A Day in Dixie

Another weekend has come and gone, and yet another story to tell. My second replacement homecoming event took place in Charlottesville, Virginia. It involved a white dress, smiling friends and family, and an exchange of rings. That's right, a wedding. Ah the Holy union of young love, sealed beneath the arching boughs of two ancient Virginia oaks. What better reason to suit up in seersucker as if it were college game day, take it slow, and soak in some southern comfort?

What ensued was nothing too short of my expectations. After we got through the whole "I do," "I do" part, the mass of 300 people (a modest size for any proper Southern wedding) began to herd towards the cocktail pavilion, a small stone-laden out cove carved into the country hill. The wedding took place at James Monroe's house, a 17th century estate nestled in the hills of the Blue Ridge mountains. It was incredible. A real Southern gem. You could feel the power of the Southern elite while standing on top of the cascading hilltop, overlooking the "land of cotton," in total control of your surroundings. It must have been nice for all that to be a sustained reality...

Drink of the evening: Bourbon, what else? Especially since there weren't any other options. Bourbon was served for the men, vodka and wine for the ladies. There were no restrictions, of course, seeing as we live in a Northern-governed, post-women's rights movement era, but let's just say I wouldn't be caught dead with anything that was wasn't a stiff shade of brown in my clear cup.

Is it bad that as I stood around in my fancy clothes, chatting with the other guests in a newly acquired Southern accent and soft demeanor, I wondered what it would be like to be a plantation owner in the 17th century? I mean aside from the whole slavery thing, and possibly killing other humans, it seems like a pretty sweet deal. No overhead. No payroll. 100% profit. Incredible. It's probably about the closest thing to being royalty we Americans can conceive, so I rationalized that as justification for feeling almighty in conversation- a rolled up procession sheet, my scepter, a glass of whiskey, my orb. I am a Southern king...from New Jersey.

We stood, and ate, and drank- a sea of white faces discussing the phenomenon of the Southern business model. "How did these guys ever pull it off," we wondered. These inquiries were quickly washed away by more bourbon and more wine as we floated up the knoll to the reception area, and the party continued.

The next order of business after even more food and still more drinks, was mingling with the Southern belles. Mingle I did, or tried, but most of the Southern belles weren't ringing. Let me just say this: I'm no longer sold on the allure of the Southern girl. Blond hair, sweet manners, proper speech. I didn't find any of these assets to outweigh the utter bore most of them were. On the whole, they had little to say and offered even less to do, as they spent most of their time huddled around table 12 in the back corner of the room. Maybe they could smell the toxic New York air pouring from my clothes. I don't know, and I don't care.

So when the one bridesmaid came over to chat towards the end of the night, she got the cold shoulder. Denied for the mindless, yet far more entertaining banter of a Northern brunette I've known since I was about 10. United States: 1, Confederacy: 0. Nice try dollface, but my New York capitalist sense of reason has taught me to take the path of least resistance. I know where that lilting conversation is headed. A friendly handshake or an introduction to a UVA boyfriend? No thanks.

Overall, I'd say my Virginia homecoming was a positive experience. The scenery and overwhelming feeling of encouraged entitlement made up for the death of my notion that Southern women are like Stepford wives with great accents. I'm sure there are some fun ones out there, but the search continues. Maybe I need to head further South. After all, Virginia does still get cold in the winter, making it curiously Northern by my standards. Next up on the homecoming trips list: Birmingham, Alabama where I and two friends will road trip to Tuscaloosa to see the Crimson Tide take on the LSU Tigers in football. It's time to venture into the real south, the deep south, where the Civil War (I'm sorry, the war of Northern agression) is still an on-going battle. This should be fun. Ramma' Jamma' Yellow Hammer.