Atlanta is the Dirty South

I spent this past weekend in Atlanta. Not that I don’t love Birmingham. I mean, she’s great. We’ve spent a lot of years together, and she’s been there for me during some hard times. It’s just that, well, things have gotten…comfortable. I guess maybe the excitement is gone, and Atlanta is fresh and intriguing. And after all, I am only a man.

Temptress

The first thing I did while in Atlanta was go to Six Flags White Water, where I faced my fear of heights. The Cliffhanger is a towering water slide that requires the use of oxygen to climb its peak. It also has a 90 degree drop and lips about as deep as a standard cereal bowl. I had been considering The Cliffhanger all day, and suggested to my brother Aaron that we check to see how long the line was. This was meant to make myself sound brave, as I was confident that the line was very long and would therefore deter us from staying. As we ascended farther and farther, passing Sherpas that had fallen by the wayside, it became apparent that the wait would not be long. We hit the back of the line, and before I could decide to chicken out a large group of kids piled behind us. At this point it was either go through with the slide or walk back down, passing a different 9-year-old with each step and meeting their condescending gaze with my cowardly eyes. 

Okay, okay. Geez…

So I waited my turn, slid over the edge, and then immediately regretted my decision. As I approached terminal velocity, the spray created a field around my body like a shuttle re-entering the atmosphere. I was fairly certain that my shorts would be vaporized and I would be delivered at the foot of the slide naked as the day I was born. Somewhere along my rapid descent, though, I started enjoying myself. I arrived at the base alive, clothed, and exhilarated.

The next day in Atlanta, Aaron and I went to eat at the Sweet Auburn Curb Market. It’s a unique mix of fresh produce, fish, and various cafés. I had heard that one of these cafes sells chitterlings (pronounced chit-lins), a Southern dish that I have always wanted to try. I perused the produce section first and saw a bag of what I thought was white rocks. I asked the produce lady what it was, and she informed me that it was dirt. Sure enough, it was labeled “Georgia White Dirt,” and also “Not intended for human consumption.” I then asked her what you do with it.

“You eat it.” Oh. Of course.

I joked around with her, not sure if she was serious. She assured me that people really do eat it and offered me a sample. Never one to back down from trying new delicacies, I accepted, and she opened a bag and broke off a piece. I eagerly put it into my mouth and then made a face.

“This tastes like dirt!” I exclaimed. I’m not sure what I was expecting, since I was told it was dirt and it came from a Ziploc bag labeled “dirt” and the manufacturer tried their best to keep me from eating it, but somehow I thought it was going to taste like something other than dirt. I asked, “Why the #$@& would anyone want to eat this!” only nicer and without vague expletives.

She replied, “You know how when you have a sucker and you drop it in red clay and then you eat it and it’s all crunchy?” This was the single most perplexing and insane question that anyone has ever asked me.

I nodded my head.

“It’s like that.”

It also makes a great soup that some people call "mud".

Confused and hungry, I was ready to replace the terrible taste of dirt in my mouth with the terrible taste of pig bowels. Unfortunately the café that sells chitlins was closed. I settled for salmon instead. Nice, safe, delicious salmon.

That night I went to an Atlanta Braves game with a friend who was nice enough to give me his extra ticket. I watched the Braves beat the Orioles 5 to 4, and I witnessed a grand slam by David Ross. I remembered watching David Ross hit a grand slam at the last Braves game I went to, and after some internet research I found out that those two grand slams were the only ones he has hit in his entire 13 year career in the MLB. Now, I’m not insinuating that I had anything to do with these grand slams, but I am strongly suggesting that Mr. Ross hire me to sit beside him in the dugout of every game as his personal good luck charm.

I am also strongly suggesting that I looked like Joseph Gordon Levitt when I was younger.

And so my fling with Atlanta came to an end. It was a fast and enjoyable weekend, but I was looking forward to getting back to Birmingham. The pace is slower here, and our dirt is dark and in our front yards, the way God intended. But I can’t say for certain my eyes won’t stray again. Until next time, Atlanta. Until next time.