Chigger, please.

When it comes to taking an out-of-town trip, I have a serious problem doing much of anything in a timely manner. Packing, printing out directions, getting to the airport… and now, apparently, I can add “blogging about the trip afterward” to that list. I admit it; I am a failure.

The morning of our flight, Brad went off to work early and left me to take care of the final going-out-of-town tasks – delivering the dog to the kennel, shutting down appliances, turning off lights, checking to make sure that nothing important like, say, an entire pot of red beans and rice with sausage, was left out during the four days we were away.

...Three out of four isn't so bad, right?

Especially considering that we have now had the privilege of seeing what sort of incredible, self-sustaining ecosystem is capable of growing in a mere 72 hours from a package of Goya Insta-Meal. That shit is better than agar.

Oh, right, the trip.

Charleston is beautiful!


Unfortunately, within hours of our plane landing, I noticed that my left arm seemed... itchy. Further examination yielded the discovery of two bug bites. I assumed they were from mosquitoes, but the next morning, I woke up to find that the area between my wrist and my elbow had swelled up to the size of a football.

First lesson of southern travel: beware the Carolina Biting Bugs.

(No, I did not take a picture of the arm. You're welcome.)

"You know," said Brad, as he examined my enormous forearm, "It might be chiggers."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!" I said.
Second lesson of southern travel: The concept of "chiggers", while relatively familiar to those from below the Mason-Dixon line, is indescribably and eternally horrifying to people raised in the Northeast, and should not under any circumstances be tossed out like some sort of innocuous conversational softball. I mean, really. Chiggers? Chiggers?!!

After twenty minutes of hysterical screeching about chiggers, we decided to go out in search of cortisone cream. We had made it one block when we came upon a pair of Charleston natives, who were walking the cutest black lab puppy I had ever seen.

"Awww!" I said. "What's your puppy's name?"
The couple, who were wearing matching hats with the name of a country club stitched across the brim, drawled, "His name is Uncle Remus!"
"Wow," said Brad.
"Hi, Uncle Remus," I said, bending to rub the dog's stomach.
Uncle Remus licked my calf and then rolled over to display an enormous pink dog-boner, which joined "What's wrong with your arm?" and "Wow, that's kind of racist!" on the short list of Things Which We Were Explicitly Not Saying.

It's been a week, and I still can't decide whether it's really racist to name your dog Uncle Remus -- or where the racism comes in. Is it because it's a dog? Because it's a black dog? What if it's a cat?

"Hey," said Brad, "What if they'd named it Barack Obama?"
"I can't decide if that's better or worse."
"It could be considered a tribute."
"Our dog is named after Bobby Hurley," I said.
"True," he said.
"But that doesn't mean we want to, like, subjugate Bobby Hurley and make him do our bidding and sleep on our floor."
"Speak for yourself," said Brad.

Is it racist to name your dog Uncle Remus? You tell me. For my part, I think it's probably more racist than naming him "Steve", but less racist than naming him "Ching Chong Chinaman". Although I will also readily admit that if I ever heard somebody shouting "Here, Ching Chong Chinaman!" from their back porch, I would totally laugh.

With cortisone cream successfully obtained and my arm's size somewhat back-to-normal, I was able to resume my usual vacation activities, namely, wandering around and photographing things. Charleston is full of beautiful, secret things; the historic homes and gardens are hidden behind tall walls, hedges, and gates, so that taking pictures always feels a little bit illicit.



Our last night in town, we joined Brad's parents and 30 other people on a sunset sail around the harbor. I will now leave you with my favorite photo from the weekend.

It is thoughtfully titled: "I'm On a Boat, Motherfucker!"

Peace out.