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Day 3: Charleston Throwdown, Beach, and Athens

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Sorry to leave you hanging for all of those 24 hours, but I wanted to let the drama of the bedroom thievery fully sink in. At this point in the evening, GP and I were both pretty wiped (remember that 5+ hour drive that we had done that morning from Atlanta? Yeah. It was long.), and I had been drinking enough Jim Beam and ginger ale to be a little feisty. GP, being the better grownup of the two of us, headed to the bedroom to resolve the conflict– apparently there had been some miscommunication, or at the very least a bit of a misunderstanding. The misunderstanding being that it would be the appropriate thing to do, to leave the out-of-towners to fend for themselves when certain others had just driven out to the beach from Charleston. Southern hospitality? I was thinking, Well, I guess she is from Massachusetts.

To make what seemed like an arduous ten-minute period seem shorter, I will simply tell you that a phone call was placed (to the groom, no less!) and we ended up sleeping in a luxurious king-sized bed. Because, bitch, please. There is no freaking way I am giving up a bed after having traveled across the country. Just sayin’.

The next morning, though, I think everyone was helped by the full night of sleep, and we semi-bonded over breakfast and then headed out to the beach. Being a completely insecure individual, I ended up going to the beach fully clothed, despite having brought my new Old Navy tankini. Hey, I didn’t know these people, and there was no way my white ass was going to be showing up at the beach, all jiggly-like. At any rate, we got to hang out for a couple hours, playing bocce, taking a walk, and enjoying being in/near the ocean in general (not exactly a novelty, but definitely different than when we go to Santa Cruz).


After some de-sanding, it was back on the road– this time to Athens, where a guy that GP’s been friends with since kindergarten and his wife live while she/they are going to grad school (she’s in vet school, he’s starting a PhD in the fall) at UGA. I had no idea what to expect of Athens, given my very limited exposure to parts of Georgia that aren’t Atlanta, but I knew that it would definitely be less urban. Turns out, I was right. During the ride out, we went through my Very First Southern Thunderstorms (I’m not gonna lie, it was a little scary), and stopped at my Very First Really, Really Backwoods-y Southern Gas Station to use the restroom (likewise). We were greeted by the couple and their two dogs (yay, pets! There were also two cats and an iguana), and hung out awhile before heading out to dinner.

Dinner was delicious, at a nicer version of Olive Garden, complete with some prom kids (awww!) and a crap-ton of wine and desserts (though the waiter did seem a little perplexed at GP’s request for some after-dinner port). As a thank-you for dinner, we stopped by the Kroger and bought them some nice California wine…because we are snobs. Seriously, we spent so much time at dinner talking about how wonderful it is to live in California that I think we should be able to draw some sort of salary from the tourism people here. Really, it’s just a ploy to get people to visit us, because we love to entertain and show off our great sushi place, and our two (yes, two) luxurious fold-out couches. So, seriously, come on over! We are so fun.

Because we are old and lame, we ended up not going into downtown, where all the bars/clubs/hoopla was happening, but we did get to go back to their newly-purchased home and talk about mortgages and great grownup stuff like that. So as to avoid having us share a room with the iguana (who I am told is a night-snacker), they were kind enough to lend us their bedroom, where we promptly passed out, tired from all the 401(K) talk.

That was our last night in Georgia! But there is still a bit to tell, what with our Sunday flight not departing until almost 7pm. Stay tuned for the final chapter in The Trip of Northern Aggression…

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About Megan

I read, I write, I drink wine while watching way too much tv. Let's be friends.

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