Charleston, 2005

Charleston, 2005
(or Back Where I Started)

Prologue (3/27)

3/28

3/29

PROLOGUE—March 27, 2005 (Sunday)

Ah, I can almost smell the magnolias.

There's something I should explain about Charleston, South Carolina. I was born there (hence the subtitle, "Back Where I Started"). I just don't know to whom I was born. And I don't really have any memories of Charleston. I was adopted by my parents in June of 1968 when I was all of three months old. This will be my first trip back there, 37 years after having left. It's just one of life's little ironies that my wife and I are to visit Charleston, especially so soon after my birthday.

And now, for a little bit of historical background. Charleston was founded in 1670 on the Ashley River as Charles Town. By 1680, it was a walled settlement on the peninsula at the convergence of the Ashley and Cooper Rivers. The harbor is a deepwater port that empties into the Atlantic Ocean. Religious tolerance and a liberal immigration policy led to an influx of a variety of settlers; indeed, many southern denominations trace their beginnings directly to Charleston, and the city boasts the nickname "The Holy City" with over 175 churches in the city representing over two dozen different denominations.

Charles Town by 1750 was the wealthiest and fourth largest city in the American colonies. Fueled by maritime trade and a prospering plantation system of cotton, rice, and indigo, Charleston, renamed in 1783, was a thriving and important economy throughout the 18th and 19th centuries. The city played strategic roles in both the American Revolution and Civil War (or War of Northern Aggression, for those of you so inclined). Of course, this is where the Civil War started, with the bombardment of Fort Sumter by Confederate troops. The city today stands as a remarkable historical preserve of antebellum architecture, despite a history of hurricanes, fires, and even an 1886 earthquake.

Anyway, it's about 10:30 p.m. the night before we leave. I think I've packed everything I could need for four days, and I've spent the day doing laundry, finishing a freelance assignment so that I don't have to plow through it when I get back, and trying to get my voice back. Oh yeah, for the past two weeks, I've been battling viral pharyngitis, which is a fancy medical term that doctors use when they can't do anything for a viral throat infection. My voice currently sounds like I have vocal cord implants from Tom Waite—that is, when it's actually audible. I'm hoping that this crap will get out of my system sometime this week.

Oh, well. Since we have a 6:30 a.m. cab coming, I suppose I should stop writing and finish packing so I can actually get a bit of sleep before traveling. As anyone who has ever traveled with me knows, I can be cranky as all hell when combining a travel itinerary with fatigue. And this throat thing has already got me on bad footing as it is.

March 28, 2005 (Monday)

7:25 a.m. and the adventure has begun. After suffering through Monday morning O'Hare traffic (made even more grueling because of lane closures due to construction), it turned out that the flight I reserved through US Airways is actually a United Express flight, which meant we had to lug our stuff from Terminal 2 to Terminal 1. At least security wasn't too bad this morning. After dropping off some mail at the O'Hare Post Office, we hit Chili's Too for our ritual pre-boarding breakfast. I had some hotcakes, because those always sound good when you haven't ordered them in a while; I should have known better.

After breakfast, we made our way to gate F11, at which point we discovered that the flight was already delayed 15 minutes. While Helene went to kill some time in the Brookstone shop, I started writing in this journal. That's when I discovered that United Express decided to change gates on us as well as the departure time. When Helene got back, we went to gate F4 to track down our airplane. Apparently we're shipping out on one of the smaller jets; we'll see if that offsets the benefit of not having to stop over in Charlotte and change planes.

At this point, I'm dying to grab a cigarette, as I haven't had one since last night, but I'm also trying to give my throat as much of a rest as possible from smoke. My voice (thanks for asking) is a tad improved from yesterday, but I can still do an eerie impression of Harvey Fierstein. So far the lack of nicotine hasn't made me any crankier than normal. On the plane, I'm taking advantage of the transit time by leafing through my copy of The Idiot's Guide to Learning Latin. Apparently the first adjustment I'm going to need to make is to get the idea in my head that Latin is an inflected language rather than a syntactic language.

2:15 p.m., Diana's Restaurant, Charleston

Charleston is already an interesting town. Not a town seemingly designed for motor vehicle traffic, but interesting.

We landed pretty much on time in Charleston despite the delays; we arrived at 12:30 EST and were on our way by 12:45. At Charleston International (which is slightly misleading as names go), we rented our car from Alamo and got directions into town. We've received a beige PT Cruiser, which means my streak of drawing uncool rental cars remains unabated. It feels, from the inside at least, like driving a big box on wheels. We left the airport and found I26 into the city, taking the Meeting Street exit to go downtown. Meeting Street north of the Charleston Visitor's Center is largely like driving through Gary, Indiana—which isn't meant as a compliment—but it gets much nicer south of there as one begins to enter the historic downtown districts.

After wading through a morass of pedestrian and vehicular traffic (both motorized and horse-drawn) at the intersection of Meeting and Market streets, we finally managed to pull into the Church Street Inn. Charles, the desk clerk, seemed a little brusque at first when he told us the room wasn't ready, but he began to warm up as we conversed. We decided to kill some time with lunch, after which Charles said the room should be ready. That's how we ended up at a little restaurant on Meeting Street called Diana's.

The weather could be a little better, frankly; it's overcast with a very low, thick ceiling of clouds, and nobody's sure whether or not it's going to rain again (evidently it poured here yesterday). The wind, which I understand now is somewhat endemic to Charleston, is whipping up at a steady 25-30 mph pace. Really, for this, we could have stayed in Chicago.

Everything seems smaller here, like some of the places in Britain we encountered outside of London on our visits there. The streets, at least in the downtown area, are largely cramped, even when you don't have to avoid carriages and double-parked cars. The storefronts are more intimate. It doesn't feel like a city, that's for sure. Now that we've seen some more of Charleston by foot, it actually is quite reminiscent of Hamilton, Bermuda, just with more cars (and horses).

Anyway, we had a nice lunch at Diana's, including my obligatory southern side of fried okra. I can't believe there was actually a time in my life when I didn't like it. After Diana's, I had my first cigarette of the day on the walk back to Church Street Inn. Taking Cumberland Street, we passed the Old Powder Magazine, which is apparently the only remaining building in town left from the days of the Lord Proprietors (that's circa 1713), and was the principal storehouse of the munitions and gunpowder necessary to protect the city from Indians, Spaniards, and pirates. We also passed a place on Church Street called Tommy Condon's Irish Pub and Seafood Restaurant. That's hardly significant, except that both Helene and I misread the sign at first and thought that the joint was named after a prophylactic.

We got our first glimpse of our room upon our return to Church Street Inn. The rooms here are quite nice—they're actually split-level suites—with a downstairs that is part sitting room and part kitchenette. As you go upstairs, you find the bedroom, with a small balcony area onto which you can step out and see Charleston. Our vantage point isn't the greatest view, but it overlooks the Market area. You can see pretty much the entire run of the Market from here, running west to east. At the moment, however, I'm finding it increasingly difficult to enjoy the view or anything else because I've developed a sinus headache from the plane travel that has the front of my skull throbbing.

After multiple aspirins and a good nap of about an hour and a half, I finally put the sinuses behind me. Helene and I just walked around town for nearly two hours during the early evening, mainly following East Bay Street around the harbor. I have to say that Charleston has a lot of charm at night. Along the way, we stopped by the Old Circular Church and its graveyard, passed the Old Exchange building, and walked along a stretch of Waterfront Park (where I got a decent shot of a freighter and the USS Yorktown on the Cooper River). We also encountered a stretch of East Bay known as Rainbow Row for the multicolored row houses that line the street in that area.

After a long stretch of backtracking north on King Street, we've stopped by a place called the King Street Grille (it's too dark out to get a good exterior shot here). Helene has found virtually nothing about the grill to her liking yet, from the upstairs lighting to the temperature of her coffee. Meanwhile, I'm enjoying a Sea Dog Raspberry Wheat ale with chicken tenders that look like they could be served on the Flintstones. We'll probably sleep well tonight by the time we make it back to the inn, what with the traveling and all the walking tonight. My throat seems to be holding up, although Helene's notorious stress fracture seems to be giving her a little trouble with her foot.

We strolled through the Market before returning to the inn. Along the way, we encountered a gift shop on N. Market called Sheila's Shamrock. Among the notable items for sale:

A 3' x 5' Dixie flag beach towel
No less than four novelty electronic "fart machines"
A life-sized, 10-point buck plastic deer head, mounted like a wall trophy, that moves and sings like Billy the Bass

I suppose here is where I say that stores like this are what let you know that Charleston, much as the locals might hate to admit it, still resides within the state of South Carolina. After that, Helene and I decided to call it a night and turn in at the inn. I spent some time reading more of my The Idiot's Guide to Learning Latin; what's with all the declensions?

March 29, 2005 (Tuesday)

Helene and I woke up leisurely this morning at around 8:00, feeling very well rested. We grabbed showers, dressed, and wandered down Market Street to a little breakfast joint we passed last night called the Sweetwater Cafe. Today, the Magnolia Plantation and Swamp Garden are on the docket.

The weather today is very pleasant—there's not a cloud in the sky, it's warm (supposed to get into the mid-70s today), and the wind is a fraction of what it was yesterday upon arrival. The throat/voice report: good. The foot report: "much better," according to Helene. The hair report: 6 on a scale of 10; 7 if the wind doesn't start howling again.

So we're at the Sweetwater Cafe, and I'm having country ham for breakfast for the first time in at least a couple of years. To those of you who may not know the difference between ham and country ham, picture thinner slices cooked more crisply with about 20 times the sodium content. Honestly, between that and butter, I don't know how we southerners survive our diet. I can already feel my blood pressure rising just thinking about it, but there is something about country ham and homemade grits that's damn nigh irresistible. Shrimp and grits, on the other hand, I can do without.

Anyway, we'll be heading back to pick up the Beige Box from the valet after breakfast so that we can drive out to Magnolia Plantation. Later, we'll be hitting the Reform Temple of Beth Elohim and mixing in an afternoon carriage ride. I just wish I could shake this nagging feeling that Charleston views us, however tolerantly, as a couple of Yankee tourists. My drawl, due to sixteen years of living in the Midwest, has faded to the lightest of lilts, and let's face it: Helene will never be mistaken for a southerner once she starts talking.

Upon leaving the Sweetwater Cafe, we made a slight change of plans upon seeing the Palmetto Carriage Tours ticket station in front of us. We got to talking to the ticket guy, and he suggested that the morning, especially on a day as beautiful as this, was probably the way to go because of afternoon demand. We thanked him, got a couple of tickets for 9:45 (it was 9:30 when we bought them) and began wandering in the direction we were pointed to get to the Red Barn.

Along the way, we met Kevin, an agent for Bluegreen Vacations. I mention this because Bluegreen Vacations agents hover around the Market like flies. Ten minutes and twenty dollars later, we had agreed to listen to a 9:00 a.m. sales pitch the next morning. Since he was holding us up from our carriage tour, and since he said we could change our minds and get our $20 back at Lodge Alley Inn, I figured it was worth a double sawbuck to A) get Kevin's hopes up for a commission, and B) to get our hopes up for getting away from Kevin. After getting lost three times in a two-block radius trying to find the damn barn, we finally made it and settled in for our tour.

We toured in the carriage for a little over an hour. My only complaint is that they put four to a bench that seems built for three. Carriage tours, by the way, are a big industry here, bigger than the Michigan Avenue carriage business in Chicago. That's one of the reasons we got lost along the way, we ran into just about every carriage tour operator but Palmetto this morning before being directed toward the Red Barn.

I also find the sanitation solution here interesting; the pull animals all wear diapers. If there's an "accident" that the diaper can't contain, the tour guide drops a flagged marker in the street and radios into headquarters, who relays the message to Charleston Dept. of Sanitation. The guys in Sanitation use the marker as a guidepost and drive around in a cleaning truck that takes care of disposal and cleaning. You might say that these guys have their shit together (pause for rim shot here).

Anyway, our guide, Myron Pstrak, was funny, entertaining, and a great guide. After stopping to pick up our lottery license (only 20 carriages from the combined companies can be out at any time, and they assign them one of three districts via a lottery), we headed off. I took a "mule-cam" shot to help relate the experience. As an aside, I think Myron also knows the real estate value of every major building in the historic district.

Unfortunately, due to movement and the proximity of other people in the carriage, I couldn't get many good pictures, but I did manage to snap a few during the tour that turned out all right. The most memorable quote that came out of this tour, however, was Myron relating to us the quip of anti-secessionist state legislator James Petigru. In late December of 1860, Robert Barnwell Rhett, a secessionist leader, asked Petigru if he were with them, to which Petigru replied, "South Carolina is too small for a republic and too large for an insane asylum."

Charleston, as Myron said, is definitely an architecture all to its own. I wasn't far off, it turns out, in my comparison of Charleston to Hamilton; the city, founded in 1670, had many colonial transplants from the Caribbean and Bermuda, and the historic architecture reflects an amalgam of European, Caribbean, and African influences. The most prominent and unique example of this architecture is the Charleston single-house style, built to take advantage of both natural light and prevailing winds. Combined with the preservation of neoclassical antebellum structures and you definitely have a unique insight into the past.

Once the carriage tour had ended, we headed to visit the temple Beth Elohim on Hasell Street. Kahal Kadosh Beth Elohim is the not only second oldest synagogue In the United States (and the oldest in continuous use), but is noted as as the birthplace of Reform Judaism in the United States. The current temple is the third one to stand on the site, erected in 1840 after the great fire of 1838. The temple is an interesting blend of Judaica framed in a colonial church architecture. We chatted with one of the guides for a few minutes, snapped an interior shot, and left to fetch the Beige Box from valet parking so we could visit Magnolia Plantation.

2:00 p.m., Magnolia Plantation

Now that we've had the pleasure of driving again in Charleston, my view has never been clearer: as a driving town, it's great for walking. We were supposed to get onto 17 South en route to SC 61 North to get to Magnolia Plantation, less than ten miles from the city proper. Sounds simple, right? It took us over an hour to get there. First, there was a some sort of malfunction on the Ashley Memorial Bridge that shut down the 17 South exit we were supposed to take. So, Helene and I got to see a lot more of Charleston than we cared to, driving along the outskirts looking for another way onto Route 17. We found one, except that traffic was still backed up over the bridge. So we finally slogged through that only to find ourselves stopped dead on SC 61 because of an accident ahead of us. I am beginning to believe that maybe the state flag ought to replace the palmetto tree with a line of backed up traffic.

We got tickets for the 2:00 tour of the manor house with a group of about twenty other tourists. Fortunately, prevailing fashion dictated that we didn't look like the worst pair of tourists on the grounds. Far from it, in fact. At any rate, we learned that Thomas Drayton acquired Magnolia as a wedding gift from his father-in-law in 1761, The property has been in the family ever since. The current house, which was still inhabited by the family until 1975, is the third house built upon the foundation. The first burned in a lightning strike of the early 1800s, and Federal troops burned the second in 1865.

We finished the tour in rather short order (it seems that they were trying to cram in as many tour groups as possible at one time, and we couldn't have spent more than twenty minutes going through it). After stopping by the snack bar for a quick bite, Helene and I visited some of the animals in the petting zoo. There we met both the world's fattest goats and loudest peacock. I also got a good shot of Helene befriending a deer. From there, we made it back to the Beige Box and wended our way toward the Swamp Garden. En route, I stopped to take a snapshot of the slaves' quarters, which are nowhere near as nice as the manor house. In all fairness, however, it has to be said that the Drayton family, especially the Rev. John Grimke Drayton, treated their slaves with more decency than most plantation owners of the era, including building them a schoolhouse on the grounds and teaching them to read and write.

I'm a little torn in my view on Magnolia Plantation. On the one hand, it is gorgeous. On the other, it arguably symbolizes the symbiosis of wealth and privilege, and how that gets passed down through the centuries. I mean, the Drayton family traces its roots directly to the Norman conquest of England; the progenitor fought alongside William the Conqueror. Through rice and indigo crops (made possible, of course, only by the importation of slave labor), the family produced a fortune in addition to numerous politicians, judges, military officers, and tycoons. Heck, the Draytons were so well off that in 1738, John Drayton, the son who didn't stand to inherit Magnolia, had enough resources to build Drayton Hall and a rice plantation of his own next to Magnolia. You can tour that, too. Must be tough, scraping by like that.

At any rate, the Swamp Garden on the grounds is magnificent. Considering that a great deal of the countryside looked like that before colonial settlers came, it gives some appreciation for what those settlers had to do to make arable land.The Audubon Swamp Garden comprises 60 acres of blackwater cypress swamp on the plantation grounds. It's home to many species of birds, turtles, and even alligators. As a matter of fact, apparently there is a "bad" alligator hanging around, but I found myself wondering why the sign was put up two-thirds of the way into the Swamp Garden trail instead of, say, at the beginning. And of course, we saw a lady walking two small (and presumably appetizing) terriers along the path right after encountering that sign. I was convinced that we weren't going to spot any alligators during our visit—I'd been looking for them the entire walk, but it is only late March, after all—and then we saw a three-footer hanging out on one of the platforms.

Apparently, another regional claim to fame is that the Swamp Garden was the location site for the 1982 film Swamp Thing. I also had no idea that Swamp Thing was a Wes Craven film, either. But I digress. We wound up walking through the Swamp Garden until nearly 4:00, at which point we decided to head back into Charleston for dinner. After multiple wrong turns (I truly don't know how people drive in this town without consulting a psychic, a shrink, or both), we eventually arrived back at Church Street Inn. Charles, who has been as helpful as can be since we checked in, made us dinner reservations for 6:00 at a restaurant called Carolina's on Exchange. We rested in the hotel room before getting dressed and departing.

Carolina's on Exchange was absolutely primo. We essentially had the east dining room to ourselves, the service was great, and I had a Filet Oscar special that is better tasted than described, but here goes. It's a seven-ounce beef tenderloin topped with crab meat and a bernaise sauce, and it was fantastic. I also ordered fried okra on principle, because I don't like asparagus, and that's what it was supposed to come with. Helene and I topped that off with a slice of pecan pie that we shared. I'd say this was a great recommendation from our concierge, but as it turns out, every recommendation we got from the staff was a hit. Great meal, good times.

After dinner, we went back to the inn to change back into more casual gear so that we could take another evening stroll around the city. We walked around the point using East Bay Road to hit East Battery, skirting the waterfront until we reached White Point Gardens. Unfortunately, the lighting was so bad that there was no way to take a good picture, but the park and the houses in that area of Charleston are very nice. From there, we walked back up King Street, turned onto South Market, and returned to the inn. It is easy to see the allure of Charleston as a walking town; we've both been amazed at the splendor of the architecture, especially along the Battery.

Now back in the room, we're making some preliminary plans for how we want to handle Patriots Point and Fort Sumter. Tomorrow is going to be pretty much devoted to maritime military history; hopefully the travel will be less strenuous than the travel we had today....

March 30, 2005 (Wednesday)

Good morning, Charleston! Woke up this morning at 7:15 a.m., showered, and stopped by the Lodge Alley Inn to get my twenty bucks back. They were very pleasant about it, especially when I explained how my wife (whose presence was necessary for doing the sales pitch) had been stricken with a stomach flu. So that was nice. I then returned to Church Street Inn to gather Helene for breakfast. It's about quarter past eight, and we've stopped at a place called Cafe Cafe for a light breakfast before searching for a drug store so my wife can get some razors for her gams.

The throat report is good; the hair report is about 5 out of 10 (depending upon prevailing winds), and the foot report is "it feels all right." The weather looks to be beautiful today. It's supposed to get to the low 80s by the afternoon, and the two of us are in shorts for the first time in 2005. I am looking forward to Patriots Point and the ships; the only thing that I've seen to match it is the San Francisco Maritime National Historic Park at Fisherman's Wharf. Patriots Point Naval and Maritime Museum is one of the largest floating military museums in the world. It boasts four ships, a Vietnam base camp exhibit, and tour boats to Fort Sumter.

We made Patriots Point with surprisingly few traffic snarls by 10:00 this morning. After getting tickets to both the museum and the 1:30 p.m. Fort Sumter tour boat, we started off touring the aircraft carrier USS Yorktown (CV-10), which was decommissioned in 1970 and moved to its current berth at Mt. Pleasant in 1975. Lest anyone get too confused, the original USS Yorktown (CV-5) was sunk in 1942 during the Battle of Midway. This is the second carrier to bear the name and the tenth carrier to serve in the Navy.

The new Yorktown was an Essex class carrier commissioned in 1943. Earning 11 battle stars and a Presidential Unit Citation for her service in the Pacific during World War II, the ship took the nickname of "The Fighting Lady."At nearly 900 feet in length, the ship is almost three football fields long and carried a wartime complement of approximately 3,500 officers and crew. The Yorktown underwent modifications for the rest of her active service life, adding an angled deck for jet fighters in the 1950s and undergoing conversion to an antisubmarine carrier in the 1960s. The Yorktown's other claims to fame are that the ship was featured in two motion pictures (The Fighting Lady and Tora! Tora! Tora!) and picked up the Apollo 8 astronauts upon splashdown.

The Yorktown, as one of the largest ships of the fleet, towers over the dock. I know aircraft carriers are supposed to be big, but there's no substitute for standing next to it and looking up to have that really sink in. All sorts of modern era aircraft decorate the flight deck; however, I am a little surprised at the complete lack of representation of WWII aircraft on the deck, considering that's the era in which the Yorktown earned her reputation. Of course there are a number of WWII planes in the hangar deck where the tours all begin, but you would think that if 94th Aero Squadron Restaurant in Wheeling can handle the exterior displays of a P-47 Thunderbolt, a P-38 Lightning, and a P-51 Mustang, so could a museum dedicated to preservation.

I am also a little disappointed that the current restoration work on the Yorktown—and believe me, I understand the necessity and importance of it—had a third of the tours shut down. Unfortunately, the restoration of the island superstructure means that tours 5 and 6, which include the officer's quarters, wardroom, and brig, are out of commission. However, we did get a good tour of the ship with tours 1-4, which include a lot of the living and work spaces of the vessel. They've also done a nice job with the various naval history exhibits of tour 4. Unfortunately, due to lighting and large expanses of plexiglas, many of the interior shots of Yorktown I took came out like crap. I did manage good ones of an operating room the supply office, and the pilot briefing room.

Regardless of any nitpicking, I want to say that although nothing will replace my feeling upon the first time touring the USS North Carolina (BB-55) memorial in Wilmington, my first tour of the Yorktown ranks as a close second.

We ate lunch on the Yorktown, then finished looking around the ship to move on toward the USS Clamagore (SS-343). Commissioned in 1945 just before the end of the war, she was a Balao class diesel submarine that underwent modifications to Guppy II and III configurations; she is one of only nine submarines to go through the Guppy III conversion, and the only one left in existence. The Clamagore carried a crew of 80 officers and enlisted men, serving in the Atlantic fleet from 1946 until her decommissioning in 1975. Clamagore arrived at Patriots Point in 1981. Although space, lighting, and plexiglas made pictures an adventure, I did manage to grab snaps of the forward torpedo room, the helm controls, and the crew's mess while on board. Just to give an idea how cramped it was, I also took a view of the passage forward while Helene was moving through it.

I have to say, this is the third submarine memorial I've visited, and while the interior has been well preserved, I'm viewing the exterior hull with a bit of concern. I've also been on board both the U-505 in Chicago and the Pampanito in San Francisco, and of the three, Clamagore seems to be in the worst exterior condition. As you look aft, there are spots where it looks like the outer hull has corroded completely through. I realize the ship's been resting in water for the past quarter century, but it seems like there could be a little more preventative maintenance going on with this vessel.

After the Clamagore, we continued along the pier to the berths where the destroyer USS Laffey (DD-724) and Coast Guard cutter Ingham (WHEC-35) are docked. It was closing in on our departure time, so we decided to cruise the Ingham first and leave the Laffey until we returned from Fort Sumter. Having never been aboard a Coast Guard cutter, I found the Ingham a pretty fascinating ship. The Ingham is comparable in size to a destroyer, with an overall length of 327 feet (the Laffey is 376 feet in length); the cutter seems to have a bit more breathing room aboard for the crew, however, without needing to carry the additional guns, magazines, and naval combat areas of a destroyer.

The Treasury class cutter was commissioned in 1936; the Ingham served in WWII (she sunk a U-boat) and in Vietnam in support operations. According to the Coast Guard, Ingham was the last Treasury class cutter to retire from active service, and at the time of her 1988 decommissioning, she was the oldest and most decorated cutter in the fleet. Ingham is also the only Coast Guard cutter to be awarded two Presidential Unit Citations. She is the newest addition to Patriots Point, having arrived in 1989. The funny thing was seeing the marijuana leaves painted on the superstructure with red Xs going through them. Apparently the Coast Guard likes to keep track of their combat victories as well.

Helene and I boarded a very crowded tour boat at 1:20 for our 1:30 departure time. We're saving the Laffey and the Vietnam Base Camp for when we get back. The boat is so crowded up top that Helene and I are not able to sit together, which I'm sure is putting my boat-o-phobic wife into a lovely frame of mind for the trip out to the fort. Anyway, I'm hoping the boat gets underway soon—it's a little over a half hour each way to and from Sumter, with an hour or so on site. I'm also hoping to get a good shot of Sumter from the water en route.

2:05 p.m., Fort Sumter

And now, for a summation concerning Sumter and the beginning of the Civil War. Major Robert Anderson took command of all Federal troops in Charleston harbor in November, 1860. On December 20, South Carolina formally seceded from the Union. Anderson, headquartered in nearby Fort Moultrie with a paltry garrison of 85 men (13 of whom were musicians), knew that Moultrie was vulnerable to land attack. On the night of December 26, 1860, Anderson moved his men under the cover of darkness to unfinished Fort Sumter in the middle of the harbor. The people of Charleston didn't know it until they saw the US flag raised over Sumter the next day. With the help of the 80 engineers who were working on Sumter at the time, Anderson's garrison continued to bulk up the fort's defenses.

Meanwhile, the Confederates built up their surrounding defenses and negotiated unsuccessfully for Sumter's surrender. In March, the Confederate government appointed P.G.T. Beauregard, a onetime student of Anderson's at West Point, in command of Charleston's forces. It was also hoped that the men's friendship could help facilitate Sumter's surrender. It didn't, and with Lincoln assuming office and ordering a relief expedition to Sumter in April, the fuse was lit. At 4:30 a.m. on the morning of April 12, Fort Johnson launched a signal mortar for all batteries to commence firing, and the bombardment lasted 34 hours. At 2:30 p.m. the following day, Anderson was in the position of either defending the fort or putting out the fires that threatened the fort's powder magazine (and 15,000 pounds of black powder stores). Anderson surrendered the fort, and his troops were evacuated the next day. Ironically, the only Federal casualties were sustained when firing the cannon salute at the flag-lowering ceremonies; a cannon went off prematurely, killing one artillerist, mortally wounding another, and injuring two others in the blast.

And now, 144 years later, here we are.

The fort is smaller than I might have imagined it, but from what I understand, the bombardments of four years reduced the fort from three-story walls to one-story piles of rubble. The island is man-made, consisting of 10,000 tons of granite blocks sunk to the bedrock to form the fort's foundation. As we neared the site, I couldn't help thinking how unimposing it looks now. We were greeted by an NPS Ranger, Chris, on the boat, who gave us the usual spiel about not taking anything from the site, not getting our heads stuck in cannons, and not missing the boat's departure in exactly an hour. We entered the fort through the sally port, which is actually on the opposite side from the original sally port entrance. The first thing you see is the black concrete block of Battery Huger, which is part of the Spanish-American War era fortifications. We gathered in the parade ground to listen to Chris give his "world famous history talk" to the tour group. Chris was highly entertaining, and related the story of Sumter in a funny but comprehensive way. Helene and I wandered around the fort for the remainder of the time, where I got a decent exterior close-up of Sumter.

We left the fort at 3:05, right on schedule, heading back to the dock at Patriots Point. I tried to get a decent shot of Castle Pinckney, which is on a small shoal known as Shute's Folly, but we couldn't get quite close enough for a clear picture. Once we'd disembarked, we headed back over to the destroyer USS Laffey.

The Laffey, like the Yorktown, is named after another ship (DD-459) sunk in 1942 at Guadalcanal. This Laffey is a 376-foot Sumner class destroyer commissioned in early 1944. She took part in action during D-Day at Normandy, then moved into the Pacific theater in escort duty. During the Okinawa campaign, the Laffey was severely damaged by three bombs and five kamikaze strikes that caused 103 casualties among her 336 crewmen; a plaque in one of the wardrooms marks the event. The Laffey managed to stay afloat and make repairs, and the ship went on to actively serve until she was decommissioned in 1975. The Laffey became part of the Patriots Point museum in 1981.

The last stop on our tour was the Vietnam Base Camp. The exhibit presents a full replica of a US Navy support base in South Vietnam circa 1966. There are numerous buildings and vehicles on the site, including two UH-1 Hueys, an AH-1 Sea Cobra, and a Patrol River Boat. It's a pretty well done exhibit, but Helene and I were both tired and there were a couple of obnoxious kids running around the camp off leash. Besides, we'd been at Patriots Point since 10:00 this morning, and it was closing in on 5:00.

We had the pleasure of experiencing the obligatory Charleston downtown traffic backup on our way back. Today, Meeting Street seemed to be backed up by at least a mile and a half, but we avoided part of it by shooting up John Street and taking King to Market instead. Honestly, I can't see how anyone drives in this town and stays sane once the tourists start coming in. I did my own valet parking at Church and Cumberland when we got back, and then Helene and I decided to try Tommy Condon's Pub across the street for the sheer convenience. It's been a good sightseeing day, but the near constant pounding has got my feet, knees, and hips saying, "Hey, bubs, why don't you let up a bit, huh?"

Of all the dishes to have in Charleston, I had to order shepherd's pie. It wasn't bad at all; the taste was there, but instead of a small crock pot with ground beef topped by mashed potatoes, it was more like a plate of Irish pot roast over mashed potatoes. I still prefer the dish as served by Tommy Nevin's or the Red Lion in Lincoln Park. Oh, well. I did enjoy the Snickers^® pie that they served.

After dinner, we walked by the Waldenbooks at the corner of Meeting and Market. I picked up a copy of Ghosts from the Coast, mainly because I pretty much out of reading material that doesn't have to do with learning Latin. What can I say—I got to third declension nouns and started getting too confused to plow ahead. After that we just went back to Church Street Inn to do basically nothing for the rest of the evening. Helene says her dogs are killing her, too.

March 31, 2005 (Thursday)

Woke up this morning around 8:00, showered, and headed over to a place called Poogan's Porch over on Queen Street. The restaurant is a converted private residence and named after a stray dog that claimed the porch as his home. Poogan, as the pooch came to be called, lasted through several private owners through the conversion to a restaurant before going to that great dog park in the sky around 1979. It's a quaint place that isn't in every travel book, so you may have to look for it. It's worth the effort, though; the food, the service, and the ambience are well worth it.

Helene and I ate breakfast for a while and chatted before splitting up for the early part of the day. After the Bermuda trip, you see, the two of us came to an understanding that on any trip spanning a week, we should make arrangements to spend at least half a day during said trip away from each other. Not only does absence make the heart grow fonder, it gives the couple a little bit of a breather. So she's now off wandering about Charleston, and I'm in the room briefly catching up on the morning's journal entry. The only trouble with "me" time is when you have no idea what to do with yourself. I could try getting the Beige Box, but I really don't feel like spoiling what has the potential to be a good day by trying to drive in Charleston. Might just walk up Waterfront Park a ways and see if anything strikes me.

As it turns out, I wound up visiting Liberty Square at Calhoun and Concord. I walked north on East Bay for about 15 minutes, then realized I had found the South Carolina Aquarium (it's one of the attractions Helene and I had talked about visiting today). En route and at the Square I talked with Dad for about 45 minutes. After that, I snapped a couple of pictures and copped a smoke before leaving. On the way back toward the inn, my friend Fred called; we're going to shoot for 5:00 reservations at the Peninsula Grill on North Market. I got back to the room at roughly 12:30, where I rested my feet and read a little bit while waiting for Helene's return. We'll probably scrounge some lunch and visit the Aquarium before meeting Fred for dinner.

You know, as I'm looking back over the journal, we've really managed to pack in quite a bit of sightseeing since our arrival on Monday.

Helene met me back at the room at 1:00 as planned, and we gathered our things and took the 15-minute walk north to the Aquarium. On the way out, the concierge told us that we had gotten 5:30 reservations at Peninsula Grill. Even with the additional time, we decided to kill a couple of birds with one stone by eating at the Liberty Square food court next door to the Aquarium. Can't say I recommend the experience; an eight-inch pizza and a chicken salad sandwich with drinks cost us nearly twenty bucks.

We hit the Aquarium after that. I was surprised to find out that the South Carolina Aquarium has only been on site since 2001. It's housed in a 93,00 square foot facility that's located right on the waterfront of Charleston Harbor. Just by comparison, Shedd in Chicago is 442,00 square feet. I say that because I'm also about to compare the costs of the two aquariums. It cost $15 apiece for Helene and I to get in; the Shedd is only $8 for the basic admission, and for $21, you can get an all access pass that includes every paid exhibit. Having said that, I realize that the Shedd is a world renowned facility, one of the best of its kind. While the building and the exhibits at the Aquarium are very nice—the Ocean exhibit is a pretty cool two-story affair, in fact—and I like the overall interactive, educational nature of the place, Helene and I both walked out thinking that thirty bucks seemed a bit steep for an attraction that took not much more than an hour to finish, even at a less-than-brisk pace.

Since we still had time to burn (it was only 3:15 at this point), we took a look around the Fort Sumter Memorial hall in the Square. This is the other place, by the way, where you can hitch a boat ride out to the fort. The exhibit hall is compact but laid out pretty well. There's a lot of information presented on the panels, tracing both the fort's history and the role of Charleston in the Civil War. Just for kicks, I bought the Official National Park Handbooks of Fort Sumter and Fort Moultrie in the gift shop. They're compact, both have a lot of pertinent information in them, and while I probably don't really need either one, I'm a sucker for history. Besides, it was pretty apparent that I wasn't going to get to Sullivan's Island to check out Fort Moultrie in person based on our schedule, so I figured I'd at least read up on it. And I'm a sucker for history. After the Sumter exhibit hall, we walked back along East Bay Street, taking a detour through the east end of the Market on our way back to the inn. There we relaxed for an hour or so before meeting Fred for dinner.

Now, Fred and I have been friends since the summer of 1989. I was doing a security guard shift at a screen printing plant, and Fred was hired in as a plant manager. Four days into his tenure, one of the dryers caught fire. If you've never worked in a screen printing environment before, let me just say that it's an environment rife with flammable materials and lint. In no time, there was a fire in the ceiling of the plant. In shutting down the power, we inadvertently shut down blowers that were feeding the fire, and the fire was actually out before the fire department could get there. I spent the next six hours with Fred, the vice president of the company, the owner of the company, my shift relief, and several plant workers downing beers and cleaning up the mess. Fred and I have been friends ever since. Now, how this is funny is that Fred currently works all over the planet. When I mentioned in an e-mail that Helene and I were going to be in Charleston this week, Fred said that he had a seminar he would be attending that week in Beaufort, SC, which is about an hour's drive away. Hence, we decided that we could meet for dinner for the first time in three years in Charleston.

We had a great dinner at the Peninsula Grill. As with all the recommendations we received for dining, this one was spot on. Helene, Fred, and I ate and chatted until about 7:00. By the way, if you have to have a dessert at Peninsula Grill, you have to get the Chocolate Extravaganza. The foundation is a combination slice of chocolate cheesecake and chocolate mousse, drizzled with fudge sauce, topped with chocolate straws and a cookie. And they serve it with a shot of milk. Priceless. After dinner and bidding farewell to Fred, Helene and I went back to the inn to finalize the arrangements for tomorrow morning. It's going to be a really quick turnaround; we've got a 7:05 a.m. flight out of Charleston International, which means we're at the airport no later than 5:30 a.m., which means leaving the inn by 5:00 a.m., which in turn means waking up around 4:00 a.m. We've still got packing to do, so I'm signing off for the night so that I can pack the rest of my gear and try to get something resembling a night's sleep.

April 1, 2005 (Friday)

I'd try to make an April Fool's entry, but I'm too damned tired.

We didn't sleep through any of the three alarms that I set for us last night, which was a thoroughly decent start to the day in my book. I was a little surprised to feel relatively fresh; we got hooked into Where Eagles Dare on television last night, and that lasted past 10:30. I'm still not sure how much sleep either one of us actually got. At any rate, we got dressed, finished packing the last remnants of our belongings, and humped the luggage downstairs. True to his word, our man Charles had the Beige Box waiting there at the door for us. After retrieving the keys from the desk clerk, we piled the baggage in the back of the Cruiser and took off for the airport.

As an aside, I've never seen so many PT Cruisers in one place in my life. They're like Volkswagen Beetles everywhere else. It just seems strange, that's all.

Charleston International was surprisingly busy at 5:00 in the morning. The security line there was actually worse than the one in O'Hare when we were leaving Chicago, believe it or not. There were a couple of guys behind us on a flight to Atlanta that were seemingly in dire straits; they announced final boarding call for their flight while they were in line. One was calling into work saying that they were going to miss the flight, only to have work think that this was an April Fool's gag. The other was explaining to us how he'd never gotten to Charleston's airport more than half an hour prior to departure. The whole time he's saying this, I'm thinking to myself, "I leave more than an hour just for New Bern airport," and I failed to muster much sympathy there. There were a bunch of other people, though, in the same boat, and we and the other customers in line let everyone skip ahead while they held the flight. It was all very polite.

After getting through security without incident, we got a little bite to eat at the snack shop. I relaxed for a bit at the table, and since under these circumstances I usually only have "on" and "off" modes, I slipped into "off" mode until we headed for the gate. We boarded on time, took off on time, and arrived 25 minutes early back at O'Hare, 8:05 a.m. CST. O'Hare was actually a welcome sight; so were the plethora of cabs available (although we got a cabbie that never apparently travels to Glenview, so I wound up talking him in). The cab ride was pleasantly uneventful, and we made it home without any problem.

It's now 11:00 a.m. We've retrieved the dog from his nanny, and I'm sitting here finishing today's entry. It's been a short yet busy vacation. Since the only thing left to do is write the epilogue....

EPILOGUE—April 3, 2005 (Sunday)

Well, we're at the end of another trip. I learned a lot about Charleston and its history, not so much about Latin. Charleston is rich in heritage. There is still something of the spirit of those first settlers in the current inhabitants of the city; Charleston natives are proud of their city, and I think it's the only real allegiance they claim. Heck, St. Philip's Episcopal has four graveyards. Three are next to the church and reserved only for people born in Charleston. The graveyard across the street? That's where everyone else goes, no matter how important they were or how long they may have lived in the city. Former vice president and senator John C. Calhoun, for instance, was born in Abbeville, so he goes on the other side of the street from his wife, Florida, who was born in Charleston. And that's a man who's still revered in that part of the country. It kind of sums up the attitude of Charlestonians to their city and everywhere else: everywhere else just isn't Charleston.

For my usual closing observations:

There's no place like the southeastern coast.
I'm technically eligible to be buried on the church side of the street at St. Philip's Episcopal.
Fried okra: good. Shrimp and grits: not so much.
The city planners of Charleston really need to be introduced to the left turn arrow on their stoplights.
No matter where you go, there's still nothing like returning home.

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Charleston, 2005 (or Back Where I Started)