Money

Over the years the way travelers carry money has changed from mostly travelers’ checks to debit or credit cards, which is awesome convenience. However there are a few caveats and it pays to do your homework.

For example, we were shocked to find our credit card did not work in card reader at the local ASDA in England in 2009. Apparently, Europe is adding microchips to their cards and those machines do not read the garden variety American card anymore. We were fortunate that we could still use our cards in the ATM outside and buy train tickets. I’ve asked my bank about acquiring a chip card for our next visit, but they said the expense of the change over is expensive and they are slowly rolling out the new cards. Hopefully they will be available before our next trip.

On the other hand, some countries (like Guatemala) can charge outrageous fees to make purchases with credit cards and you’re pretty much left with cash. Then you have to carefully inspect any prospective ATM machine closely to see if it’s been compromised, endangering your card information. The alternative is to go to the bank and change money there. We found the banks in Guatemala to be very suspicious and had to answer a whole slew of questions that we’d never been asked in Europe when changing money – i.e. “How did you obtain this money you are changing?” “eh…white, middle age, middle class gringos here?” is not a satisfactory answer.

It is also advised that if you plan to travel to let your bank and credit card company know in advance. No wants to be stuck overseas with a non-functioning card and no cash. On one occasion my bank called me within hours of my credit card being used fraudulently in England.

It’s also smart to ask your bank and credit card companies what their fees are for international transactions. You will be surprised at the differences. We found that an old credit union credit card offered the best rates over our debit or other credit cards – 1% vs 3%.

On the whole credit and debit cards work well, but sometimes there can be unexpected glitches.

Things you might not think of…

Lower end hostels are sometimes not as quiet as their up market neighbors. If you don’t sleep as soundly as my husband (who could sleep through Armageddon), ear plugs can come in handy. I’ve also downloaded an hour long vacuum cleaner soundtrack onto my iPod from iTunes to act as white noise. Yeah, I’m a light sleeper.

Something that didn’t occur to me until I read about it on other websites that might come in handy are nail clippers, especially if you plan to be gone a while.

To help compress my clothing into the size a little larger than a football, I use a compression sack. If you are packing light you will more than likely completely unpack your back every day – there will not be any mystery items riding around in the bottom of your bag.

Packing light in a small bag doesn’t leave a lot of room for things like souvenirs. After a couple of trips where we spent our last day hunting for a duffel bag to pack those extra purchases, we started carrying ultralite compressed duffel bags like the one to the side. It’s thin and not great to carry long distance, but will hold your laundry and non-essentials on the flight home to make room for souvenirs in your carry-on.

I’m one of those people who has to have her cup of tea in the morning to get going. I first saw water heaters like the one to the side twenty years ago in Eastern Europe. They will heat a cup of water in a few minutes. It’s best to give it a stir once in a while.

If you are taking electronics, you might find a mini power strip helpful. Rooms often have only one outlet. We found it works to charge 2 iPods, phone, Kindle, water heater, and camera battery charger with no problem. Small and compact.

The Guidebook

I missed an important step in trip planning – buy a decent guidebook. The Internet definitely provides a wealth of information. It allows you to look up what activities are available, book your hostel and transportation in advance, communicate with people that live there locally. The guidebook still has its place, though.

I’ve found that the cheapest hostels often don’t have websites and are impossible to find outside a book. If you are looking for mid-range to high end establishments, the Internet works fine. Be sure to check your hotel out on sites like TripAdvisor as hotel websites can tell you anything – doesn’t mean it’s true.

A guidebook will give you a good overall picture of your destination and transportation options. There are many forums on the Internet that will give you local current information, for example – recent bombs or where the dodgy ATMs are located.

A good guide will have local maps and step by step instructions about important things like which bus do you need to get on to get to (fill in the blank) and how much should it cost. Be sure to look your prospective guidebook over closely to make sure it contains this type of information, some do it better than others.

Another advantage to the guidebook is that when you’re lost out on the street, it’s much easier to whip out a book and look at the map than track down an Internet connection.

Laundry

"After enlightenment, the laundry."       
Zen Proverb

In order to make a small travel wardrobe work, you have to do laundry daily. It only takes a few minutes. There have been improvements to make this task easier that don’t add loads of weight to your bag.

A simple bit of twine makes a good laundry line or you can try Flexoline’s woven rubber laundry line that allows you to secure your laundry between the weave. They are easy to leave behind though. We lost both twine and rubber laundry lines on our last trip – thankfully it was near the end.

You can now buy bar laundry soap that doubles as a bath bar or small packets of laundry sheets like the ones shown at the side, when those run out you can pick up small packets of local washing powder (every culture does laundry).

Most hostels don’t have sink stoppers (some don’t have sinks, depending on what part of the world you’re traveling to) or the bath is down the hall. You can take a universal sink stopper. We’ve carried Sea to Summit’s folding bucket, which folds down small and works well.

If the climate isn’t too cold and you’ve packed fast drying clothing, your laundry should be dry or mostly dry in the morning. My socks and travel bra sometimes didn’t quite make it.

Another space saving tip - pack towels are great. They fold down small and dry very quickly, certainly smaller and faster than the traditional towel - not every hostel will offer hot water, much less a towel :)

What to Wear?

When preparing to travel, lay out all your clothes and all your money.  Then take half the clothes and twice the money.  ~Susan Heller

The temptation is to take more clothing in case you need for (fill in the blank), but unless you are traveling for business or something formal, most backpackers can make it with three shirts, a couple pants/shorts/skirt combo, and two changes of underwear if they are willing to wash as they go. It doesn’t matter what you take with you – you will hate it after two months of traveling. No one sensible looks like a runway model on the road. The bright side is that you can easily buy clothing as you go, often cheaper than you would at home, and they make great souvenirs.

Tips to make packing light more efficient:

• ·         Your clothing is more or less color coordinated so you can create multiple combinations (and thus avoid once in a life time photos like the one to the right - it was a long time ago and I obviously didn't give the color coordination angle enough thought :).

• ·         It’s worth investing in the new style of travel clothing that is quick drying and wrinkle resistant (wait for them to go on sale).
• ·         Pack with layering in mind, which will make your wardrobe more versatile.
• ·         Unless you’re headed to North America or Europe, not sure I’d bother with shorts. Most other cultures don’t wear them. (Please, no short short cut offs in places like India – it’s embarrassing what some people will wear - do your homework)

I personally don’t care for the greasy feel of sunscreen, so I often go for the long sleeved moisture wicking shirts. They are modest enough to suit most cultures and I don’t have to slather on as much sunscreen.

I also carry one light weight thermal bottoms, which can make light summer pants more comfortable on a cold night in the mountains, while waiting before dawn for a bus, or traveling on an overly air-conditioned bus (see Guatemala Night Bus). A light fleece layered over a shirt or two is also very warm.

If traveling fast and light, denim isn't the best choice. Jeans are relatively heavy and take forever to dry when washed or rained on.

Bling...

My husband gave me a necklace.  It's fake.  I requested fake.  Maybe I'm paranoid, but in this day and age, I don't want something around my neck that's worth more than my head. 

 ~Rita Rudner

Leave it at home. Actually, leave anything that you can’t bear to lose at home. Accidents happen, things get lost in repeated packing, pickpockets abound at most tourist spots. Why draw unwanted attention to yourself with eye-catching jewelry? I do buy jewelry on the road, but I keep it in the bag until I get home.

Besides, are you traveling to learn and experience or to impress the locals with how rich you are by wearing items probably worth a year of their wages?

Not wearing jewelry does not guarantee that your pocket won’t get picked, but I believe it reduces the temptation.

Shoes...

“All God’s children need traveling shoes.”

Maya Angelou

The most important item you will take on your trip is a good pair of walking shoes. Travel often requires hikes across enormous airports, walks through subway systems, and extensive standing in museums, castles, or long lines to buy tickets. Nothing spoils the joy of travel like uncomfortable shoes and blisters. It doesn’t matter if your shoes are designer or bargain basement, make sure they are fit to walk in and that you buy them early enough to break them in properly.

Packing a couple of Band-Aids will come in handy for the occasional blister, so you don’t have to chase them down, aggravating your feet. My husband, who has a great deal of blister experience, suggests using a needle to drain the blister before placing a Band-Aid on.

To minimize your travel weight, take one pair of shoes and maybe one pair of sandals. There is rarely a  reason to pack four pairs of shoes. If on that extreme occasion you find yourself in desperate need, buy a pair locally.

The Henry Clay Hotel Continued...

I got up in the night and went down the hall to pee. The door was closed, so I waited. In the wee hours of the morning you’d expect most people to be in and out. I waited. Finally, I knocked on the door to make sure there was someone in there and a woman’s voice called out that it was occupied. I waited some more. My tootsies were starting to get cold on the thin carpet and I wondered if I needed to call an ambulance or something. Finally the door scraped open (it stuck something terrible) and out walked a very overweight and unattractive woman and her beau. Without looking at me or uttering a word, they turned and walked down the hall. I guess that solved the mystery of the misplaced mint green panties.

Considering the hour the bar closed and the lovers of the night before, I got up pretty early to start the day. I went to search for breakfast. This time I decided to try the Henry Clay Restaurant, which doubled as the bar at night. Even though I’m from the area, my knowledge of local restaurant cuisine is limited because we never ate out growing up. I didn’t see any menus. Somehow I didn’t think they would have fresh fruit and yogurt, so I asked for the first thing that I thought they would have – eggs and a sausage biscuit. It was the best sausage biscuit I’d had in ages (that I hadn’t made myself) and I told the cook how good her biscuits were and could I please have another one. An older bald man at the end of the counter said I’d definitely made a friend there.

He was on the chatty side, so I ended up telling him that I was visiting family and attending the reunion. He asked if I knew Kate who was helping to organize it and I said I’d seen her the night before. I didn’t add any details.  He said she was a “catbird.”  Now I’m not familiar with that term, but from his expression and tone, I took it to mean she was a sly one that needed to be watched. I nodded my head sagely and agreed that you did indeed have to keep an eye on her.

Having eaten my very filling breakfast, it was time to make a few visits after stopping off at the library to catch up on email. I was a little early for my morning appointment, so I stopped to see my uncle on the way. He still lived deep in the holler near the first creek crossing. The tiny dirt road winds for miles through the creek crossings (no bridges) to the river. We used to go swimming there when I was a kid. When you're five years old, it’s all about the creek. I remember feeling deprived that we didn’t live near a creek like many of my cousins.

I don’t remember my uncle ever living anywhere else. Not sure what he made of me walking up to his porch in my big green hat, but he seemed glad to see me. I’d never noticed before that his eyes look just like my mom’s. He was on the quiet, reserved side like her, too. He’d married a big domineering woman who was out, and even though all his kids lived around him in various trailers, none came to investigate the strange car. Since I watched him observe and mentally note each vehicle that went down the holler (mostly variations of red pickups), I’m pretty sure his kids saw my car pull in. I could have been an ax murder in a big green hat! But we had a nice visit. I was telling him about Poopie the night before and he informed me that was the sheriff’s name – “Poopie” Holcomb. His dad lived up the holler. I kid you not. I couldn’t even make this stuff up! My uncle’s not really a talker and after about an hour I went on to my next appointment.

Mrs. Nichols was the high school librarian who lived at the bottom of the mountain that I grew up on. She has one of the finest souls that I’ve ever come across. She sends me a Christmas card every year and I said I’d visit the next time I was in Clay. So I spent a happy couple of hours visiting with her and catching up.  She was even considering trading out her cream sofa cushions on her leather couch for lime green ones to match my hat by the time I left.

After following the dense post parade traffic back into Clay, I found a parking spot and crashed in my room. I was beat and I had an hour to nap before getting ready to look my nicest possible for the actual reunion.

The pace was starting to tell on me mentally. I really needed that nap, but then I had to get up and ready. I’d already ironed the skirt (brought the iron just in case). As I was coming out of my second shower of the day, I ran into the fellow who ran the place. He and another man seemed to be doing some sort of survey. Out of curiosity, I asked him if many women stayed there and he said yes. Maybe I should have asked how many respectable women stayed there. Anyway, I told him how much I’d enjoyed staying there and he got a funny look on his face – like he thought I might be mentally deficient and perhaps dangerous. He muttered something I didn’t catch, and then shuffled off in a hurry. I shrugged- most businesses like getting positive feedback. Maybe it was seeing me with a towel wrapped on my head and no cosmetics? I admit my pajamas are not particularly attractive.

After all the fluffing and polishing possible- No, that’s not true. I didn’t wear anymore make-up than I’d wear for work. The lighting wasn’t the best for complex cosmetics and the mirror was pretty dusty. Hoped my blush wasn’t lopsided. Don’t think I looked too bad in my thrift store blouse and the long pink and blue batik tablecloth skirt I’d made.

I finally arrived at the high school. The first person I saw when I walked in the main entrance was the old principle. He was collecting money for something. I suddenly felt seventeen again and glad that I had resisted the urge to wear my hat. I mentally straightened my shoulders. Despite what you’ve read in these emails, I wasn’t raised in a barn and I can act like a lady when called upon to do so – at least for short periods of time.

I politely said hello and that I was here for the 1988 reunion. I could tell he didn’t recognize me. After all, he sees hundreds of kids every year. To be sure, I asked him if he knew who I was. He studied me for a minute. I told him to take his time. He said he could usually recognize folks by their eyes. I finally told him who I was and he complimented me on how well I looked, but it was still two to three minutes before he actually connected the name to the twenty year old year book picture, because I caught the look of surprise that crossed his face when he did.

One of my classmates came along and claimed me, so we went in search of the official get together.  The organizers had done a great job. They’d set up in the Home Ec room. I think it was the Home Ec class. I'd never been in it because it wasn't a subject that ever even remotely interested me. Someone had made a nice video of the photos people had sent in. I’m afraid I spent so much time talking that I didn’t do the food justice. Took more pictures and yakked away. The business teacher skulked around videotaping the event. Lord knows what he got on film. To be honest, by the end of the evening I’d talked so much and inhaled so much smoke from the Henry Clay that my voice was starting to go.

No conversations really stood out. Several people stayed to help clean-up. I was designated dish dryer. Then I headed back to the hotel to change. A group was going to a different bar (Poodles) to hear a live band play that evening and my skirt wouldn’t have been appropriate. It took me forever to find parking in town. The whole county was out to see the festival fireworks that night.

When I got to the Henry Clay my bud was propping up the wall of the hotel on the sidewalk and he wanted my address. I was a bit distracted because I didn’t want to miss my friends, so I said ok. When I’d changed and come back out, I wrote it for him. Because of the parking shortage, I had to wait on the sidewalk, didn’t see any harm in chatting. When he asked for a kiss, I felt my mental shoulders slump in defeat. I’d done it again – even being up front that I was happily married, I’d still been too damn nice! It was so much less hassle in my bitchy trucker persona – who would have verbally ripped a couple of strips off him, but I'm more mature now, so I refrained and politely said no. He asked for a hug and just to shut him up, I gave him a half hearted hug. Before I shuffled over to the edge of the sidewalk and pretended to read my email on my Blackberry, I heard him say, “I’m just a good ole’ country boy,” as if this would recommend him as good husband material. He muttered it several times. I realized he was really drunk and was amazed he was still standing – hoped he wasn’t driving home. To give him the benefit of the doubt – don’t think he would have said anything like that if he’d been more sober.

But I cannot conceive of a phrase more likely to turn me off. I have three brothers who are “good ole’ country boys.”  They’ve indicated they want a woman to cook, clean up after them, and wash their dirty socks with no opinionated conversation. I told Darren about it and he did come up with a worse pick up line: “Could you help me with my colostomy bag? I’m having problems adjusting it.” We got into a discussion of good pickup lines and I said that if I was available the phrase “I love to cook and I’d really enjoy making you dinner,” would get my attention. Darren started taking notes and asking for clarification as if he needed an effective way to pick up chicks any time soon!

I was relieved when my friends got there. We went to a place called Poodles. I think it was a restaurant when I lived there. As I’d been too busy talking rather than eating at the reunion, I ordered chili cheese fries to go with my beer, which I’m sure are high on the Weight Watchers list of approved foods. What the hell – I was going home in the morning. The fries were good, but I couldn’t eat them all, so I started walking around asking people to help me eat them.

It’s amazing the conclusions people draw about others based on very little information. A guy said he never thought he’d see me drink beer. I told him everything in moderation.  By the way, do men really find women who have puked their guts out when drinking that attractive?

Another man really wanted a pool partner. He was having problems finding one. I said I’d play, but I was a terrible player. He was nice and didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t sink one ball. I tried to be decorative though.

Had my hair molested. I know it sounds weird, but it’s true! A classmate that hadn’t made any of the events arrived, so several of us posed for a photo. I was on the end and I swear he was molesting my hair! Kept rubbing it and fondling it. He was a little strange even by my standards.

We’d been there for a while when Kate came by looking a little wild in the eyes, sort of like a wildebeest being stalked by a leopard, saying that an old admirer was following her and we’d need to go soon. I have to say this time I was the one gaping – you just couldn’t take her anywhere! She was like a mutant guy magnet that you couldn't control or turn off.  At least this one was cute. If you're going to be tossed out or chased out of a seedy bar over a guy, at least have some standards J

Just like Cinderella, I got back to the Henry Clay at midnight and all was quiet. The bar had closed early on a Saturday night.

I would like to say that my exit from the Henry Clay Hotel was as impressive and memorable as my entrance, but it wasn’t. I woke up at dawn, showered, and packed up my stuff. I had just closed the door to go find where I’d parked the night before, when I realized I’d left the room key inside. There was no one around at 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning. I looked at the old lock. A monkey with a stick could have broken through it, but it was beyond me. So I went to see my aunt earlier than I’d planned.

We hung out and had a good gossip, but soon I had to make my way back to the hotel to check out or be charged for another night. People were trickling in when I got back to the hotel. They said they'd closed early last night because the place was empty. Everyone had gone to Poodles to hear the band. I got my stuff, filled my tank at the GoMart, the only gas station in town, and hit the road at noon.

I was pretty sleepy going home and my book on tape wasn't doing the job, so I flipped through the radio stations and quite happily listened to country music most of the way home. I was about halfway back home when it hit me. I never listen to country music - at least not modern country music. I do have some Hank (Sr.), Conway, and Patsy on my iPod - I am from West Virginia after all. I thought - can't believe I called all those people honey and/or darlin'! I don’t even call Darren honey! But thankfully, the spell faded and I was back to my normal music by the time I got to Washington - classical mixed with ZZ Top. I was glad to be home. Darren said my accent had changed again, but it will be back to normal in a few days. Then it’s back to being a middle aged librarian, but in Clay I was the woman who wore a strange, giant, green hat and stayed at the Henry Clay Hotel and lived to tell about it!

P.S. My brother attributed my popularity with the local men down to my still having all my teeth.

The Giant Green Hat and the Curious Events at the Henry Clay Hotel

Well, I survived the reunion. I haven’t had so much fun in years and not for the reasons that you might usually associate with a reunion. Below is a pretty detailed account of my visit to Clay, WV and these are real events – not one of my little fantasy stories J. Some names have been changed to protect the not so innocent.

The drama started a couple of days before I actually left. It had not rained for a long time in WV and my aunt’s well was about to go dry, and she was worried about having a guest at this time. A hotel that I’d heard was closed, suddenly opened its renovated doors and had a room available. I promptly booked it.

The drive up was uneventful. The mountains were beautiful as always. I got to Clay a little before 10 p.m., found my parking spot, got my backpack out (I’ve packed less for an expedition to China), and put on my enormous green sun hat. The office door beneath the faded plastic Pepsi sign was locked, so I stepped over to the smoky, adjacent bar blaring southern rock. When I stepped inside with my huge hat heads turned and mouths dropped open. After a tiny hesitation, I walked over to the first person to catch my eye to ask about my room – a little old drunk man with no teeth, figured if he gave me any trouble at least I could take him down. I bent to hear what he said and a large burley guy came over and pulled me away. He took me to a sparse office where I paid for my room. Cash only.

The basic room came with a shared bath down the hall. The small sink in the corner constantly dripped and a paint splattered mirror hung over it. Couldn’t even see myself. An old style TV rested on a scuffed 1940’s dresser. Couldn’t see anything on that either. The bed looked clean, though, and a functional air conditioner sat in the window. No phone and my cell didn't get a signal. Sweet Home Alabama pounded throughout the 100 year old building.

The hotel made me smile and feel nostalgia for my backpacking days. I’ve traveled to some exotic countries and stayed in worse places – at least this one had a working hot shower and a regular non-squat toilet – my only requirements. Once you’ve showered pouring buckets of cold water over your head, you appreciate the small things.

I couldn’t sleep – too revved from the drive and the music was too loud, so I went downstairs for a beer and to check out the ambiance. I parked myself at the bar while a girl danced on a table. She looked vaguely familiar and if I’d been acquainted with her, then she was a little old to be dancing on a table. Been there and done that when I was younger and stupider. Her technique was certainly more polished and professional than mine had been on that one crazy occasion. The sizable male audience was appreciative.

I wasn't there long when a spare, grizzled man dressed in a camouflage jacket and black ball cap came over and offered to get me a drink. He said his name was Frank. I wanted someone to talk to but didn’t want to give the impression that I was available. I told him upfront I didn’t mind talking, but I was married and not looking for a date. I’ve found this approach causes less problems and misunderstandings. In a show of friendship, I got him a beer. He never did drink it. Wondered if I’d committed some country bar social faux pas. I don’t think they get many new millennium women in there. He’d recently lost his coal truck driving job. I asked if he'd considered driving tractor trailers over the road. He said his house was paid for and he had no desire to drive cross-country. For myself – I’d take what I could get until something better came along. I did a stint as a truck driver and it wasn’t that bad a job, but I mentally shrugged – it wasn’t any of my business.

It was biker night and I saw my first ever bar fight. Just a couple of guys getting rowdy out on the sidewalk – no one seriously injured, but I’m a little vague on the details. I got distracted by the man in full biker regalia carrying a black and white Chihuahua wearing a sweater. He said the little dog rode everywhere with him.

I finished my second beer, said good night to my new bud, Frank, and went to bed.

I got up around nine, dressed, and went to find breakfast. My Dad had talked about how good the food was at The Kitchen across the street, so I went there. Again, the heads turned when I walked in, but the looks could have been because of the enormous lime green hat I was wearing. Business was brisk at The Kitchen and most of the customers were from the older crowd. Because I didn’t want to look like a pregnant bullfrog that evening when I met up with everyone at the pre-class reunion party, I resisted the sausage biscuit and gravy; I settled for eggs and half a piece of toast. After the initial stare, my audience pretty much ignored me.

I decided to check out the Golden Delicious Apple Festival that started this morning in front of the new court house, which was actually new like twenty-five years ago. The local bluegrass band wasn’t bad and some of the moderately geriatric were up dancing. I like a little bluegrass on occasion so I sat on a bench in the shade, taking pictures of the small crowd.

I eventually moved on, taking photographs of whatever struck me as interesting. I found the Democratic Party Headquarters and snapped photos of the campaign signs in the window. I stepped in to ask how Obama was doing in the county and had a lively conversation with the man running the table. He was made of sterner stuff – he didn’t gape at the hat.

At first he thought I was taking a survey or something. I guess because I asked so many questions, but the lowdown on Obama in Clay is that his campaign team hasn’t sent any signs or materials to distribute, which may be because they’ve written off the state. He was a little cagey as to whether he thought Obama could win in Clay.

Not wanting to take up all his time, I walked on down to the public library to catch up on my email.

After I caught up on my email, I strolled on to the Family Dollar Store. I had a vague notion of getting a tub stopper so I could take a bath (my skin still itched from the Lyme antibiotics). I got to the last display and heard my name called. I looked up and around at a strange woman at the end of the aisle. It was an old classmate. She’d heard about my wearing a large green hat (I doubt she would have recognized me otherwise) – it’s a small town. She said as soon as she saw it she knew that must be the hat she’d heard about. She had to get cleaned up after helping to set up at the high school. She said they were still working if I wanted to go down, but I was due to have lunch with my aunts shortly, so I had to say no.

I headed back towards the Henry Clay Hotel at a leisurely pace. I saw the Obama Campaigner and we took up our conversation again. He asked if I’d thought of moving back and running for office – I laughed. My husband had already told me if I made him move to the country again he was leaving me. Obama man said that was ok, if that happened, he’d marry me. Now at my age, I take what I can get and he was clean, presentable, and most important – sober, so I’m counting that as a legitimate proposal of marriage even if he did have six kids. Don’t care what y’all think!

I continued my stroll. Throughout the morning, I’d had folks comment on the hat. One lady said she loved it. Couple of men asked me if I thought it was big enough. One man asked why I kept walking up and down the street at random – I told him it was part of my exercise plan. Saw a guy driving a van turn his head as I walked by. Worried he was going to hit someone in the crowd. You’d think they’d never seen an interesting hat before.

I made it back and got a cup of hot water from the restaurant for a cup of tea (I’d thought ahead and brought my own bags). I could tell the bartender wanted to laugh at the hat. He managed to restrain himself. He’d checked me in last night. I think he was the manager. My bud, Frank, from the night before was there and I said hi before going upstairs to freshen up before my aunt picked me up. She was married to a minister of a little church in their holler and all her children and grandchildren lived around her.

I felt a certain amount of trepidation. Even though I called my aunt regularly to check on the health and well being of my dad’s extended family, I wasn’t completely sure of my welcome. Even excluding the giant hat, I’d always been seen as an odd bird, and it was a close knit community, and twenty years is a long time. As I’d told her she couldn’t miss me in the hat, she didn’t have any problem spotting me on the street. I needn’t have worried; I had a wonderful afternoon visiting with her and my Aunt Hilda. They laughed at my jokes and my hat. I told them that when I was younger I couldn’t afford to be fashionable, but now I just didn’t care. I’ll wear what I like. They seemed a little disturbed about the hotel, but I assured them that I loved it. It’s been a long time since I’ve stayed at such a colorful establishment- I don’t get out often.

I returned in time to clean up and change into a sweater and jeans for the evening. It gets chilly in the mountains after the sun goes down. Then I was off to the class reunion tailgate party at the local football game. If I was nervous meeting with my aunts, it was nothing compared to what I felt at the prospect of seeing people whose last memory of me was of a shy, gawky weirdo who made the chemistry lab smell like rotten eggs for days while creating paint from scratch.

I’d brought Darren’s camera, and I found it was a great ice breaker to go up to people I didn’t recognize and ask to take their picture. Then I’d ask how they were doing. I had a great time, but you know how it is when you speak to thirty people in two hours, it’s hard to remember who said what. Most lived locally and conversations revolved around family and jobs. Everyone had matured and there was an absence of the competitiveness and one-up-man-ship that had marked high school.

A few asked if I was staying with family and I said no, I’d gotten a room at the Henry Clay. Jaws dropped again – and I wasn’t even wearing my big green hat! It was like I’d said, “Oh yes, I’m staying just down the road with my good buddies Adolf Hitler and Eva.” It was the same look of horrified fascination.  Apparently, the bar has the worst rep in the entire county for wild drunkenness and other disreputable goin’s on. My church goin’ aunts hooked me up to the wildest party in town!

Some asked how it was and I shrugged and said I’d seen worse. A few offered me an alternate place to stay, but I refused because I adored this hotel anyway, but now that it was a challenge, you couldn’t have pried me out of there with a crowbar and a stick of dynamite. I think it adds to my mystique: the woman with the big green hat who stayed at the Henry Clay and lived to tell the tale!

A few characters stood out. Folks I barely remembered from high school. Late in the evening (never did make it to the game) a woman grabbed me and said someone wanted to meet me specifically. He said he’d been wondering if I’d traveled like I’d planned to. As people wandered to the game, home, or to clean up, I stood talking to him and another guy who rode my bus. Apparently, these guys had never married and the redhead who wanted to know about my travels told us about his last girlfriend who had left him.

Upon meeting him, she’d poured a bottle of beer into his pants’ pocket. I nodded as he went on to describe her attributes. I finally asked, “Did she have big boobs?” He laughed and said yes, how did I know? Well, a drunken woman who would pour beer down a potential beau’s pants was hardly going to impress him with her intellectual capacity, so it must have been something else. Told him he needed to find a woman with some common sense and he’d be ok. He said those were already taken. He was funny. Wouldn’t mind keeping up with him either. His love life sounded highly entertaining.

Eventually it was time to go. My friend Kate, who helped talk me into going, said we’d meet at the Henry Clay bar afterwards. I sat at the bar and got my beer. My bud from the night before was there. He seemed to spend a lot of time there.

I photographed a young man who’d felt the urge to dance on his booth bench. Unfortunately, I only got a shot of his back and the photo didn’t capture the wiggle effectively. My friends arrived and we sat at the booth by the door to escape the worst of the smoke. I’m going to use false names at this point to save the not-so-innocent any embarrassment. The arriving friends were Kate, Georgia, and Star.

It was hard to talk because of the noise, but we were enjoying our beer and chatting. Georgia told me a guy once got his nose bitten off in the bar. Not sure I buy that one. The current clientele were just country boys enjoying their beer and really loud music. Kate knew a lot of people so folks came over to the table. The local law arrived. Not sure why. It could have been because someone had a three year old running around earlier. Star and a few others at the bar started to chant, “Poopie! Poopie! Poopie!” I immediately tried to shush her. There was NO WAY I wanted to have to call my minister’s-wife-aunt to come bail me out of jail for calling the local law mean names! She would have wrung my neck, and then she would have really got mean! My other aunt lived closer and she’d been married to a drinkin’ man; I thought she might’ve had more practice bailing people out of jail, but I didn’t know her number.

Star got up to talk to someone she knew. For some reason that I don’t recall, Kate struck up a conversation with a guy named Harley who wore a doo rag. I couldn’t hear most of what was said, although he did look at me once (I sat right across from him) and asked me if I was married. I said yes. He asked if I was happy. I said yep.

While he was sitting at the table with us three attractive women, who had ditched our husbands for the weekend, his girlfriend/wife stood by the table for a good ten minutes. I could just about see the mental toe tapping going on there and my friend Kate was oblivious. 

I nudged Georgia and said, “She don’t look happy.” Georgia agreed. The wife/girlfriend finally went to sit with friends at the table across from ours. I started to worry a bit because she looked like she wanted to snatch Kate bald. I jumped when she slammed her beer bottle down on the table so hard it sounded like a pistol shot. I nudged Georgia, who kicked Kate under the table and said we had to go -- now.

And that’s the story of my closest brush with a barroom brawl over a guy who wasn’t even cute!

Back out on the sidewalk, we debated the virtues of flirting. What I know about male psychology, I learned when I was a truck driver. It doesn’t take much to turn these guys on. For example, standing in line waiting to pay for fuel and saying the weather was nice will be translated as: she wants my bod. If you said the weather was nice, but you’d heard on the radio it was going to rain later, that would be translated as: Oh yeah! She wants me bad! Then they just hound you to death. So using this knowledge I’ve managed to travel most places, including the roughest bar in the county, by myself, and stay out of trouble. They didn’t agree with my philosophy. They felt their way of flirting was more fun.

The new courthouse was closed, so no bathroom. I offered the one at the hotel. We didn’t have to go back through the bar and I think they were kind of curious. So I showed them my sloppy room and the bathroom. I’m pretty sure they were not impressed and wondered why I liked the establishment so much. The bathroom had some abandoned mint green panties – which I will have to get to in my next installment.