Tornados, Pot Likker, Midnight Drives

In the morning, I lose my TV bet with myself. Turning on the local news. I’m surprised to hear the weather report — a cheerful young woman says “tornados” and then calmly turns things over to the traffic reporter. I am amazed at her sangfroid, until I learn that twisters are not at all uncommon in Georgia. This must be the far eastern end of Tornado Alley.

There’s just a mild rain as we leave the hotel, but darkness soon descends, punctuated by flashes of lightning. My students seem remarkably calm, considering that this is the same storm system that just killed 41 people in Oklahoma and left a scene that remniscent of nuclear holocaust. It’s actually very pretty in a scary way, and we delay class to watch. The rain turns impossibly heavy, then changes to hail. The news later reports hail the size of golfballs, but from our perch on the 4th floor of an office complex I would estimate “baseballs” or perhaps “canteloupes.”

As the hail continues to fall, we realize that standing by the ceiling-to-floor windows in our training room may not be wise, so we move to the central hallway. This is the South, and I am struck with the terrifying thought that I might be stuck in an office basement with several hundred Pentecostals and Baptists, all praying and singing to Jesus as the storm rages outside. I joke to a student “…at least you’ll die knowing how to use our software.” My gospel-music fears are for naught, though. The storm soon passes and I teach my class as usual.

Shoe mitt or no, my hotel does offer a complimentary cocktail hour. I drink one Margarita and am sloshed. Sober Jeff and tipsy Russell take to pumping the concierge for strange and interesting restaurants and turn up Cuban and South African places. Jeff is the new trainer-in-training, and he is everything I would want in a business travel companion — he’s funny, appreciates my jokes, and loves looking for strange and exotic restaurants that we can visit on our expense account. More importantly, his idea of entertainment doesn’t involve binge drinking or strip bars. Nonetheless, one of the things I really like about business travel is its solitary nature. It’s lonely at times, but I genuinely enjoy my company, and many of the things I like to do, like reading and writing these journals, are solitary pursuits.

The office complex where I’m teaching has a restaurant space. Last time I was at this site, it was occupied by an Arby’s chain restaurant. Jeff and I, having gotten over the collard burps, are delighted to find out that it’s now occupied by an authentic southern/soul food place with the standard “meat and two” or “meat and three” menu.

We enjoy two lunches there. The place seems to be run by authentic locals — southern black people who know the drill — collards, gooey-sweet yams, fresh cornbread and ice tea sweeter than Coca-Cola. On my second day there, I try to show off my knowledge of local cuisine. I have learned that Southern corn bread is best enjoyed after being dipped in the cooking liquid from the collards, known as “pot likker.” I ask the black guy dishing out my collards for some pot likker. He answers “What the hell is that?.” I explain, and he in turn explains that he’s from New York. I sheepishly mention that I’m from New Jersey, and turn to the other people in line for support. None will admit they know what “pot likker” is. Perhaps they’re all Yankees, too. Tail between my legs (but Styrofoam cup of pot likker on my tray), I retire to my seat.

The storm system that brutalized Oklahoma and provided excitement in Atlanta is now delaying flights to the northeast. We arrive at the airport at 3:30 for our 4:40 flight, and don’t take off until after 7:00 I worry about missing our connection in Boston, because I need to wake up early the next morning, pick up my 4-year-old daughter and drive back to Boston for a wedding.

A travelling companion can really make stressful times like this easier. We have dinner and a few beers near the gate and read all the newspapers we’ve collected. We arrive in time for the last Boston to Vermont flight, and discover that it’s been cancelled. Jeff proves to be a lifesaver, not only helping me drive back to Vermont in a rental car, but letting me have a brief snooze and providing a great book on tape for our listening pleasure as we drive.

I arrive in Burlington at 2:00 AM and get into my car, only to discover that the airport parking lot attendant isn’t in his booth. A wooden gate prevents me from leaving the parking lot. I flash my lights, honk and wait a while. Then drive to the entrance of the parking lot, leave my car, walk around the gate, and push the “Enter” button. No dice. It must have some kind of a sensor in the pavement. In the end, angry and very tired, I return to the exit, mutter profanities, and force the wooden gate up high enough for my little Honda to squeeze by. Heading home to bed, I thank my stars that I wasn’t driving a minivan.