Carolina Expectations June 21, 2004
Carolina Expectations
Moving to a new place, one can't help forming expectations of how things will be there. Many of these expectations are based on simple, obvious facts. I knew that when I moved here I would see the Atlantic Ocean, but I would no longer see the Indian Peaks. The Silly Science in The Day After Tomorrow notwithstanding, I would never again see 50 below zero or feel the sting of wind driven show on my face as the Chinook winds sped downhill, seemingly determined to take me with them. I did know I would probably see the heat threatening 100 degrees on the thermometer, with the humidity close on its heels. But there were other expectations less obvious. There are other things so common locally that they are seldom noticed consciously. It is only when a new place presents circumstances ever so slightly different from the circumstances one is used too that common things can seem strange. One example is in the way people drive.
It is pretty much standard everywhere to hear newcomers complain about how the locals drive, and vice versa. Sometimes the complaints have no basis in reality, but are the product of prejudices toward "otherness", which is to say that the perceived differences are figments of imagination, rather than fact. I experienced a case of this phenomenon last summer in Colorado. I was driving a rental car while mine was being serviced, and driving along a stretch of road I had driven hundreds of times without incident. As usual, I was driving slightly over the speed limit. A car pulled up behind me, and as I looked in the mirror I saw the other driver gesture by rapidly lifting his arm, palm up. The universal meaning of the gesture seems to be something like "of all the idiot people on the road, I have to get stuck behind this moron." It is not even an aggressive gesture, it's as though the driver up ahead was beneath contempt, and not worthy of direct comment. Anyway, just a few seconds later, the way cleared and the driver sped around me. I wasn't angry or upset, just a bit confused about what the other driver found so distasteful. I concluded that the fellow was simply having a bad day and I happened along just in time to be a surrogate. Soon thereafter, I made a stop at a shop and walked around the rear of my car on the way in. I happened to glance at the license plates of my rental car, and the mystery was solved. The car I was driving had California plates, and everybody in Colorado knows people in California can't drive (substitute each of the other states, in turn, for each of these two states). Had I been driving my own car, I'm sure the incident would never have happened.
The point of that little digression is that I had certain expectations of what I would find in South Carolina that evolved from biased stereotypes, rather than factual research. I hadn't really planned to look in this closet just yet, but there is something about the clicking of the keyboard keys in an otherwise silent room that encourages candor- so I will just 'fess up. This is not the first time I have lived in South Carolina. I was born here, lived most of my pre-teen years here. Not in Myrtle Beach, but in the northwest corner, a little place called Locust Hill, which is not far from Traveler's Rest, which is not far from Greenville. I was going to skip that part just in case some of my long lost relatives decided to lynch me for besmirching our family name. This preconceived notion about what to expect when I moved here was sometimes less than flattering. I had developed that notion, as well as most of my notions, during the sixties at the University of Colorado in Boulder, where I engaged in the aforementioned besmirching activities.
I expected to find a Baptist Church on every other corner; what I didn't expect to find was a "Gentleman's Club" on every corner in between. Lest I engage the pot calling the kettle black syndrome, I hasten to add that Boulder also has a strip club, although the owners wouldn't dare call it a "Gentleman's Club." My mild surprise at seeing such an establishment in what I had considered the heart of the Bible belt quickly escalated to plumb curiosity. I soon found that here in a place that is called the golf capitol of the world, the phone book lists as many escort services as it does golf courses. My initial surprise soon gave way to a sensible explanation other than that the city fathers had spiked the water with Viagra. Aha! tourist dollars. That explains that. Understand that I have no moral objection to either strippers or hookers, I am a certified consenting adults believer. However, I am afraid the local economy will have to make do without my g-string bound folded dollar bills. Blame it on the fact that I am probably just a jaded old hippy, but I get little excitement from watching someone get in uniform if there ain't going to be a ball game.
Another thing about which my stereotypes had misinformed me has to do with restaurants. The only two things that I really required of Myrtle Beach before I moved here were long public beaches, and excellent restaurants. A first class dining experience is my one irresistible vice. I was used to excellent restaurants in Boulder, most of which were at least 15 miles from my home, and the nearest restaurant or store of any kind, was seven miles. Now I live within easy walking distance of Restaurant Row, and it is heaven. So what's my complaint? Neither the art or science of presentation has made it to Myrtle Beach. The food, for the most part, tastes great, but the plates often look like a culinary ghetto, the overriding principle seems to be if it will fit on the plate, serve it. We sophisticates (belch) enjoy the beauty of a well prepared dish as much as the taste. It is hard to make art if you don't leave enough white space on the plate to make it. Just a mild complaint, and at first I faulted the restaurant owners financial judgement, in that they were serving such huge portions that they were reducing their customers eating out life expectancies. But once again, I realized my stereotypical judgment was in error, and again for the same reason. Tourist dollars. After all, who wants to eat sensible portions on vacation?
Now I am going from minor complaints about reality not fitting my pre-formed images to a downright petty complaint. Serious now folks, this is kinda backwards. I am referring to the way women down here, servers, drug store clerks, even a dental receptionist call we males honey, and darling. I know it is a long established practice, but I find it annoying in exactly the same way and for the same reason that females resent being call babe and sweetheart. Guess I am just being repaid for all the years I spent as a cat hitting on the chicks.
And my final complaint about local reality not complying with my stereotypes really is a big disappointment. Maybe I just haven't found out where to go yet, I hope so. One vision I had that made my mouth water all the way here was the expectation of wandering around in a huge Saturday farmer's market. I pictured stall after stall overflowing with premium fresh from the ground and off the tree fruits and vegetables. What I found was pretty much third world in comparison to the farmer's market in Boulder. Perhaps that too is a function of tourists not doing very much cooking of their own. So I haven't given up yet, somewhere around here I am determined to find a source for the delicious peaches, tomatoes, corn, and on and on that I remember from my childhood.
Carolina Expectations
Moving to a new place, one can't help forming expectations of how things will be there. Many of these expectations are based on simple, obvious facts. I knew that when I moved here I would see the Atlantic Ocean, but I would no longer see the Indian Peaks. The Silly Science in The Day After Tomorrow notwithstanding, I would never again see 50 below zero or feel the sting of wind driven show on my face as the Chinook winds sped downhill, seemingly determined to take me with them. I did know I would probably see the heat threatening 100 degrees on the thermometer, with the humidity close on its heels. But there were other expectations less obvious. There are other things so common locally that they are seldom noticed consciously. It is only when a new place presents circumstances ever so slightly different from the circumstances one is used too that common things can seem strange. One example is in the way people drive.
It is pretty much standard everywhere to hear newcomers complain about how the locals drive, and vice versa. Sometimes the complaints have no basis in reality, but are the product of prejudices toward "otherness", which is to say that the perceived differences are figments of imagination, rather than fact. I experienced a case of this phenomenon last summer in Colorado. I was driving a rental car while mine was being serviced, and driving along a stretch of road I had driven hundreds of times without incident. As usual, I was driving slightly over the speed limit. A car pulled up behind me, and as I looked in the mirror I saw the other driver gesture by rapidly lifting his arm, palm up. The universal meaning of the gesture seems to be something like "of all the idiot people on the road, I have to get stuck behind this moron." It is not even an aggressive gesture, it's as though the driver up ahead was beneath contempt, and not worthy of direct comment. Anyway, just a few seconds later, the way cleared and the driver sped around me. I wasn't angry or upset, just a bit confused about what the other driver found so distasteful. I concluded that the fellow was simply having a bad day and I happened along just in time to be a surrogate. Soon thereafter, I made a stop at a shop and walked around the rear of my car on the way in. I happened to glance at the license plates of my rental car, and the mystery was solved. The car I was driving had California plates, and everybody in Colorado knows people in California can't drive (substitute each of the other states, in turn, for each of these two states). Had I been driving my own car, I'm sure the incident would never have happened.
The point of that little digression is that I had certain expectations of what I would find in South Carolina that evolved from biased stereotypes, rather than factual research. I hadn't really planned to look in this closet just yet, but there is something about the clicking of the keyboard keys in an otherwise silent room that encourages candor- so I will just 'fess up. This is not the first time I have lived in South Carolina. I was born here, lived most of my pre-teen years here. Not in Myrtle Beach, but in the northwest corner, a little place called Locust Hill, which is not far from Traveler's Rest, which is not far from Greenville. I was going to skip that part just in case some of my long lost relatives decided to lynch me for besmirching our family name. This preconceived notion about what to expect when I moved here was sometimes less than flattering. I had developed that notion, as well as most of my notions, during the sixties at the University of Colorado in Boulder, where I engaged in the aforementioned besmirching activities.
I expected to find a Baptist Church on every other corner; what I didn't expect to find was a "Gentleman's Club" on every corner in between. Lest I engage the pot calling the kettle black syndrome, I hasten to add that Boulder also has a strip club, although the owners wouldn't dare call it a "Gentleman's Club." My mild surprise at seeing such an establishment in what I had considered the heart of the Bible belt quickly escalated to plumb curiosity. I soon found that here in a place that is called the golf capitol of the world, the phone book lists as many escort services as it does golf courses. My initial surprise soon gave way to a sensible explanation other than that the city fathers had spiked the water with Viagra. Aha! tourist dollars. That explains that. Understand that I have no moral objection to either strippers or hookers, I am a certified consenting adults believer. However, I am afraid the local economy will have to make do without my g-string bound folded dollar bills. Blame it on the fact that I am probably just a jaded old hippy, but I get little excitement from watching someone get in uniform if there ain't going to be a ball game.
Another thing about which my stereotypes had misinformed me has to do with restaurants. The only two things that I really required of Myrtle Beach before I moved here were long public beaches, and excellent restaurants. A first class dining experience is my one irresistible vice. I was used to excellent restaurants in Boulder, most of which were at least 15 miles from my home, and the nearest restaurant or store of any kind, was seven miles. Now I live within easy walking distance of Restaurant Row, and it is heaven. So what's my complaint? Neither the art or science of presentation has made it to Myrtle Beach. The food, for the most part, tastes great, but the plates often look like a culinary ghetto, the overriding principle seems to be if it will fit on the plate, serve it. We sophisticates (belch) enjoy the beauty of a well prepared dish as much as the taste. It is hard to make art if you don't leave enough white space on the plate to make it. Just a mild complaint, and at first I faulted the restaurant owners financial judgement, in that they were serving such huge portions that they were reducing their customers eating out life expectancies. But once again, I realized my stereotypical judgment was in error, and again for the same reason. Tourist dollars. After all, who wants to eat sensible portions on vacation?
Now I am going from minor complaints about reality not fitting my pre-formed images to a downright petty complaint. Serious now folks, this is kinda backwards. I am referring to the way women down here, servers, drug store clerks, even a dental receptionist call we males honey, and darling. I know it is a long established practice, but I find it annoying in exactly the same way and for the same reason that females resent being call babe and sweetheart. Guess I am just being repaid for all the years I spent as a cat hitting on the chicks.
And my final complaint about local reality not complying with my stereotypes really is a big disappointment. Maybe I just haven't found out where to go yet, I hope so. One vision I had that made my mouth water all the way here was the expectation of wandering around in a huge Saturday farmer's market. I pictured stall after stall overflowing with premium fresh from the ground and off the tree fruits and vegetables. What I found was pretty much third world in comparison to the farmer's market in Boulder. Perhaps that too is a function of tourists not doing very much cooking of their own. So I haven't given up yet, somewhere around here I am determined to find a source for the delicious peaches, tomatoes, corn, and on and on that I remember from my childhood.
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