Southern Hospitality
By Paul E. Kandarian
Southern hospitality: Is it my northern exposure or did I
miss something?
I spent three days in the Atlanta area recently, the
airport for which I’d passed through a zillion times but the area itself one I’d
never visited. This time I spent some time at a terrific resort about an hour
and a half outside the city deep in the Georgia woods.
I must say I was hard pressed to find the good old Southern
hospitality I have experienced in other places in the south. And even in
Atlanta, I thought I was off to a friendly flying start when the airport parking
lot attendant flashed a big ol’ smile and collected a tiny little dollar from my
ride because his car was in the lot less than an hour. At Logan Airport in
Boston, where I’m from, you so much as look at a parking lot it’ll cost you 20 (cq)
bucks. And they won’t smile as they yank it from you.
At the resort, it was all smiles all the time, Mr.
Kandarian (cq)this, Mr. Kandarian that, have a heapin’ helpin’ of our homemade
spiced pecans and a big frosty glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade. Now I fully
realize these people are paid to be nice. A resort collecting beaucoup bucks per
night better paste on a perma-smile.
But once outside that happy zone, things changed. We took a
ride into downtown Greensboro, a gorgeous little antebellum town where you angle
park on the main street and would not at all be surprised to see Floyd the
Barber sitting outside his shop. It’s a place where the sidewalks roll up at 5
and that’s OK, it’s all part of that cozy small-town ambience I don’t see nearly
enough of anymore.
But then we walked into an ice cream shop oozing quaint and
southern charm seeking the $4.50 (cq)double-hotdog special chalked on the
sidewalk sandwich board.
“Sorry,” droned the dour proprietress, looking like I’d
just asked her for the combination to the safe. “That’s just for lunch and now
it’s 4 o’clock(cq) and those hot dogs are all put away.”
I resisted the urge to tell her if that’s the case, she
should erase the board or hide it, but decided to instead try joking with her.
And failing. Miserably. I pointed to a few hotdog items on the menu inside and
asked, smiling, “So if I wanted say a cheese dog or a chili dog, there’s not a
dog like that to be found?”
“Not unless I m-ah-crowaved it,” she said in a drawl that
until that moment I’d always found charming.
I shrugged and went with a burger. Which came with mustard
on it. I’m not sure if mustard and not ketchup on burgers is a southern thing or
not, but I certainly didn’t want to quibble at that point.
I then popped into a clothing/gift store with a decidedly
female inventory, looking for a quick gift for my significant other back home.
I browsed and was at the back of the store when I heard a brusque “Is there
something you wanted?” from the front.
The second dour lady of the day stood eyeballing me so
suspiciously I checked my own pockets for pilfered items.
“Can’t I look around?” I said, trying to smile.
“Yes,” she answered, trying the opposite, “but you look
like you don’t belong here.”
“So a man can’t shop for a woman in a woman’s store?” I
sarcastically asked, my stereotypical northern hackles now raised.
“Well if that’s the case, is there something I can help you
find?” she asked.
Yes, the door.
It continued at the airport where before flying home to
Boston I got ice-cold service with my piping-hot coffee at one place and stony
stares at a gift shop where I was buying cheesy Atlanta souvenirs for the folks
back home not lucky enough to be sharing all this southern hospitality.
Granted, it wasn’t all like that. There were some bright
smiley moments. At a Starbucks for example (Good God, these things are
everywhere, even in the depths of Georgia), a very friendly and perhaps
seriously over-caffeinated helper, upon hearing I was from the Boston area,
insisted I “say something Boston,” and then nearly wet himself with laughter
when I pointed outside and said, “Look, they-ah! It’s we-ah I pahked my cah!”
But that was rare. For the most part, even the cartoon
people donning pretend lifejackets on the safety placard in the seat pocket in
front of me on the plane back to Boston had bigger smiles.
I mean is it me? I’m a friendly guy and don’t think I exude
any northern hostility, at least not unprovoked. Granted, we in the northeast
are a distrustful and jaded lot, figuring if you smile at us and say hello, you
must want something but fugetaboutit, pallie, you ain’t not getting any, so back
off, K?
But not me. Not there, anyway, not that far south, not
where I thought I’d find the smiling core of southern hospitality. I mean not
once did I bitterly utter the words “We won the war,” though I was sorely
tempted to when I got the cold shoulder. It’s a pretty sizeable gun culture down
there, so I figured why tempt fate.
But southern hospitality or the glaring lack thereof be
damned, I’d go back to Georgia in a heartbeat. It’s beautiful, serene, warm -
and friendly even if just in spots. And besides, I’m a huge sucker for spiced
pecans and freshly squeezed lemonade.
(The usually friendly Paul E. Kandarian can be reached at
pkandarian@aol.com) |
