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Capitol Hill - Source: ONE News
There seems to be uber-angst in DC, as elsewhere at the moment; a palpable sense of disgruntlement about the political zeitgeist.
It hasn't helped that late fall has stripped trees of their colour, and it's grown colder.
There is growing impatience with the president, yet that only amounts to short-term memory loss about the deleterious consequences of his predecessor's decisive leadership and posturing over Obama's preference for rational decision-making.
Then there's a kind of numb resignation at the senate's dithering over health care.
No sooner was 60 votes secured to start the debate than it was halted for a week-long holiday recess.
Finally, there's a pervasive pessimism about whatever else is left to feel gloomy about.
Perhaps we should blame Thanksgiving, which brings American families together to gorge themselves stupid, drink way too much, and then thank their blessings for being stuck in a room full of swirling madness, all sourced out from the same gene pool. Just like our Christmas's at home really.
Sick of the pall, and the abject staleness of the political debates, let alone the hysterical partisanship (cue: Fox), Paula and I took off on a road trip down south.
First call Savannah, Georgia. The idea of stepping back in time has a certain primordial appeal, especially when Savannah's charms exquisitely cushion the shock. The first impression is that you've returned to the Garden of Eden, but with everyone passing round the apple.
Mind you, I wished I could've gone back in time 26 miles sooner, just north of Savannah, when my heavy-footed accelerator provoked the ire of one of South Carolina's state troopers, cunningly camouflaged in a Mustang (which should be grounds for entrapment, right?).
The upside was that I was decelerating through his radar; the downside was I was still going 90 mph. As I was pulling over I thought of the movie 'My Cousin Vinnie', but, alas, my cousin's name is Trevor and he was last heard of somewhere in Australia, about twenty years ago, and his only knowledge of the law was how to best avoid it's reach.
More worrying was the language on my $185 ticket. My 'arrest' was duly noted, and my 'trial' was set down for early December& which makes these comments sub-judice I guess, but what the hell. Mark Sanford, the Governor of South Carolina is facing impeachment on the back of 37 ethics violations, so there's worse about than me, and I, unlike Sanford, have never falsely claimed to be hiking the Appalachian Trail while secretly bedding my mistress in Buenos Aries (the big lie theory, I suppose).
The state trooper eventually bid us adieu and Paula revelled in the crowning glory of her moral superiority. After 18 years of nagging me about my driving habits she felt fully vindicated. "Hi criminal," is now my welcome each morning.
If Savannah acted as balm of sorts, Charleston, SC, was altogether different. Crushing poverty coexisted with some serious old money, in the form of massive antebellum homes at the very tip of Charleston's peninsula.
The Bureau of Labour Statistics puts African American unemployment at 15.7%, some five-and-a-half points higher than the national average. Among 16-24 year-olds black unemployment is 30.5%.
These horrific numbers suggest that the hopes raised by Obama's victory among African Americans are being crushed by their socio-economic reality, and Charleston and its surrounds sheeted this home.
Next we traveled north-west to Asheville, North Carolina. Unbeknownst to me, because I don't follow Sarah Palin's twitty tweets, Wasilla's rogue was in town. Alas our paths did not cross - because I'd have loved to have asked her if she was, perchance, mad - but we did see literally hundreds of cars pour out of a Baptist church, directed by county sheriffs, so her flock was at least reveling in the arrival of their goose.
We also visited Biltmore Estate, the largest private residence in America. There are 250 rooms, 40-something bathrooms, the most gorgeous private library I've ever seen, and an absence of taste on the walls, unless buffalo heads and endless European lithographs are your thing.
Cornelius Vanderbilt, the patriarch of the family, had amassed $100 million by the 1870s. Virtually every account describes him as mean-spirited and utterly ruthless. Even to his daughters, it seems.
The Robber Baron (in shipping and railroads) left $95 million to his son and his eight daughters split the rest, which wouldn't have made them poor, but maybe a tad resentful. His son's son, who still had the money, built Biltmore, which was useful for Hannibal Lector when he finally liberated Mason Verger in Hannibal.
On our last day we drove 11 hours to return to the District, a gruelling drive in all-day rain. Collapsing early, I awoke with a jolt during the night. I'd had one of those vivid, vivid dreams that unconscious prudence chose to end. You see my dream transported me back to a pub in Wellington, clothed only in my dressing gown and black dress shoes, where I was cheerfully engaged with the locals. I was then confronted by a community mental health worker and asked to justify myself.
I've always been sympathetic towards Freud, slightly more than less, but I remain unmoved by his dream theories. Nonetheless, my dream conjured up an old question; are we all quite mad, living in an altogether saner world than can be comprehended, or are we quite possibly sane but living in an impossibly mad world.
Somehow I don't think this question would pose itself to southerners, who seem content to take life as it comes, in whatever disguise if offers. I told Paula that if I'd turned up at one of the bars we enjoyed in Savannah or Charleston as I appeared in my dream I didn't think anyone we talked to would've cared, so long as there was still the banter and laughter we enjoyed down there.
There's a different beat down south, and despite its history, I sort of liked it.
