Crossing the Mason-Dixon Line involves a great deal more than crossing a geo-political boundary. Leaving the New England States behind one encounters a slower less harried pace of life. As the temperature goes up so does the spiciness of the food and the 'heat' in the salsa and hot sauce. Southern hospitality is equally solicitous, just not offered with the same sense of urgency. Your hostess is like to refer to you as 'dear', 'love' or even 'honey'. Campgrounds are now open year-round and rather than heaters one requires air conditioning. On the Outer Banks of North Carolina the sign on the entrance to a bookstore read:
"No shirt, no shoes, wetsuit, wet bathing suit;
No problem!"
Definitely laid back. Chowders on the Outer Islands of North Carolina I learn are made with clear broth and fat back rather than the milk and butter of New England Style Chowders. The trees outside my windows become strange and unfamiliar and the birds with which I am familiar having migrated or being in the process are joined by southern residents such as Anhingas and Pelicans.
On the Jersey Shore I was bemused to encounter a grocery chain called ACME—no coyotes in sight but then he used mail-order. I am again appalled by the American pre-occupation with guns and the sense of security they seem to give them. Seashore Campground in Cape May has 700 campsites and a two-storey office. I got gas at a chain called WAWA—in Ontario that would mean Canada Goose, here I'm not sure. The Delaware Bay Ferry crossing next day was described as moderate, a euphemism indicating that the majority of passengers did not get seasick though all were warned to turn off vehicle security devices that detect motion. Things settled down once we got inside the southern breakwater. Interstate 13 is a coastal four-lane divided highway with traffic lights at the intersection with major highways, not limited access. It passes through farming country with the attendant odours. After passing though Maryland one enters a long spit of land that is part of Virginia termed its Eastern Shore. I don't understand the history behind this geographical anomaly but at the tip of this peninsula the Chesapeake Bridge-Tunnel winds its 17 mile path across the Bay to Virginia Beach.
After a long day's drive the last thing you want to discover at your KOA Kampground is a rock concert, Christian or not. At least with the heat I closed the windows and turned on the A/C to mask the noise. Worse was to come. Next day I discovered Jets 300 feet overhead taking off from Oceana NAS across the road. Who placed a campground where navy jets could crash? An F-18 at 300 feet provides a deafening wake-up call but who would want to argue with Virginia Beach's largest employer? This campground rates 20 thumbs---waaaaay down. While in town I drove 70 miles on roads not mentioned in any tourist brochure and visited three garages before I found someone to service my van—the principle reason I stopped over in town. That and the need to rest—ha, ha, ha! I also don't recommend the Virginia Aquarium—highway noise and overhead jets are great for the critters and the people who visit. Great beach but don't forget the ear plugs.
After hearing about the landslide on I-40 and the fact that the concrete highway has 3 inch cracks between the blocks I took a neighbour's advice and headed south to North Carolina's Outer Banks. Cross the bridge into Kitty Hawk then head south. Here salt spray, blowing sand, sand dunes, and sandy beaches are never more than a short walk distant. If you don't have sand in your shoes you've wasted your time. Lots of bridges and lighthouses. Cape Hatteras Light looks out of place on its new site 1500 feet from shore after its move ten years ago to avoid falling prey to the very waves it serves to warn shipping of. At 200 feet it is still an imposing iconic structure.
Hard to tell just who the good guys are. In Ocracoke, the home of Edward Teach lies proof that one can't go home. Although pardoned that didn't stop the British sending an assassination squad to deprive him of his head. Do you suppose he fared better in the hereafter? At least I got to keep mine and spent two days in idle wandering. Spending two and a half hours on a pitching ferry riding backwards—the GPS recorded 14 miles an hour—in shallow waters is a queasy afternoon's passage. Once on Cedar Island the road is hemmed in on each side by deep trenches. Get off it and if you don't drown the skeeters or the gators will get you. Darkness comes quickly when it's 4:30 and you have 50 miles to drive on these roads. Having someone meet you and guide you to a campsite is indeed Southern Hospitality.
There are two KOA's in Charleston. The other half stay on an Antebellum Estate in town, the cheap seats have one waiting for a break in traffic to make a left-hand turn on a major highway. Once the curtains are drawn the difference is the traffic noise, the aircraft overhead, the railway crossing, and the turkey shoot across the road. The laundry room was probably more high-class as well but I got mine done. Wonder what you feed a pet alligator—non-paying guests? The majority of the historic signs on the walls of the laundry area are not politically correct.
Today I took I-20 inland into Georgia. Wish I could say that I found a peaceful well-appointed campground after my 200-mile drive but Country Boy's RV Park is even more rustic than its name suggests. Best I not publish until after I depart!
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