Meltdown in Charleston
July 21, 2007 at 11:29 Charleston—lovely, historic, and perched on a harbor—the perfect place for a meltdown.
E booked us into a nice hotel with a beautiful view and shuttles that run back and forth to the heart of the historic district. Because we arrived in the middle of the day, we decided to go visit the aquarium and then explore the city on foot later in the afternoon when things cooled off.
Except in Charleston, things never do cool off. It was hotter than hot, and I’m just not used to intense heat and humidity anymore.
Let’s start my tale of woe with the hotel van, which was packed to capacity with tourists and had broken air conditioning. It felt like steam was coming off our skin. The aquarium was welcome relief from the elements, but when we stepped outside afterwards, it felt even hotter than it had when we’d gone in.
I was wearing a linen skirt and cotton t-shirt and toting a quart of water with me. We kept crossing streets looking for shady sidewalks, pausing to read all the placards describing the history of the 19th century houses lining the streets. Eventually we reached the market and I’d had more than enough of walking and was not at all interested in shopping. I parked my butt on a bench.
I was sweating so much I felt rivulets running down between my shoulder blades and soaking into my waistband. My bra felt disgusting and clammy against my skin and the front of my orange t-shirt was soaked from chest to stomach with a bold and distinctive hour glass shaped sweat stain with two half moons of sweat under my sleeves. I’m sure the back of my shirt looked equally wet. Good lord, this is the quantity of sweat that is only socially acceptable on athletes and laborers. I felt humiliated by it as women in heels cruised by in sundresses and deep tans.
The hotel shuttle runs on a two-hour cycle, so we waited a long time for it to come back around and then a large group of us squeezed into it like riders on a Japanese train. By then, I was beyond miserable, beyond hot, beyond any shred of interest in seeing even one more square inch of Charleston.
Back at the hotel, I stripped off my clothes, parked in front of the air conditioning vent and declared I was DONE being a tourist in Charleston in July. There was no way I was setting foot outside the hotel or getting back into their stupid hot-box of a shuttle.
This morning E and the kiddos loaded up to go tour Fort Sumter, home of the first battle of the Civil War. After they left, I spent 35 minutes looking for my sandal in our hotel room. Yes, my sandal.
How can you lose a sandal a hotel room? Good question! We’ve been living out of suitcases and shopping bags for three weeks now and despite our best efforts, everything is in disarray. My sunglasses are missing (another reason I hated walking around yesterday), I can’t find my aspirin (needed for my heart), there are piles of funky laundry next to all our suitcases, stinky flip flops on the floor, and wet swimsuits spread out to dry. It’s like a high-class tenement.
E-Grrrl has balled up her clothes and shoved them into her suitcase. Mr. A’s suitcase isn’t much better. After opening up closets and drawers, tearing the beds apart, and crawling around on my hands and knees on the floor searching for my bloody sandal, I finally decided to look through ALL the suitcases one more time. I finally found my sandal wrapped in a clump of clothes in E-Grrrl’s suitcase.
After spending 45 minutes looking for the sandal, I didn’t get to the hotel restaurant for breakfast until after 10 a.m. Because I was by myself, they seated me over in the lounge area, where I had to wait for 20 minutes for a server to notice me and come over to the table.
When I went to pay for my meal, I discovered that I had had some chocolate in my purse yesterday and the 100 degree heat reduced it completely to a liquid state. Y’all, it looked just like someone had taken an enormous crap in my handbag. Everything covered in a sticky brown mess.
I’m looking on the bright side—at least my purse smells good.
July 21, 2007
Reader Comments (11)
I have no excuse for not being able to suffer the heat--none other than my ancestors obviously having come from cooler climes. I'm brown-haired, blue-eyed and pasty pale (except for my famer's tan).
I hope the rest of the weekend goes better.
P.S. I got your comment regarding VBS a few days ago. I definitely agree with you. The only difference I might see is that I don't wonder if the consumerism came first with the adults which is why we get the extravaganzas. Now, it is perpetuating itself in our children. Either way, I agree with your issue with the consumerism.
Hope you've managed to get the chocolate mess out of your purse. I once had a ball point pen leave a mess that I never entirely got rid of!
I hope E. is in tune.
:)
Like you found out, no matter how lovely, historic or impressive a place may be, heat can mess up even the most striking landmarks.
Last year the temperature reached 110°F in October - well, I was on a boat between Egypt and Saudi Arabia.
It was my last diving vacation, but I'm still puzzled how people put up with this scorching heat during a more regular summer vacation, especially when there's no ocean to dive in on a regular basis.
I don't carry a purse, but upon returning today from the Dutch coast all my clothes were soaking wet: the real cold/wet variety.
From a chilly, rain-swept Belgium/Holland, Charleston in summer does look like a most most desirable getaway. Including the chocolate :-)
And I liked the Plantation we went to.
I wish we could have synched up. That would have been cool...
Here's hoping your next stop is more comfortable.
If you would have ventured to Northern California we would have kept you in air conditioning both natural: nightly San Francisco bay breezez even this far inland plus the man-madek kind.
We have access to a house in Bodega Bay recallthe movie-"The Birds" by Hitchcock and one in Tahoe.
No I wouldn't have made you go on our recent backpacking trip to Yosemite but you would be welcome. Have the E-man splurge on a night at the Ahwahnee Hotel.
http://www.yosemitefun.com/ahwahnee.htm
You would marvel or sneer in disgust at my son after being "released", uh, graduated from Catholic school. He now sports a beard, goes clubbing in SF, and has a general "I know more than you do" part of being 18.
This is Californi. A teacher can't whack a kid, but in the Latino tradition it's okay for his mom or godmother to give a good slap, preferably with a zapato(shoe).If I do it it's child abuse or assault. If you do it its' "culturally relevant to my indigeonous heritage."
Have fun in the steam. Next time tell the pilot to fly West a few more hours.
Invitation is always open.I think the A-man would enjoy some of the things I'm doing to get rid of a gopher....underground fires, explosives., the usual.
The problem with Catholic schools is they give you too much to rebel against--and gee, that "know-it-all" culture is part of the picture.
I always say there's only two times in your life when you know EVERYTHING--when you're two and when you're eighteen.
The beard and clubbing are a warm up for Berkeley. As long as he doesn't wear socks and sandals, it's all good. : ) I have my standards!
And you and Low Maintenance Grrrl are on my list of destinations...Happy (Belated) Anniversary to you two.
See you when you get back. Well, after you unpack all those bags and find all those missing items that need to be reunited with their rightful place. :)