and juggling come together in the same show.  Oh, and belly-dancing.  Amazing, ululation-inducing, hand-clapping belly-dancing.  

Rachel Brice, Mardi Love, and Zoe Jakes, the women who comprise The Indigo Belly Dance Company, have taken their tribal fusion and blended it with a Vaudevillian flare, creating a remarkable and outrageous live entertainment experience.  From the local Balkan-influenced Mezmer Society to the hilariously-bearded Gallus Brothers, the show found harmony despite its disparate forms.  It was a show performed by gypsies for gypsies and we gladly soaked it all in from the front-row for over four hours. 

Sadly, one of the Owls had to wake up at 8 am the next morning to take part in the Indigos’ grueling, all-day belly-dancing workshop; however, that is a post for another day.

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Among our many reasons for moving to Savannah (which includes, but is not limited to: grocery shopping at Piggly-Wiggly, proximity to ghostly hauntings, easy-access to chittlins, and our ability to pull off wearing all-white suits), is the closeness of the ocean.  Tybee Island, in particular, is a short and lovely twenty-minute drive away.

Like most beach towns, Tybee has widow’s walks, weather-beaten houses on stilts, reduced speed limits, and geriatrics on fat-tired bikes coasting into their literal and figurative sunsets.  Unlike most towns, however, Tybee hosts its own pirate festival, which sets it hugely apart for us.  Pirates have always been, and will always be, awesome.  While there are many months before the festival, we also love the beach.  No need to wait on what you love, we say.

Though we forgot to bring the stunt-kites, there was still plenty to enjoy.  The weather had warmed up just for our visit and we strolled happily along the mostly empty beach, occasionally chasing plovers and gulls like giddy children.  Oddly, there were no actual giddy children in attendance.  Like archaeologists, we were forced to pick through eroded signs in the sand to determine how long it had been since children existed there and what, if anything, they had done.

Then we stumbled upon the castle.

Sure, this kid’s fortress cannot compare to the constructions of real sand artists, but, let’s face it, who could resist the urge to destroy an epic sand castle some leathery, oil-tanned beach-rat spent twenty-five hours putting together?  Certainly not us.  The child’s sand castle, by comparison, was left standing as cherished testament to that whimsical piece of all of us.

As beaches go, Tybee had many of the attributes we Owls seek:  a low visitation rate; general cleanliness despite being so close to large red-neck populations; people sifting through sand for Spanish doubloons with their metal detectors; crazy elderly women who ask us if we discovered any sand-dollars; crazy elderly women who proceed to tell us all about the sand-dollars they had found that day, and every day of the previous ten; and a fat, shirtless guy in a beach chair, smoking his cigar as the day’s light fades.

So, with cotton-candy skies heralding our departure, we turned around and walked briskly back toward the truck, which we hoped had not been towed by the criminal syndicate operating the pay-for-parking meters along every square inch of the island.  Seriously, do not go to Tybee without a sack of coins.

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We drove more than thirty minutes, and across the Georgia/South Carolina border, to reach the Savannah National Wildlife Refuge (which continues to feel misnamed given its location well-north of the city); however, nary a turtle nor alligator could be found.  Sure, it was triple-layer cold, with the smallest Owl of the group chattering teeth for the duration of the visit.  Yes, we understand reptiles are unable to regulate their body temperatures.  But our needs and expectations were not met and that is just mean.  We were promised gators.

Plenty of ring-necked ducks, teals, coots, herons, and songbirds were seen.  Our parents would have been most-pleased, scribbling in their “life-list” books and calling their friends.  But we could barely look at them.  Our attention was constantly drawn by:

1. The utter lack of reptiles.
2. The spooky power-plant towers / alien spacecraft on the horizon.
3. Torn up animal parts on the walking path.

That’s right.  Not just piles of feathers either.  Torn bits of ruddy animal fur.

What kind of animal?  Maybe a fantastic fox.  Maybe a colossal squirrel, mutated by the nearby Martian-walkers.  Death awaited in those chilly salt-water marshes and we sensed it implicitly.  We had stepped out of civilization and into the raw hinterlands — the unrelenting struggle and dance of death was happening all around us, albeit invisibly.  If not for the constant sound of Peterbilts along the nearby highway and the huge towers of industry, we might have forgotten we were even in the 21st century.  That was the Refuge’s complete sense of otherness.

Amazingly, we survived the journey without injury or abrasion, vowing to return in warmer months.  Animal carcass specimens were sent to the Owl forensic laboratory and results remain pending.

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For the educated traveler, there are numerous annual events in the greater Savannah area revolving around Colonial-era life, soldier re-enactments, and the consumption of giant turkey-legs.  Several such events are held at the Wormsloe Historic Site (found on Skidaway Isle, where the non-lavishly wealthy choose to live).

Cold and drizzly, we experienced a slice of true colonial life, as vendors hawked child-sized wooden muskets, non-sexy leather pants, various flint-objects, quills, polished rocks, and Bowie knives.  Though the entire festival/gathering consisted of only six booths and about twenty folk in period-garb, there was at least a cannon positioned somewhere in the distant marshes.  Its cacophonous booming caused everyone to flinch each time it went off.  Without a Georgia State Park “interpreter” to inform us of the hows or whys of the cannon, we were left to speculate on just how often artillery was heard in typical 18th century plantation life.

Our gay Owls also lingered in the booth operated by a Native American from Oklahoma, who spoke like a good ol’ boy, but looked like a red-skinned god.  Anything would look sexy on him, including those revealing leather indian-breeches, and more than a few dollars were spent out of appreciation.

Unfortunately, we arrived late that day and never much made it past the muddy booth area.  Which is to say, we walked approximately fifty feet into the park.  Feeling this was an uncharitable duration to give a bona-fide historical site, we returned the next weekend, brazenly driving past the brown-and-white “Please Stop And Pay” sign.

And that, good reader, is how we sneaked into Wormsloe.  We drove straight through, the park rangers/interpreters powerless to stop our criminal intrusion.

The drive to the parking area was spectacular, with a full mile of canopied live-oaks, smothered in the South’s characteristic Spanish moss.  A gaggle of SCAD students working on their lame film project were in the road and dove for cover as we zoomed past at 15 mph.  Fists shook in the rear-view mirror, but their steady-cam device survived, if only barely.

The site itself was one of the original plantations formed in the region, populated by brave English souls and their impoverished servants.  Noble Jones was the man who built the estate and some of the stone foundation can still be seen.  We found an ancient shell midden; a beautiful salt marsh; a charming, if too short, nature walk; and Jones’ burial site, complete with placard informing us his body had been moved to Bonaventure, but not his wife and child’s.  There is an increased risk of haunting when moving the skeletal remains of children, so best to leave them be.

Sadly, we could not find any cannons, and, to be perfectly honest, we kind of missed the skull-jarring sound.

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We decided to break out of our routine today and visit the Harris Neck Wildlife Refuge, part of the much ballyhooed Colonial Coast Birding Trail.  It is winter-time, you see, and migratory birds descend upon the Southern regions of the continent to escape the cold.  Unfortunately for them, the icy clutches of winter are tenacious and even in the Atlantic-coast salt marshes, the weather has been downright frigid.

But the day was mild, for once, and we even had to remove jackets for a time when hiking along the sun-filled trails.  Birds aplenty, we are pleased to report.  The ornithological outlook was likely “fair-to-middlin’,” but we do not hit the scrub with spotting scopes or telescoping lenses, so we cannot confirm.  But there were red shouldered hawks and wood storks and fifty-seven thousand ducks and another five thousand coots (which are better than ducks in our book, because they are tinier and cuter). Gators and fiddler crabs made an appearance, but the woodsy mammals were invisible, save their tracks.  We preserved their tracks in plaster-of-Paris and the occasional photograph, mostly cursing them for being skittish and mistaking us for more vicious, unwashed predators than we really are.

No actual owls were seen, which is a tragedy.

One very nice metal watch-tower was found, which some of us attempted to scale.  The height was vertigo-inducing once we squeezed into the cage-ladder, but the top had been industrial chicken-wired over and we forgot the tools in the truck, two miles back.

In the end, we drove past the abandoned landing strips (slowly being consumed by the earth) of what had once been a U.S. Army airfield, and found the huge salt-water marsh expanse.  Dilapidated pylons extending out into the water, a derelict Army row boat, and a strangely new looking telephone pole half-buried in the beach’s sand combined to form our last image of Harris Neck.

At least until we return with our bolt-cutters.

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