Every time I travel, I remember what a restless spirit I have. Leaving Florida behind felt like shedding a swimsuit coverup, leaving it in a crumpled ring on the floor, in order to dive into the pool. Once in Georgia, I drank in the palm-tree-less landscape and eagerly followed the curves of the hillsides with my eyes. I thought of the mountains that lay just north of where we drove and imagined living there, with acres of land sprawling around a home made of wood - no concrete block or stucco - where we could hike and wade in a creek and sit on a deck wrapped in a blanket sipping on hot cocoa and look out over an autumn-ravaged forest.
I thought of the different beauties of each part of the U.S. - the endless green plane of Illinois cornfields stark against the blue horizon; the dry yellowed hills of Northern California set off by the vibrant trees; the reds and oranges and browns and stately cacti of Arizona. And of course, Florida is beautiful in its own way, too, with its tropical brush and lakes and kudzu draping over trees and power lines, looking like ancient leafy dinosaurs. I just get so restless to see other landscapes, other seasons.
In Georgia this time of year, you can feel the imminence of autumn, although it's still warm. A few yellow leaves blow across the roads, and you know the drop of temperature is just around the bend. The residents are ready; Joe's dad Lynn suggested half-jokingly that we start a fire in the fireplace as we watched Hurricane Rita coverage from the comfort of their brown sectional couch.
The Wares' house is built for fall and winter, with its red brick exterior and warm interior colors. When we arrived on Friday night, Rosemary had made us a home-cooked meal of spaghetti casserole and California veggies and salad with poppyseed dressing; Joe had made us peanutbutter pie.
The Wares are football nuts... at least the men anyway. We all went to a Buffalo Wild Wings to watch the Ohio St. game on Saturday and sampled sauces. Then Rosemary and I shopped while the guys finished cheering on the Buckeyes. Back at their home, we sat around the mission-style dining room table like a family and looked at wedding pictures.
Philip and I were with them almost 24 hours when it was time to head up to Athens for the Sufjan show. Sufjan is a musician and a scholar and a goofball, which is a great combination of qualities. With his band dressed like a Fightin' Illini cheerleading squad, he delivered his songs about my home state, which somehow manage to be sad and whimsical and celebratory and haunting and beautiful all at once. Between songs, the band did cheers and shook pom-poms and wiggled spirit-fingers. I smiled a lot, but a couple of the songs left me forgetting to breathe at the end. Half-Handed Cloud, a.k.a. John Ringhofer (friend of David Achata and acquaintance of Philip from his Berkeley trip), opened for him, with his own fair share of quirkiness; Sufjan even came out to play drums for a couple of his Old-Testament-themed tunes. The crowd was comprised, of course, of ridiculous bearded and Mary-Janed hipsters, but at least some of them weren't afraid to dance.
In the morning, we set off to return home. And after being in the car for more than five hours, I felt comforted when I saw a sign for Highway 50.
The squad.
Sujan with the Man of Steel (that's John playing the trumpet).
I-L-L-I-N-O-I-S!
A sleepy Philip after the show.
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