Atlanta, Georgia. Known for being the home of the 1996 Summer Olympics, the birthplace of Coca-Cola, a place immortalized as part of the Old South by her fictional citizens Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler, and where my idol, Lewis Grizzard, wrote the majority of his columns.
Kayla and I had been thinking of Atlanta for a while, thinking it might be the perfect place to vacation and relax. Still, I think about Atlanta, mostly thinking that the thought of Atlanta is much better than actually being there.
Well, that might be a little too hard on old Atlanta, for the city did teach this country boy a few lessons, starting with how to drive like a maniac.
We timed our departure from home to avoid Atlanta’s rush hour. Little did I know, every hour is rush hour in Atlanta. Eight lanes of traffic were moving, bumper-to-bumper, as fast as they could go, drivers passing and then cutting off anyone that stood in their way. The only thing I could do was keep up with the flow of traffic and string together curse words I didn’t even know I knew, much less how to sequence in the same sentence.
Finally off the interstate, my blood pressure subsided for the moment, I spotted the Varsity restaurant and, already, I could just taste the chili dogs. But, one thing at a time; I had to find our hotel. This would be my second lesson of the trip.
This was the first time I had ever booked a hotel using one of the electronic hotel finders on the Internet. The hotel I selected had scored a fair number of stars on the site’s rating system and there were no negative comments to be found. The description said it was close to attractions and Downtown Atlanta- it sounded great.
I first became a little concerned when the GPS took us through Downtown Atlanta and we just kept going… and going. I finally arrived at my location the same time, I might add, as an ambulance just two doors down. The only thing lacked was razor wire and a gunned parapet to pull off the prison theme the pay-by the-week hotel was going for. I sat in the truck and thought, “What have you gotten in to?”
“Well, looks aren’t everything,” I told myself as I made my way across the parking lot. Inside, I was almost at the reception desk, when a man came running in screaming, “That was a drive-by they just had!” Oh, boy.
“May I help you?” asked the desk clerk. Immediately, I replied, “Yes! I would like to cancel my reservations, please.”
So, there we were. Our fortunes suddenly changed, we were technically now homeless in Atlanta, left only to our wits. Knowing my country wit would only take us so far in a big city like Atlanta, I knew we had to find another hotel, and fast.
Thank the good Lord for GPS. The contraption was able to guide me through the web of city streets and from one hotel to the next. Finding one hotel full, I frantically made my way to another, praying for a vacancy. My prayer was answered at an Art Deco-looking hotel in Downtown.
Despite having a Chinese restaurant and a convenience store in its lobby and not appearing to have been remodeled since its construction in the 1930s, it was surprising clean and accommodating. And what did I care? It was a roof over my head and a bed to sleep on. We were no longer homeless but once again tourists.
Now, with one basic need out of the way, it was time for another. We were getting hungry. So, we started off on foot to Lewis Grizzard’s favorite dive, the Varsity. On foot because there was no way on earth I was going to drive in Atlanta traffic once more that day.
The policeman that gave us directions sent us in the wrong direction, thus giving me another worthwhile lesson: Never ask for directions in Atlanta. Even the citizens of Atlanta don’t know their way around, and with thousands of streets, half of them being named Peachtree, it is easy to see why.
Despite the faulty directions, we made it to the Varsity. I don’t know if it was because I was so hungry or what, but I swear that was the best chili dog I had ever eaten in my life.
We just sat there in our booth for a while, watching the scores of people pass by and, somehow, the stress of the day seemed worth it. I was in Atlanta with the best of companions, I had just finished the best chili dogs ever and I was holding tickets for what was to be the Braves’ 10,000th franchise win.
The trip left me feeling closer to my idol Lewis Grizzard. After the Braves game, as I nestled into my bed at the Art Deco hotel, I knew what Lewis meant when he wrote, “Chili Dawgs Always Bark at Night.” But, more importantly, I knew what he meant when he said General Sherman didn’t do a good enough job.
