A Southern Education

When my parents drove away and left me in my corner dorm room on the third floor of Buist Rivers Residence Hall, alone in a city 500 miles from home where I knew no one, I braced myself for a shocking transition. At 18, I was fully aware that I’d grown up in a homogeneous circle of evangelical, middle class people in suburban West Virginia. I cringed admitting I’d attended the same school since kindergarten and graduated with a class of 25 students. Only to me was my moderately sized university of 10,000 students  an eclectic metropolis. But looking back five years later, the most bewildering revelations from freshman year didn't relate to the urban surroundings or collegiate depravity that I'd been warned about. My real shock was my introduction to Southern culture and erudite classmates.

“Good grief.” my best friend had muttered in disbelief when she'd accompanied me to my orientation seminar a month earlier. "This is like the Stepford Wives College." I defended myself, insisting that when I’d visited the school that spring during Scholars Weekend the crowd had been different. That summer short, flippy skirts were in, and we were the only girls on campus wearing jeans. We went shopping that afternoon, and I bought a bright yellow, pleated mini. I wore it that evening and the next morning.

The night before classes started I sat on a beanbag on a dorm room floor with a group of girls from my hall.  One tried to explain to me what a debutante ball was, showing me pictures of herself wearing a pink gown on stage with a dorky escort at a country club. “Nowadays it’s just a tradition, but it used to be a coming out ceremony where girls from high society families of marrying age were put on display,” she said. Can we say archaic, classist, and demeaning? I thought.

The trauma continued my first week of college. My unruly hair that I’d learned to tame with a laborious blow-dry and ceramic flat iron routine became a frizzy mess in the thick, coastal Carolina humidity. My skin developed a layer of grease as soon as I stepped outside in the 95-degree heat. But everywhere I looked on campus packs of smooth-haired blondes with matte bronze skin marched around in Lily Pulitzer sundresses, designer handbags, and heels. In West Virginia we only wore skirts and heels to church. After being derided most of my life for being overdressed, I’d discovered a place where a dress was appropriate for any occasion. If any of these girls had spoken to me, or if my own appearance wasn’t such a disaster, I would have felt as if I was finally home.

It wasn’t until the end of my first semester that I realized sorority rush had taken place during the first two weeks of class. That explained the daytime cocktail attire on campus. Although the stilettos eventually disappeared from the classroom, I can still hear the stampede of clacks on those 19^th century brick sidewalks.

That fall I'd learn that sorority types or not, Southern girls agreed it was a crime of fashion to wear white after Labor Day. I’d thought that was a myth from my grandmother’s time, but these girls were dead serious. Had they not seen Demi Moore's winter white suit? And if I put on my jean jacket when I was wearing jeans, they'd joke about my Canadian tuxedo. I ignored them, thinking they dressed like soccer moms, wearing the same pearls around their necks and in their ears day in and day out. In class they wore their sunglasses around their necks attached to awful strings I later learned were called Croakies. Later I figured out that their daily uniform, a Ralph Lauren pastel button down shirt or polo paired with Citizens of Humanity jeans and Rainbow flip flops, cost half as much as my wardrobe. At church I saw guys my age dressed in seersucker suits with bowties. They were not trying to be ironic.

My other cultural awakening related to intellect rather than fashion. I lived in an Honors College dorm and couldn’t keep up with my hall mates’ conversations. They talked about bands I’d never heard of. In high school I thought I was pretty cosmopolitan because I listened to music on top-100 radio and not just Michael W. Smith and Casting Crowns. My new college friends only listened to indie music or classics like The Rolling Stones. At first I thought Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd were two guys, but I caught on. Soon they were asking me if they could burn my Garden State soundtrack with all the songs from that new Postal Service band. 


Not only did my classmates drop names of obscure musicians, but they also loved to compare their trips to Europe, boast about the difficulty of their high schools’ International Baccalaureate programs, and argue about Nietzche versus Kant. They discussed authors and poets and foreign film directors. My roommate and our neighbor had to explain what a nymphet was to me while we watched the independent movie Lolita. At least I’d read the Bell Jar so I could make intelligent commentary when one of my friends showed me her Sylvia Plath inspired journals and verses. My horizons broadened daily. One night my roommate pulled her secret box out of the closet. She showed me her journal detailing all her lovers and conquests, a pair of handcuffs, and some tacky dice. “What’s Kama Sutra?” I asked when I saw the photography book in the bottom.

In my honors English and astronomy classes I kept my mouth shut while my peers discussed the merits of iambic pentameter and the quirks of special relativity. They debated the ethical implications of the racial and economic segregation in their high schools. I was afraid I’d pronounce Goethe wrong or unwittingly reveal that I’d never read Paradise Lost in high school English. I had never felt so ignorant and unsophisticated. My professors must not have noticed, because they gave me all A’s.

Outside of the classroom I learned lessons about the South. I learned not to freak out about the Palmetto bugs (Charlestonian for giant cockroaches) that swarmed the streets at night or try to debate any heretic South Carolinian who believes the Confederacy should have won the Civil War. I also found out what a Lowcountry boil was. Every fall I got invited to several of them -- cookouts with just-caught shrimp, potatoes, corn on the cob, and kielbasa boiled together in giant pots. My first bite was always a horrifying crunch because I'd forget to peel and de-leg the shrimp. In the spring I learned to pry open still-grimy oysters served by the bucket at oyster roasts. I preferred other local specialties – she-crab soup (a crab bisque with sherry and roe) and shrimp and grits (actually delicious at the right restaurant). My last year of school I finally went sailing, but I never learned to shag (the dance) or tolerate the sweet tea. And I'll never say y'all or appreciate a Vera Bradley design.                           


After four years under the Palmetto flag I accepted that I’ll never be a Southern belle or really get the South, but some dismal days in Europe and and West Virginia I've wanted to repeat Scarlett O'Hara's declamation  -- “I'm going back to dignity and grace. I'm going back to Charleston, where I belong.”

Visit Charleston: The cool side of charming

When you think of Charleston, South Carolina, you might conjure up images of a quaint and cultured coastal city rife with old money, Civil War history, and carriage tours. Charleston is a lovely city – one of the loveliest – but it’s also a college town with a progressive side. The Southern seaport now hosts a fashion week, and its slow food movement has made it a foodie destination on par with much bigger cities. It’s sometimes seriously hip, and hipster, and even hippie. And this casual side of the city is also more financially accessible.

The ideal way to explore Charleston is on foot (or on a bicycle if you’ve got one). The historic district comprising the lower portion of the peninsula is an elegant introduction. Walk by the sparkling gray water of the Cooper River along The Battery, the famous promenade once used for Civil War artillery, spotting sailboats and dolphins on one side and admiring antebellum mansions on the other. Wander the paths and cannons of White Point Gardens and then continue toward the palmetto-tree-lined and oak-canopied Water Front Park. Pause for fountain photo ops, sit on the swings on the pier, and take in the views of the Charleston Harbor and the Ravenel Bridge, an eight-lane, diamond-towered steel wonder. (Sometime during your stay take advantage of the bike and pedestrian lane for glorious views from the continent’s longest cable-stay bridge.)

Take time to meander past the gated 19th-century mansions and gardens shaded by oaks dripping with moss on the surrounding streets. It’s all romance with a capital R. Don’t miss Rainbow Row, the much-photographed series of pastel-colored historic houses on East Bay Street, or the French Quarter and its swanky restaurants and art galleries. (Several Friday evenings a year the galleries open for a free art walk through the gas-lit cobbled streets and alleys that includes wine and hors doeuvres.)

Nearby on gorgeous Broad Street is a little boho restaurant called Gaulart et Maliclet Cafe that has community tables and very reasonably priced, very European specials that include a glass of wine. Locals refer to it as Fast and French. Turning onto lower Meeting Street feels like going back in time 150 years. Most of the churches and graveyards date back to the 1600s – hence Charleston’s nickname the Holy City. Up King Street, the city’s shopping avenue, the high-end antique shops and boutiques begin.

When you come to Saks Fifth Avenue and the venerable and luxe Charleston Place Hotel, flagship-worthy chain stores (The massive Urban Outfitters in a fabulous converted theater space is worth a look if only to check out the crystal chandeliers and sweeping staircases in the dramatic venue.) and fashion forward boutiques occupy the centuries-old buildings. Go inside the Charleston Place to peruse the shops or just savor the opulence of the grandiose lobby with its elegant staircase, live jazz, and polished marble floors.

When you cross Calhoun Street you’re approaching Upper King Street, the up-and-coming design district. You could take a detour here and follow the brick sidewalks into the Spanish moss-and-ivy covered grounds of the College of Charleston campus, est. 1776. On a Saturday morning a side trip to the farmer’s market in Marion Square Park is in order. Browse the local produce and artisan stands and maybe even order a crepe.

Back on King Street stop for a fresh baked gourmet Black Forest or Carrot Cake cupcake at the adorable Cupcake bakery or take a fair-trade latte break at the African-themed Kudu Coffee, frequented by students and creative types. Monza is a good lunch stop for Neapolitan-style pizzas and salads made with fresh, local ingredients. Or you could take a little walk to the corner Bull Street Gourmet for a sandwich. You’ll want to come back to Upper King later for the bar scene. The sleek Chai’s Lounge and Tapas is a standout. The earthy Asian interior with paper lanterns can feel yuppie-ish, but the bamboo garden courtyard in the back is where it’s at in the evenings.

Even though Upper King hosts the city’s new night scene, out-of-towners still flock to the Market Street bars. If bachelorette parties and Jello shots aren’t your thing, wait in line for Rooftop Restaurant and Bar for glowing city views among a preppy crowd. Although with the exception of the renowned Gullah sweetgrass basket weavers the Charleston Market is a best-avoided tourist trap, don’t miss the street itself. Stop by Market Street Sweets for to-die-for praline samples on your way to the dark, Victorian Kaminsky’s Café for desserts made daily by pastry chefs and served late into the night. Wait in line for a table if necessary -- it’s worth it. The Tollhouse Cookie Pie has a cult following (order it a la mode). For a bit of frugal ambience, wait until 11 p.m. for half-price pizza, $2 champagne, and live jazz at the stylish and sensual Mercato, an upscale Italian restaurant.

If the weather’s warm, leave town at least once for an afternoon at one of the nearby beaches. Isle of Palms is the family friendly beach where the vacationers head. The surfers and coeds with beer coolers flock to shabby Folly beach. Taco Boy decked out in umbrellas and Christmas lights is great for lunch and cocktails. (The new downtown location on Huger Street is also a hotspot with bands playing on the patio in the evenings.) Charming Sullivan’s Island is the quietest beach and the closest at barely 15 minutes away. Pass the lighthouse and head to station 17 if you don’t mind a 10-minute nature walk (wildflowers and butterflies!) to a secluded shore that you’ll most likely have to yourself. On the island Poe’s Tavern, named for Edgar Allan Poe who was stationed at Fort Moultrie on Sullivan’s, is famous for its burgers and can get rowdy.

To find out what’s going on back downtown, grab a free copy of The Charleston City Paper. The alternative weekly also includes a vast restaurant and music directory. The online Charlie Magazine also gives voice to all happenings artistic and progressive in Charleston. Or end your stay with one of two stand-by options: signing up for a commercial but oh-so fun ghost tour or taking in an indie flick with a bottle of wine or chocolate chip cookie at the art house Terrace Theatre on humble James Island.

Gaulart et Maliclet Café, 98 Broad St. (843) 577-9797.
Charleston Place Hotel, 205 Meeting St. (843) 722-4900.
Cupcake, 433 King St. (843) 853-8181.
Kudu Coffee, 4 Vanderhorst. St. (843) 853-7186.
Monza, 451 King St. (843) 720-8787.
Bull Street Gourmet, 60 Bull St. (843) 720-8992.
Chai’s Lounge and Tapas, 462 King St. (843) 722-7313.
Rooftop Bar and Restaurant, 23 Vendue Range St. (843) 723-0485.
Market Street Sweets, 100 N. Market St. (843) 722-1397.
Kaminsky’s Café, 78 N. Market St. (843) 853-8270.
Mercato, 102 N. Market St. (843) 722-6393.
Taco Boy, 15 Center St. (843) 588-9761.
Poe’s Tavern, 2210 Middle St. (843) 883-008.                                                               Terrace Theatre, 1956D Maybank Highway (843) 762-4247.