Woke up to the sound of my head reeling from the sudden intrusion of the world coming into focus; hungover, neck tweaked, and with the foggy memory of chipping the corner off my front tooth last night. Definitely should have eaten something before last night's dip in the ocean of booze. It had been a while since the last time I'd woken up feeling so shitty, I wondered why I keep at such a thankless occupation. Is it a hobby? Certainly costs money, so I think George Carlin would tend to agree.
Managed to drag my ass out of bed in time to catch a shuttle to Downtown Charleston, and contemplate having the tooth fixed. Normally I dig on scars and such, they tend to add to the whole world-worn traveller kinda vibe. Front tooth seems like a bad one to keep however; of the many things I've lost on the road, never hoped to count any of my teeth among them.
Charleston is an old city by American standards, close to the nucleus of colonial expansion, heart of the long defunct plantation culture, and powder keg to the first sparks of the civil war. Brimming with history, it feels old; walking through the streets smells like the aroma that fills the air when an old, yellowed manuscript is cracked open in a still room. Barely aware of the coolness going on around me, I managed to make it down Market St., at the end of which we popped into a charming old sweet shop only to discover a wine bar proprieted by a local fermentor. A little hair of the dog seemed in order, and after paroosing the short selection of mainly fruit-based wines, made our selections, and hoped for a little sweet salvation. The brews were mainly musty and sweet, and as much of a sucker as I usually am for meads, was fairly disappointed with the owner's entry into the category. Finishing up there we made our way back to the street feeling some modicum of relief, and as anyone who knows me might gather, some local eats were next on the agenda. A good source had it that the crab soups of Charleston were not to be missed, and seeing two of my lovely Japanese coworkers at a seafood joint across the way, felt inclined to join. Dubbed "She-Crab Bisque" the stuff was creamy in texture and appearance, finishing somewhat velvety, and bursting with tender crab. Accompanied by some fried Gator nuggets, it seemed acceptable for my futile attempt to burn off that wicked hangover. Followed up with a charming walk along a neighboring pier with one of my lovely coworkers, I definitely felt myself taken with her infectious smile and youthful exuberance.
Bummed not to have seen more, but satisfied to have survived being up and ambulatory in my present state, the shuttle back seemed like something of an eternity. Contemplating the woes of the last 18 or so hours, decided that all the booze probably doesn't make me that much more interesting when all is said and done. Maybe the wine tasting was really better than the meltdown, the snobbery more satisfying than the debauchery. I must be getting old, my parents must be smiling somewhere.
