Louisiana

Fayetteville, Arkansas: The Scientist

Life can be random, it can daze and confuse, amuse and astound; it can hit us when we are down and thrust our weary souls onwards and forwards to the stars themselves.  The visciditudes of our brief span, the exigencies of our existence, often emerge without focus, out of nowhere, unforeseen and unbeknownst in the most unknowing of situations.  We can plan for absolution, for certainty, and find our hopes and dreams in reality ride a wave of fortune, of serendipity struck upon a star.  Every so often we look up and we are reminded that, within and without of the chaos theory of our daily struggles, great beauty can emerge, surprising and special, temporary yet tantalising, an impermanent impression that destiny and fate are as relevant to each and every one of us as the gritty sureness of a mundane Monday morning.  In Fayetteville, Arkansas, such dreams, such visions, such providence does and will exist.  You can reach them with a glance, a smile and a “Hello, I was wondering if you could help?”…

Look at the stars; look how they shine for you

Coldplay might not be to your taste, their middle of the road, mid-tempo media may not delight and dazzle.  For Dean and I, their melodies and lyrics punctuated our time in the beautiful state of Arkansas, where Chris Martin’s motifs of light and shade, hopes and dreams, shining stars and new journeys, take on a broader, ethereal meaning. 

At the state line between Missouri and Arkansas, on a narrow, winding country road far from the maddening crowd of urban thoroughfares, in the space between day and night, we witnessed for the first time the transcendental tranquillity of the Natural State.  Gazing up to the heavens we saw the galaxy explode in to focus, a black sky interrupted by millions of stars, a solar system exposed by the clear Arkansas atmosphere: a sign, a harbinger of the purity to come.  These Yellow stars were shining for us, and they seemed to will us on, like airplanes in the night sky, like ten million fireflies, to write a brand new song for the people we would soon meet: in their place, yes, but never feeling lost.  It’s true: look how they shine for you.  Here, thousands of miles from home, was a message to replace fatigue with fascination: this is the right place; drive on.

Not shaken but Stirred

The gothic sublime of the night sky in all its glory affected Dean and I in different ways, in the former awaking his soul for the creation of another epic; for the latter forming an inner warmth, a contended glow that longed to be followed by restful sleep.  Yet a roadtrip, an adventure, is not for sleep and so we headed in to Fayetteville, Arkansas, having checked in to our Super 8 roadside motel.

Fayetteville is most famous for being the home to the University of Arkansas, the Razorbacks.  The town is a perfect encapsulation of American college cool, with its wide spaces, well maintained quads and pathways, lined with deciduous trees and backpacked students, shuffling and socialising from department buildings to libraries, dorm rooms to lectures, bookshops to bars.  Dean and I felt the supportive shroud of student security envelop us like an old friend, embracing its warmth and nostalgia: a welcome return to campus life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

It is hard not be taken by Fayetteville with its liberal charm and conservative traditions, its warm welcome and inspiring visual vistas.  This is a town proud of its heritage, its youth, its sports teams and its cultural nuances, embracing its sororities and geography, resting and nestling in the hills of north-west Arkansas, at the start of the Ozark range, cavorting, meandering and rolling in the deep South.

At the heart of the main university area, a brief walk from the enormous college football stadium and the rows of picture perfect sorority and fraternity houses, is Dickson Street, a straight strip of bars and restaurants that explodes in to vitality on a Saturday night.  Dean and I noticed this immediately, despite still being tired from our exertions in St. Louis, Missouri, one night previously.  Our cab driver, an ex-US marine who was less than complimentary about Europe after his stay at a base in Germany, at least redeemed himself by offering the first in a series of fortunate events that dramatically changed our perceptions of not only the town of Fayetteville, but of our entire American adventure.  While hardly ingratiating himself to two boys from Europe, he suggested we start our evening in a bar called Stir.  Dropping us off at the top of Dickson Street, we took to heart his advice on where to sample a Fayetteville night out and glossed over the rest of his ignorant indifference to our homeland.

Armed only with the knowledge and providence of the whims of a singular taxi driver, we wearily made our way in to Stir, oblivious to what would soon unfold.  Within moments of these English feet braving the slight gap in an American door, our Fayetteville guardian angel’s second act of serendipity played itself out, as the doorman at first barred and at the last agreed to our entrance in to the bar.  The original problem stemmed from our British identification documents and the doorman’s orders not to accept them.  Whether it was a word from a senior manager, or the logic of common sense momentarily hijacking the otherwise intransigent electrodes in his brain, the doorman stepped to one side and allowed us in to this din, this cauldron of college camaraderie.

Settling in to our seats at the bar (whiskey for me, gin and tonic for Dean) and enjoying the music video projections, we were content to adjust to the scene by taking it all in, by sipping our drinks and marinating in the vibes of the room.  Out of the corner of Dean’s eye, and then subsequently in to the peripheral vision of my own, two characters came in to view, engaged in conversation and heading for a space at the bar directly to my left.  Serendipitous moment number three was about to take place.

Roxi music

The effect was not immediate.  Dean and I continued to sit facing the bar, watching our mirror-reflected selves inversed in front of us, sipping our drinks and mentally preparing to break down the fourth wall of awkwardness.  On my left, two girls nestled at the bar, talking, joking, laughing, all the while pining forward to make eye contact with the bar staff.  Sometimes it is possible to grasp feeling and meaning without being able to specifically locate what it is about a person that imbues such surety, such a mortal lock of synchronised sentiment.  Whether a twist of fate or an illustration of initiative, it was not long before a conversation had been created.

Dean and I were both in agreement that the two girls to my left seemed like friendly people, amiable to a British question about what to do and where to go in Fayetteville.  Plucking up some courage to instigate interaction, I turned to the blonde-haired girl by my side and asked her if she attended the University of Arkansas and whether Dean and I were in the right place to sample the Fayetteville scene.  The girl, with her deep set eyes and quizzical smile, looked at us with initial bewilderment and subsequent interest: were they really English and why were they in the middle of Arkansas on a random Saturday night?

In that moment we witnessed the radiance of Roxi Hazelwood, at once both fascinated by her European interviewers and determined to help.  All through America Dean and I have noticed and relied on the kindness of strangers and here it existed in its most emblazoned and emboldened to form.  Over the next five hours and ensuing two days, Roxi introduced us to her friends, her home, her local hang-outs, her overriding philosophies of courtesy and kindness, fun and charm.

Next to Roxi was Courtnie, who took to these two Londoners with a little more suspicion, perhaps appropriately so given that Fayetteville, Arkansas, is not renowned for its British connections.  Courtnie, tall, beautiful, and with a perfectly pitched level of dry humour that would not be out of place in old London town, originally thought that Dean and I were Americans attempting to sound like Prince Harry.  Only a number of forms of ocular proof would convince Courtnie that we were bonafide British, including verification via Facebook, drivers’ licenses, Wikipedia articles and Twitter accounts. 

Courtnie’s suspicions were out of concern for her friend, Roxi, who had struck up conversation with both Dean and I.  Anxious to support and protect her friend, Courtnie’s questions and one-liners were entirely appropriate, frank and honest, arising as they did out of a sense of duty to a higher cause.  Roxi and Courtnie, it transpired, were Sorority Sisters and so had a responsibility, an obligation, to look after each other, a code entrusted and passed down from generation to generation, influencing and informing its members’ values of truth and respect, loyalty and kindness.  Courtnie’s misgivings and unease stemmed not out of malice to two boys from London but out of solidarity with her kin.

The question of sororities was raised earlier in our meeting, when I asked Roxi if she was a member of any.  She replied in the affirmative and I then prepared to guess which one.  Given that my experience with sororities is limited solely to Chi Omega, I naturally went with what I know and confidently suggested to Roxi that she was a member of this most respected of houses.  To mine and their astonishment I had guessed correctly first time.  In reality, however, Dean and I should have realised immediately that these girls would be Chi-Os.  After all, our collective experience taught us that Chi Omega sorority sisters are always the most interesting, polite and impressionable of any attached to the Greek student culture.  Roxi, and indeed everyone introduced to us as a result of that first connection in Stir, epitomised such values from the moment we first met to our ultimately difficult and long goodbye.

The girls, of course, were somewhat stunned that my first guess had accurately been Chi Omega but perhaps our familiarity with this most hospitable of sorority houses helped alleviate any lasting remnants of awkwardness as we prepared, at Roxi’s recommendation, to leave Stir with our new friends for our second bar of the evening, West End.

London in the West End

West End was a grittier venue than Stir and offered a more obvious and realistic portrayal of a Fayetteville Saturday night.  Students lined the bars and shuffleboards, the open spaces around the dancefloor and stage, piling in through the steamed door and around corners and corridors to the central aspect of the room, a squared off middle zone for talking and flirting, singing and dancing, all built around a raised performing area in the corner where an acoustic guitar, singer and percussionist provided an easy-listening beat to the cheerful sounds of this din of student living.

By now, Dean and I had garnered somewhat of a reputation with our North London accents and unusual dress sense in comparison to the ordinary look of a Deep South twentysomething.  Roxi and Courtnie, who by now was more disposed to her new British acquaintances, introduced us to a number of other friends in West End, and we happily chatted and whiled away a number of hours in the bar together. 

What was remarkable for Dean and I was that, perhaps for the first time in our travels across America, neither of us felt recourse to reach for a drink, to shield ourselves away from potential embarrassment by the secure envelopment of holding a glass in one hand.  So fascinated were we by our new hosts, so at home and at peace, that time became immaterial, alcohol impractical, thoughts of home impossible.  Such feelings of contentedness are rare and hard to replicate, arising as they do out of nothing, out of chance.  Or perhaps they do not; perhaps there is a pre-ordainment to such moments of magic.  Sometimes we settle for half, for the middle ground between faith and fact.  When it becomes too difficult to evaluate, when the battle between hope and practicality threatens to confuse and corrupt conjecture and confidence that we are each on the right path, it is perhaps best to remember the line from Forrest Gump: “I don’t know if we each have a destiny, or if we’re all just floating around accidental-like on a breeze, but I, I think maybe it is both.  Maybe both is happening at the same time.”

At this time we were introduced to another mutual friend of Roxi and Courtnie.  This girl, an inquisitive, intelligent and ingratiating future lawyer by the name of Lauren Summerhill helped contribute significantly to the vitality of our many conversations with the remarkable individuals from Fayetteville.  Lauren asked critical questions, looked at issues with a clever, diligent eye, demonstrating all of the inquisitorial skill that a lawyer needs, an attention to detail and articulation that leant an academic flavour to absorbing exchanges that ranged from legal study to the state of American politics.  For this writer, it was a pleasure to discuss these topics with such a knowledgeable and sharp soul.

As the bar closed for the night, none of us wanted to part.  There was a mutual keenness to cement these new, budding, embryonic friendships, now numbering six of us with the introduction of Caroline Lang, an eminently ranked member of the Chi-Omega sorority, who kindly drove this rather haphazardly formed but affectionately fastened gang to the colonnaded majesty of the Chi-O house itself. 

Waffling

The Chi-Omega sorority house stands in the middle of the main campus area of the University of Arkansas.  Best seen in the daylight, it nevertheless radiates an imposing majesty, with its columns and steps, its hedgerows and white painted shutters.  Inside, lounges and living rooms spill out in to extended corridors, each accompanied by plush rugs and couches, widescreen televisions and grand pianos, lit by looming lampshades and modern spots and home to a number of Sorority girls who share in everything from dorm-room to dogma to dinner. 

There is a popular misconception about the nature of a Sorority, one that I have explored in earlier blogs from Baton Rouge, but worth repeating, worth extending.  The Sorority system that many Europeans believe stands for frivolous procrastination and partying is a considerable misnomer.  These are centres of tradition, of altruistic ideals and ideas passed down across many generations, each instilled with basic human values of philanthropy, kindness and respect.  Sororities, particularly Chi Omega, demand the highest of standards in its members’ academia and social interactions.  Specific grades must be achieved, precise manners must be met.  The net result of these philosophies is not a pagan paradise of immorality, but a network, an ethos, a system of honour and community, of charity and affection.  If such values did not exist, Dean and I would never have enjoyed the company of the Arkansas Chi-O girls, would never have developed such strong bonds, and would never have been able to rely so happily on the kindness of strangers that became friends.  To those that question the Greek student system in America, I put it to each that they should better research the facts and not rely on the Hollywood bastardisation of Sorority Row.

In any event, Dean and I stepped in to the Chi Omega house for just a few minutes that Saturday night, albeit meeting and chatting with more of Roxi and her group’s social scene.  We posed for photos, lounged on the sofas, and then headed off in Roxi’s car with Courtnie and Lauren to grab some late night, early morning food.

The Waffle House stands just outside of the main University area in Fayetteville.  Open twenty-four hours a day, it serves a wide ranging clientele from residents and students to passers-through, from weary travellers looking for a coffee to student revellers in need of sustenance.  Roxi, Courtnie, Lauren, Dean and I arrived to line our stomachs after a long night and further cement a budding friendship in a diner that is symptomatic of, and epitomises, the best of America: a twenty-four hour café with an almost embarrassingly long menu and terrifyingly sized portions.  To the consternation of many, the employees of the Waffle House included, I ordered the harsh browns with ‘Bert’s chilli’.  This seemed to cause a mild panic and informed on me the idea that I was perhaps the first person to voluntarily decide to have chilli made by an individual named Bert in quite some time.  As it was, the chilli, much like the atmosphere more generally within the establishment, was lovely and we were each able to quench our appetites and find out more about each other at the same time.  Tired but happy, we were dropped off back at our Super 8 motel and, after an in no way ironic group hug in the car park, retired to bed, to sleep, perchance to dream.

Calling the Hogs

The following day was resplendent in stunning sunshine, with a deep blue sky filling the horizon and lifting our already considerably high spirits.  Aware that we were not meeting our new friends until later in the afternoon, Dean and I enjoyed taking in the views of Fayetteville in the daylight, and were able to grasp more clearly just how beautiful the state of Arkansas can be in good weather.  Subtle inclines and gentle drops in the road helped to bring new contours and colours in to view, with university buildings dotting the horizon, each symbolic of American university patronage: well funded, cleverly constructed, neatly designed, spaced out across a manicured campus with inspiring buildings in which to learn and study.

On the recommendation of Lauren via Roxi, we drove slightly out of town to try some regional soul food at Moma Dean’s.  This was apparently a Fayetteville institution and particularly pleasing for Dean given his identical name with the venue.  Moma Dean’s is the perfect encapsulation of good food off the beaten track, of taking somewhat of a risk based on the recommendation of a local and rolling with it to see what happens.  On first glance, this establishment looks unkempt and derelict, with dirty floors and misty windows cornering plastic chairs and stained cutlery.  These are but initial impressions.  Look again, deeper, and you find history here: the same family preparing the same food, itself inherently tied to the region, across generations, all with an amiable welcome to regulars and new guests alike.

After our meal, Dean and I started speaking with a waiter, Caesar, who then introduced us to Moma Dean herself.  The Moma, as she is known, was a wonderful character, full of questions and hearty laughing, youthful in her obvious experience, with the sort of sentiency that belies her local tethering.  These are eyes that have seen good times and bad amidst great change in America.  They signify a broader theme in American history; that communities can continue to enjoy their traditions, their nostalgia, but do so now in a parlance of plurality, with a surer understanding of the past and a better hope for the future.

Mama Dean was chatting with some of her guests when Dean and I approached with our camera.  Amused and intrigued by our accents, the other visitors were soon also engaged in conversation with us.  This led to a rousing rendition of ‘calling the Hogs’, a chant heard across the region and particularly at Arkansas football games as both a cry of support for the team and a deliberate and passionate acknowledgment of the region’s agricultural origins.  It was fascinating to hear the cadence and metre in the calling, to imagine for just a brief moment how it must sound when 90,000 Razorbacks fans each call the hogs in unison at a college sporting event.  Armed with the good food, the friendly conversation, and the power of the hog-calling Razorbacks chant, we drove happily to the main campus area in order to chat more with our new friends at the Chi-O house and take in a tour of the grounds. 

Take a shot like a Chi-O can

Dean and I fell in to an almost state of stasis-like serenity in the Chi Omega house.  We were made to feel so welcome, so at home, by our hosts, that it was impossible not to feel the warm glow of comfort and security that comes with the knowledge of friendship, companionship and mutual affection, even so far away from home.

Our return to the Chi-O house after visiting Mama Dean’s, then, felt like the obvious move, the natural direction to drive in after our late lunch.  We toured the floors and dorms, the lounges and kitchens, meeting other sorority girls, and posing for photos outside the beautiful main entrance to the house.  Roxi, Courtnie, Lauren and now Morgan, who had since joined our group, took Dean and I around some of the other areas of the University of Arkansas campus.  Particularly interesting was the fact that the institution engraves the names of its graduates in to the sidewalk, so that you are literally walking in the path, following in the footprints, of those who have gone before, those have who shown the dedication to graduate college and move on in the world: a permanent persuasion to current students to keep striving for the next step, the next goal; a particularly inspiring notion in a university.

Standing together.  Shaping tomorrow.

Dean and I had envisaged staying just the one night in Fayetteville.  However, as Sunday afternoon began to slip in to the developing chill of evening, we were still in the town, still learning more, still discovering.  Roxi, it transpired, had to attend a campaign meeting at a fraternity house called Lambda Chi.  Running for the position of Student Treasure on a ticket that included other likeminded individuals running for other positions on the ballot, Roxi needed to attend the meeting to discuss campaigning techniques and deal with other practical issues ahead of the main election process in a few weeks.  For many this would be a cue to leave, to interfere no further in the private matters of an individual and the democratic process of her academic institution.  Not so Dean and I.  This was roadtrip documentary gold.  It made perfect sense to accompany Roxi to the meeting, to take in what was to be discussed, to witness first hand the youthful strands of American democracy, to watch and learn from student politicians who one day may shape the destinies of states and nations.

For the amateur politico or West Wing aficionado, this was heaven.  We sat and listened as the Campaign Manager discussed next steps in the election process, what posters would look like, where candidates needed to be going on the campus, how social media and networking tools would be harnessed to raise awareness, what specific events were being created for the candidates so that they could meet with voters and get the message out.  This grass-roots, activist element of politics and democracy is both inspiring and crucial, engineering in its protagonists a fundamental sense of belonging to the larger American political process, a democratic movement, regardless of who you support, that takes ideas and policies, questions and answers, plans and strategies, in to people’s homes and schools, their bars and sidewalks.  The gap between the individual and their representative is reduced by the myriad of ways that candidates are expected to communicate with their electorate, to imprint their message, their dreams, their ideals on the body politics entrusting them with their own hopes for the future, their own demands for tomorrow. 

At once both inspiring and practical, it made perfect sense for Roxi to be involved.  Her immediately welcoming and engaged nature when meeting Dean and I for the first time, we hope, will mean that the wider University of Arkansas population are as equally taken with her as we were.  Much of politics is about first impressions, about instinct, about eye contact and trust.  These are but some of the many attributes of Roxi Hazelwood, and we look forward to hearing of her ensuing election win.  Standing together, shaping tomorrow, these inspiring students and the ticket they represented in that meeting inside Lambda Chi, will forever have contributed to a personally memorable moment in this American roadtrip.  Grassroots democracy is alive and well in the great state of Arkansas.

Pulling your puzzles apart

One might have considered this an appropriate point to bid these remarkable girls adieu, to retreat to our car to continue our road trip across the state line in to Oklahoma.  Yet a warm glow of contentedness is not to be ignored, rare as it is when thousands of miles away from home.  To feel so completely at ease, to be so fully and purely welcomed, to have the opportunity to sample and learn from the culture of others, helps transcend the truth of travelling; that across unfamiliar terrain in a different part of the world it is possible to connect, to entrench ties that bind, to broaden horizons with smiles and whispers, laughter and looks.

Inevitably, then, we returned to our safety net, the comfort blanket that was and is the Chi Omega house.  In the main living room we sat and talked for so long that it became clear that Dean and I would not be reaching Oklahoma City that night and, with specific dates set to see close friends in Louisiana, it became necessary to stay one more night in Fayetteville before driving to Shreveport the following day.  This was after another new acquaintance, Rose, had kindly told us much about Oklahoma City, even providing some tips from her English Dad who now resides in the city.  Although we would never make it this land of friendly cowboys and farmers, Rose’s generosity in even trying to establish some helpful facts for Dean and I will not be forgotten and we were happy Rose joined our group for the rest of the evening. 

Certain of our stay for one more night, we were able to relax in the lounge with our new friends for several hours.  During this time, Erin and Claire joined our party, probing and asking intelligent and intriguing questions, delving in to the cultural similarities and differences between two inextricably linked nations, bound by common principles and ideals, laced histories and sensitivities, religious and linguistic parallels forged across centuries of generations, from times of conflict to an era of allegiance.  Politicians, President, Prime Ministers and Monarchs call the British-American partnership the ‘special relationship’.  It exists, it thrives, in Fayetteville.

While much binds our two nations, certain facets remain in contrast, including our cuisine.  Dean, it transpired, had never sampled a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  This most pro-American of Englishman was obviously eager to put this smite on his atlanticist record to rest and hungrily tore in to what looked like an excellent example of this quintessentially American delicacy, prepared by Roxi and Erin and presented to Dean in the Chi-O lounge.  With the impatient eyes of a number of girls on him, plus a somewhat quizzical look from your humble author, Dean delved in to his sandwich, spilling some contents, but otherwise managing to maintain a degree of British decorum, poise and delicacy despite being stared down by his inquisitors.  It was, Dean said, a very tasty sandwich.

The surreal nature of this serenity continued unabashed when another Chi-O sister arrived with an accent straight out of Gone With the Wind.  Nicole, who had previously chatted with me on loudspeaker, arrived in the living room to proudly let the assembled masses know that her endorphins had been released, that she was full of energy, vim and vigour, that she had been perfecting a new ‘firehouse’ dance move, and that she was excited to hear some English accents.  Not half as bemused as we were by her accent, that is. 

This was the most Southern of Southern drawls I have ever come across, all elongated and rounded vowels, mixed with slight glottal stops and rising inflections, completed with wide eyes and a radiant smile.  There is a notion, perhaps stereotyped, perhaps unfairly prejudiced by Hollywood depictions of the ‘Old South’, of the Southern Belle of folklore, the lace hats and gloves, the curtsies, the deference to men, to society.  The modern South, as epitomised by its sororities, is contemporary, pluralist, progressive, while still retaining the Southern charm and hospitality, the grace and humility, the style and magic of its nineteenth and early twentieth century pomp.  Nicole, as with all of the girls we met, characterised such values and traits and helped Dean and I appreciate all the more the wonder of this region.

As the evening twilight merged from a grey dusk in to the depths of night itself, Dean and I found ourselves fielding further questions, meeting new friends, providing an impromptu piano and guitar version of The Scientist and making plans for the night ahead.  The song we performed became something of an anthem for Dean and I, its lyrics at once prosaic and personal, a perfect blend of the rare certainties in life, the ocular numbers and figures, and the subjective sentiments they often surround.  The Scientist longs for the start and so, in a way, did we: to begin again the adventure so we could relive rather than end it, to concentrate on hellos that meant the world rather than goodbyes that meant ‘see you soon’ but not knowing when.

Such disheartening motifs were soon addressed, however, by another roadtrip highlight for Dean and I, as we journeyed in the car with Roxi, Claire, Rose and Erin to the University of Arkansas basketball stadium to watch a flash mob training session take place.  The aim of the session was for volunteers to practice for an impromptu, but in reality planned and choreographed dance, which would take place within a time out during the Razorbacks’ weekend basketball fixture.  This was a sensory delight for Dean and I as we took our seats in the stunning auditorium.  Seating upwards to 20,000 people, it was frightening to think that this bowl of basketball is home to a college team.  In the UK we have no such college culture, no interest in university sports.  Our school, the University of Nottingham, did not contain a stadium of any kind.  The University of Arkansas enjoys use of fully functioning, world class facilities, complete with camera galleys, executive boxes, dressing rooms, gyms, physiotherapy centres and health spas, all across a number of sporting pursuits, from the 90,000 American football stadium, to the beautiful soccer field to the athletics arena. 

Such is the investment in American higher education.  Yes, it may rely on private donations, on state support, but the comparative prices for students to attend such colleges are not much more than what British students pay for our equivalents.  In the United States there is a clear culture of providing its youth with enough opportunity to grow and thrive, to offer and supply the right resources in the correct environment to learn and develop.  As a result, the students treat their facilities with respect, honouring their parents’, government’s and entrepreneurs’ own commitment to their education, their walk of life.

Enthused and inspired by what we had just seen, by the university’s commitment to its students and by the students reverence for the facilities and opportunities they have, we left the stadium with the flash mob, itself a perfect encapsulation of American positivity and enthusiasm, still rehearsing.  With the bright lights of the arena still dazzling, still igniting like stars in our eyes, we took in some food at Mexico Viejo and then rose ever higher, in both gleeful spirit and literal altitude, to take in the fullness, the wholeness of the city sprawl from Mount Sequoyah, just outside of town.

Bring me that horizon

Mount Sequoyahh rises in the hills that surround Fayetteville, and is arrived at by a steep drive up winding country roads, themselves lined with the colonnaded mansions of Southern folklore, with gabled vistas and long, snaking drive ways, covered and draped by Spanish moss and arching oaks, through thickets and copses, shrubbery and streams, and then up higher as the street widens and arches, carving a crevice out of the hillside and spinning to face the town from which it rises, springing forth like lunar tranquillity to a wider aspect, a broader focus: the city, the sprawl, the twinkling lights of the horizon, stretching away beyond in to the night, untethered and inexorable, correlated but never attached to the murky land of the republic.

This vista of Fayetteville was at once inspiring and astounding.  Not the largest of towns, it nevertheless took on new meaning, partly imbued by our happy state, our joyful singing of songs from Glee as we took on the inclines to reach the vantage point.  From up here, from this height and this sentiment, Fayetteville stretched wider than before, from downtown to its University campus, from its residential zone to its industrial exterior.  In the cold night sky, we saw taillights and headlights, flashing blues and dotted greens: forwards, progress, movement. 

Next to the vantage area is a large, illuminated crucifix, not of Cristo Redentor magnitude but bright, visible, deliberate and towering over the metropolis nevertheless, as if to remind the citizens below that, out of the pure facts of academic study, out of the cement of serious life, the gritty reality of the grey area between youth and adulthood, there is still room for faith – any faith – and dreams, uncaused causes and intangible tangibles.  This view, these people, that moment: beauty and wonderment, happiness and perspective, new horizons and old comforts, from atop of Mount Sequoyah to the hinterland beyond.

I’m going back to the start

They say that it is easier to leave than to be left behind.  Whether this is true or not depends on our point of view, on your relative position in the context of the departure: whether you are leaving or being left.  Regardless, Dean and I braved a snowy, grey morning with a gritty but necessary certainty: the road trip must continue, the show must go on.  We packed our bags and prepared to drive.

Our final stop was to pay a last farewell to our new friends as they ate brunch in the Chi-O house.  We were meant to merely step in briefly.  We stayed for three hours.  Three times Dean and I tried to leave, having enjoyed a quick meal of corn dogs, mozzarella and tomato crescents and fried green beans with Roxi, Caroline and Erin.  Alas, as we moved through the splendour of the house one final time, Dean and I found ourselves in further conversations, new introductions at what was meant to be our denouement.

This was the long goodbye, an aching and constantly revolving set of salutations and platitudes.  It was also a hello, as Dean and I happily conversed with the likes of Laura, Cory, Ronnie, Mindyrose and Ali.  As we finally prepared to leave, to exit centre stage and retire to the Chevrolet, a song rang out, a chorus of comfort and hope for a reunion, a return, a resolution.  The Chi Omega girls sang their anthem of affection, an aching and at the same time moving lyric of remembrance, of merging a past with a future, of moving forwards, yes, but also going back to the start.  The song ends with a beat, an impact, an almost spoken final stanza: “We’ll remember you.”

The truth is that Dean and I arrived in this town expecting a couple of days of student security but little else.  We left with new friends and new dreams, of a desire to reciprocate if any of them decide to visit London, with a new appreciation of how deep the universal values of hospitality, kindness and kinship can run, how they can bring even the most frivolous of vacations a new meaning, a higher focus.  Not goodbye, then, but see you soon.  Until we meet again.

A postscript

At the heart of the success of our stay in Fayetteville, Arkansas, was Roxi Hazelwood.  It was Roxi who first engaged with me in the bar on the Saturday night.  It was Roxi who took us on to the West End, introduced us to her friends, brought us in to her meetings, toured us through her campus, and let us in to her home.  In doing so, she also articulated a substance of herself, her own hopes and fears, dreams and aspirations, of trepidation of what might be ahead for a girl with many interests, many attributes, many visions.

Throughout our stay in Fayetteville, we played and heard The Scientist.  In leaving, it became clear what the song truly meant: its deliberate bridge between fact and fiction, science and faith.  Roxi, a biochemistry major, was our Scientist.  Her studies involve the pursuit of proof, of certainty, of ocularity.  Yet she stands at a precipice, interested in law, politics, language, travelling, at the cusp of graduation and yet still nestling within the refuge, the sanctuary of academic structure. 

The reality is that nobody can predict a future.  Certainly Dean and I could not have known what would await us in Fayetteville. 

In that daily struggle between what you know and what you think, between what you expect and what will ensue, it is sometimes appropriate, sometimes apposite, to let the music play out.  The point of The Scientist is that, within its lyrics of ‘numbers and figures’ are less concrete creeds, of puzzles, of progress.  Roxi, our scientist, our friend, changed both our roadtrip and our perspective of this great nation.  It was a shame for us to part but the beauty of this smaller, interconnected world that we live in, just as in the beauty of the song itself, is that, while it may not be easy, while it may not always work out, while variables still exist and time changes and affects each of us in different ways, there will always be chances, always new roads to travel, always ways to go back to the start in search of the answers.  In search of tomorrow.

~~~

‎"Happiness, AR"

The twinkling lights of a Saturday night,

Flicker past over the brow of a hill,

While diner signs and motel lines keep out a winter chill.

A force of weary travelling,

Of a need to stop and sleep,

Countered by the smile of another friend to keep.

This, my friends, is Arkansas,

Headlining at the top of the bill.

Who would have known that such seeds were sown,

In a town called Fayetteville?

Robert 'Sammy' Samuelson 

Fayetteville, Arkansas - 12 February 2012.

St. Louis, Missouri: Good Moon Rising

Some cities live by the day; other by night.  Shedding the cloudburst colour of their daylight façade they take on new meaning, new focus, in crimson sunsets and softly enveloping darkness, caressing and promoting a nocturnal nuance, a moonlit majesty.  St. Louis, Missouri, surprises and delights while the world around it sleeps, arising out of the industrial grit of its waking hours to form patterns of red and yellow taillights, twinkling stars moving from staging post to meeting point, breathing in the city’s juxtaposition between its cold heart of darkness and its awoken witching hour soul.  This good moon rising, this silhouetted siren of love and life, hopes and fears, a glance and a whisper, brings the night of St. Louis in to an ethereal glow of happiness ahead.

Delmar Loopy

Arriving in St. Louis, Dean and I had little idea that the next two days would be amongst our most adventurous, interesting and exciting so far in America.  Our main impression of St. Louis upon checking in to the Moonrise Hotel in the Delmar Loop area of the city was that this was a weird and wonderful town without necessarily being the most thrilling place in America. 

What was clear almost immediately was the city’s propensity for wackiness, its ability to pastiche and humourise everyday norms, from hospitality through to exhibitions and museums.  Our hotel was a case in point, so dubbed the ‘Moonrise Hotel’ because of the manager’s obsession with our lunar satellite, and therefore decked out with moon-based photography, paraphernalia and artefacts.  This was less ‘boutique’ and more ‘niche’, with a number of bizarre features that enforced on Dean and I the fact that this was no ordinary town and no normal accommodation.  Certainly I have not heard of any other hotels that boast ownership of the world’s largest man-made moon.

In our room a guidebook to the hotel detailed the various amenities available, including the concierge service, known as the ‘Manager of Desires’ at the Moonrise.  I have never before experienced the services of a Manager of Desire, let alone phoned through to reception and asked to speak to my own personal and dedicate desires specialist.  While in some ways a gimmick, in others the idiosyncrasies of the hotel illustrate a broader sensibility of St. Louis; that this was a town with an important and influential history but, equally, a strong sense of humour, of uniqueness, of independence.  The Moonrise Hotel, with its Manager of Desires and a machine in each bedroom that played out on loud speakers a choice of supposedly relaxing sounds and noises, including heartbeats, falling rain and the din of the jungle, was one of a number of examples from our stay in the city.

The hotel itself sits on the edge of the Delmar Loop, which is both a district and a street in St. Louis and close by to Forest Park (the largest municipal green space in America) and both Washington and St. Louis universities.  The Loop proudly reminds its visitors that it is officially recognised as one of the top ten best streets in the United States, a fact that was borne out the following evening when Dean and I began what would become a seriously heavy night out there.  The area itself is populated with bars and restaurants, independent outlets and boutique shops, split across a wide boulevard signposted with flashing neon and a bustling intensity befitting its position and status as a cultural and recreational heaven set amidst the student populations of two big universities.

Go West

After a good night’s sleep Dean and I headed towards the Mississippi river, which less snakes and more thrusts its way through downtown St. Louis.  By this stage in its epic journey across the continent, the Mississippi is wide and forceful, latching on to industrial ports and spanned by steel and iron bridges of metal meshed with asphalt.  St. Louis is a hard working, blue-collar town, its industrial heart beating its way from the agriculture of the Midwest to the south beyond, straddling regions and cultures with its northern grit and southern charm, flowing like the Mississippi itself from every street corner, every building and every passer-by.  This is a purposeful part of the United States, a land of expeditious exploration and discovery, both a staging post to uncharted terrain and a venue of vision in its own right, a half-way house and a settling zone in equal measure.

Adjacent to the banks of the river is the area of Laclede’s Landing, itself running parallel to the business district of St. Louis, with its international corporations and gleaming towers.  Laclede’s Landing sprung up over the past decade after the Mayor of St. Louis received funding to develop the old waterside warehouses of the original port of St. Louis and turn it in to a new district offering food and drinks and other amenities.  As a result the area boasts restaurants and bars that sit inside the port’s former storage centres, large stockrooms and depots with high ceilings and broad windows, accessible down narrow, cobbled streets that offer an almost European vista.

After a quick brunch in one of the establishments lining the main thoroughfare in Laclede’s Landing, we headed towards the most famous of all St. Louis attractions: the gateway arch and accompanying museum of westward expansion.  To reach this curving, towering spiral of stone and significance, and its basement museum, we walked along the Mississippi itself and then up in to the Jefferson Expansion Memorial park. 

In the context of the gateway arch and its associated exhibit, both the river and the pioneering policies of Thomas Jefferson, third president of the United States and referred in the name of the park, are important and relevant.  In the early nineteenth century, after claiming independence from Great Britain, the United States needed to access and profit from the vast array of natural resources that surrounded the newly freed colonies of the east coast.  Slowly, but impressively, America coursed westwards, expanding over the horizon to establish new outposts and settlements, gathering new states and heartlands to add to those already firmly within the union, discovered, harnessed and at times purchased using a combination of currency, character and sheer courage. 

Thomas Jefferson was a president dedicated to consolidating what the United States already had, aware as he was of the dangers lurking from complacency and territorial weakness.  To survive, to ensure that the original thirteen colonies’ experiment with self-determination, with government by the people, for the people and of the people, would grow in stature and worth, power and popularity, America needed a ruthless policy of expansionism: not foreign, not brazenly in spite of the sovereignty of others, but nevertheless robust and hearty in equal measure.

Jefferson promoted such values through a combination of presidential orders and proclamations, at times sending willing explorers out in to the unkempt wilds of unexplored lands armed only with a missive to forge ever onwards; at others bartering and negotiating with other world and regional powers to acquire ownership of and stakes in the promise of the bountiful beyond. 

Jefferson trusted in both the appeal and potential of America.  If any president best illustrates the concept of American exceptionalism, its can-do culture of constantly looking for what is next, what is over the horizon, then it is Thomas Jefferson, for this is a president that, other social issues aside, helps represent the America that so many outsiders fall in love with: its strength of character amidst hardship, its steadfast and fervent commitment to exploration and enthusiasm, daring to dream and contribute to the timeline of freedom and liberty, truth and light, drive and determination that are the hallmarks of the creation, growth and future of this bewildering, bewitching and beautiful land.

Political opinion aside, America’s current commander-in-chief, President Obama, has himself had much to say on the concept of American idealism.  Himself the unlikeliest of presidents, Obama has positioned himself as the modern Jefferson, the human incarnation of the promise of progress, of this country’s ability to reinvent and reinvigorate, to take the lessons of the past and apply to them to a better future, to use America’s pioneering spirit, its frontier tradition, to look beyond petty partisanship and instead concentrate on the work at hand, the rebuilding of this nation’s confidence and courage, acknowledging the work of the founding fathers, the hands that built America, the teeming masses yearning to breathe in this fresh, green beast of the new world and, slowly, ever so slowly, learn once again to reclaim that American creed of discovery and brotherhood, to bend the arc of history once more toward the hope of a better day.

St. Louis, then, exists as the critical mass, the crucial stop-gap, in America’s chronicles of discovery.  It was the last town before the landforms of the continent careered in to view for the first westward settlers, the original pioneers of what would eventually become modern America.  This town, on the banks of the river system that would exist as the explorers’ life and blood supply, grew and prospered as travellers arrived to set up bases before heading in to the vast unknown of uncultivated union, and was often the first port of civilisation for those returning from the west.  Within and around its metropolitan zone St. Louis saw rapid development in the nineteenth century: gold traders and agricultural companies, cotton producers and railway suppliers, as roads, tracks and boats converged on the urban core of the town.  St. Louis became, and remains, the gateway, the entrance to America’s unplanted, untilled western territories.

In this way, the Gateway Arch, standing just less than 200 metres tall on the banks of the Mississippi, represents more than just impressive architecture, more than just a tourist attraction.  This is an impressive and imposing structure of marvel, a curving, caressing centrepiece of contemporary cool, underpinned by a nostalgic symbolism, itself the very definition of America: ahead, out of the bold and wistful concepts of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, fashions and flows a nation.  Its deliberate arched structure characterises the city’s position as a gateway, an access, a portal to the romance of America: pioneering motifs of folkloric frontiers.  The view from the top, of rivers and roads, fields and forests, skylines and cityscapes, of the steady certainty of the east and the wishes of the west, is at once immediate and inspiring, a rare combination of symbols and specifics: evidence of principles unseen and the substance of what is hoped for.

City Museum

Impressed with and inspired by our visit to the Gateway Arch, Dean and I set our Chevrolet’s satellite navigation system for another popular St. Louis landmark: the City Museum.  We were told to expect surprises, to look out for weird and wonderful exhibitions of random architectural feats and artistic apparitions.  We found instead a new rival to the Moonrise Hotel’s kooky idiosyncrasies, for the City Museum was less an acclaimed institute of learning and discovery, and more of a dramatic, colourful, bombastic, temple of turmoil, a layer of lunacy,

Whether or not you agree that the City Museum does indeed contain works of art will no doubt be determined by your own views and presuppositions on what art truly means and what it can fairly and appropriately constitute.  To Dean and I, this whacky world of weirdness was purely random, purely entertaining, and helped to reinforce the overwhelming view that St. Louis thrives on its reputation for being somewhat peculiar, that it embraces its deliberate difference if not through its history then certainly via its contemporary concepts and institutions.

A major element of the museum are its tunnels and caves, accessible across all floors of the building, and leading to an array of walkways and corridors, each containing strange and beautiful images and icons of modern America.  These potholes and crevices are meant to be suitable for all visitors but the reality is that many are not large enough for averagely sized Brits, let alone the large number of metabolically challenged Americans.  Dean and I struggled to edge our way through, or climb our way up, most of these structures, eventually resorting to normal stairs to find our way to other parts of the museum.

One floor housed an old, dusty, out of tune and utterly wonderful piano, with keys that would stick down and the foot pedals removed, but it was impossible to resist an impromptu gig for the assembled tourists and bemused locals.  Dean and I serenaded our audience through a number of songs, including rousing renditions of Let It Be, Don’t Look Back In Anger, Man In The Mirror and The Scientist.  This is the beauty of such a strange and seductive city, that it is possible for two English boys to sit down at an out of tune piano in a borderline psychopathic museum and play successful renditions of mainly British chart hits to unsuspecting yet no less appreciative Japanese tourists.

Elsewhere the City Museum continued to delight and deceive the eyes, with rooms dedicated to arts and crafts, gymnastics, a human-sized hamster wheel, a donut emporium, a storytelling centre, a series of vaults that lead in a circle back to the original starting point, a passage of rooms mocking infamous scenes of American culture, including a diner, a garage and a vintage clothes shop, as well as a slides that led from room to room, floor to floor, and existential crisis to existential crisis: a weird and wonderful world of random chaos and bonhomie.

Moonrise

As much as St. Louis sounds like an amenable daytime destination, its true power arises at night, after the sun has set and the city is shrouded in a magic mystery that awakes and ignites the soul.  This is the beating heart of the nocturnal nuance that is St. Louis, as the cityscape takes on new meaning, new focus in the long shadows of a magic hour sunset.  Slowly, as the earth spins and lurches away from the warmth of the sun, a neon haze appears, punctuated by revolving glitterballs and centred spotlights, each inviting and illuminating, shedding light in the encroaching darkness of the night ahead.

After dark, the Delmar Loop rightly earns its position in one of the top ten streets in America.  The main thoroughfare pulses and throbs with teeming humanity, party-goers and passers-by starting or ending their night in one of the area’s many bars and restaurants.  There is an atmosphere of prodigality, of warmth and candour, sociable streams of students sampling the scene.  Chief amongst such lunar luminosity is Three Kings, a new bar and restaurant with excellent ribs and friendly staff.  Dean and I happily chatted with the waiters and waitresses while taking on whiskey and beer and enjoying the positive energy and busy vibe of the joint. 

Unsure of where to go to next, we were told to check out an establishment called Bar Louie, in the Central West End district, and close to the Delmar Loop.  It was here, suitably removed by now from any lasting remnants of sobriety, that our evening changed to dramatically.  It began at the bar, as Dean and I queued to buy a drink.  Momentarily distracted by the haphazard yet beguiling movement of a dark-haired hen party participant, I moved away from Dean for all but the briefest of seconds.  When I returned Dean was accompanied by a gentleman wearing a very similar shirt demanding to know where Dean was from.  Alex, for this was who the gentleman was, welcomed us to the bar, and seemed intrigued by the presence of two boys from London.  This attracted further attention and we were soon joined at the bar by others in Alex’s social scene, including Dave and Joanna, who would later be pivotal to our story.

As Dean and I spoke and answered more questions, our accents instigated further glances, further inquiries, further offers of a drink.  At this point, fuelled by our enjoyment of both the rapid consumption of alcohol and our new-found status of objects of intrigue for the assembled masses of the bar, Dean and I lost all control of the evening and so began a spiral of drinking and dancing, talking and texting, feeling and flirting, that would last well in to the following morning. 

The girl from the hen party, or Batchelerette Party as some in the States call it, perhaps interested in what the commotion was about, purposefully and impressively imposed herself on the situation, demanding that I sign a white handkerchief for her friend, who was to be getting married.  The handkerchief, she explained, would hopefully contain the names of all of the men the bride-to-be could have chatted to that night had she not been engaged.  Although I was not sure what the ultimate point of the handkerchief signing really was, I duly obliged, which resulted in the bridesmaid cheering our British boldness. This, in turn, was picked up on by others including a girl who had a rather fantastic full name, albeit known here simply as Libby, who had been dancing nearby.

These are the seminal moments of random roadtripping, the sort of unexplained, unplanned flashes of sheer and random joy and mayhem.  Dean and I would often talk of trying to instigate a night of meaning, a night worthy of happy memories.  The reality, however, is such feelings and moments cannot be artificially shaped out of a mere longing for the epic, the sublime, the surreal.  The best occasions arise out of accidence and circumstance, out of serendipitous suspensions of the standard form. 

So it was, then, that half an hour after first meeting the lovely Libby, and other new friends like Joanna, Alex and Dave, we found ourselves in the back of Dave’s car en-route to our third club of the evening, known as Tulane’s.  Dave was a congenial and willing host, kindly and considerately taking us from Bar Louie to Tulane’s and extending a hand of friendship to these two travel-weary souls.  This was classic American hospitality, of working hard to welcome two strangers to the exigencies of St. Louis on a Friday night, of bothering to take the time and make the effort to support new guests and help them feel at home.  For this, Dean and I are forever grateful to the many fantastic individuals we met that night in St. Louis.  Dave, and his partner in chaperoning crime, Joanna, deserve very particular thanks for helping Dean and I enjoy one of our best ever nights in America.

Back at Tulane’s, the club was busy and sticky with merging and meshing people, a sweaty, boozy cocktail of beats and bass, teeming with life and laughter that would travel over the chords and riffs of songs and rise in a cacophonic crescendo of conversation during the small gaps in between.

By this time, already well past 2.00am, Dean and I were in our element, enjoying getting to know our new friends and thriving on the disco hits on the dance-floor.  Through my conversations with Libby I was able to engage with a similarly minded individual and enjoy her company as the night progressed.  What appeared to have been the ending of an exhausting day of touring the inspiring and significant cultural attractions of St. Louis turned in to a twenty-hour blitz of accents and adventures, of beer, women and music, of new friends and sore heads, played out to a soundtrack of glances and looks, pauses and gestures, breakneck tunes and sinking shots, under the pearly white light of the man in the moon.

Sunrise

The following morning was actually a continuation of the end of the night before.  We did not arrive back at the Moonrise Hotel until after 5.00am, before finally settling in to some semblance of sleep as the sun rose higher above the city as the morning wore on.  Exhausted and parched, Dean and I emerged blinking in to clear blue skies with foggy heads, still dumbfounded by the twenty-fours that had just passed, with all of the previous day’s views and news, education and dehydration, singing and dancing, playing out in a continuous and hazy loop in our delicate, shattered minds.

Yet the road cares little for the weary explorer.  The open expanses between the country’s cities require attention and skill.  So it was that, with a long drive to neighbouring Arkansas to come, Dean and I had little choice to but press on, to continue undiminished to the next step in the adventure, armed this time with real, tangible memories of a city that promised much and delivered, of a day that taught and intrigued, and a night that amused and delighted.  St. Louis, Missouri, became the gateway not just to America’s mythical passion for the great unknown but for our own development, our own comprehension not just of our most recent stopping point, but of the people behind the places we visit, the faces and voices that give colour and vibrancy and truth to our pursuit of the real America.  Important facts and feelings, then, as we sped away from this moonlit paradise.

We journeyed on to Arkansas armed with such sentiment and stopped just once: to give a lift back home to one of our new St. Louis acquaintances. 

~~~

"Libby"

Blue sky rising from a manufactured moon,

Two nights in St Louis ending earlier than soon,

While glitter balls spin to a disco beat and tune. 

Finding out connections from a smile behind a mask,

Gazing ever westwards by a gateway and an arch,

Fighting for more moonlight to make an extra second last. 

Where the eastern promise ends and the western dream begins,

Casting Magic Hour shadows from coffee cups and gin,

This pretty Mississippi through the chaos and the din.

Robert 'Sammy' Samuelson 

St Louis, Missouri - 11 February 2012