I moved to Alabama on August 12, 2005. I drove three days down from Yellowstone National Park to Auburn, making it just in time for grad school orientation. My car was not so good.
My dad flew down and helped me find an apartment and groceries and whatnot. At the rental office, he mentioned he lives in Vermont. The lady at the desk asked my dad how many football games he’d be flying down to see. I think we both gaped at her; she couldn’t figure out why. We thought she was telling a not-so-funny joke. Turns out that was a serious question.
We took the requisite picture by the Auburn University sign (Note slightly mocking poses and baffled looks. We’d seen about a hundred freshmen and their families beaming with pride by this sign and decided to get in on the action, albeit with our typical good-natured smart-alecky flair.)
Then Dad went home, and I tried to settle in. I had a days-long headache from the hours and hours of driving and steady diet of Mountain Dew and beef jerky and mind-numbing orientation activities and relocation from elevation 6,200 feet to elevation 700 feet.
And then, before I’d met anyone at all, my car broke down. And I ran out of food. I had my car towed to a place about two miles away, where it took me about half an hour to decipher what the repairman was saying in his heavy accent. I’m pretty sure he thought I was missing some crucial parts, like eardrums. I said, “What?” and “Can you say that a little slower?” about twenty times. After determining that they’d need to keep my car a couple days at the least, I started walking home.
About half a mile into the walk back, in August, in hundred-degree heat and a type of humidity I’d never felt before (though I like humidity; it really is the heat that gets me), I was pretty sure I’d die. I couldn’t go on. I was super in-shape at this point in my life, but there was no way I could make it back to my apartment.
So I laid down on the sidewalk and waited to die. Or for a passing car to take pity on me and offer to drive me the rest of the way home. I probably laid there for half an hour. It’s all a blur. I didn’t know it was possible to be so miserable and not die quickly.
It became clear no one was going to stop. So much for Southern hospitality. I guess it doesn’t apply to weird girls who look passed out in public places. And I guessed since I wasn’t dead yet that I probably wasn’t actually going to die. I got up and trudged the rest of the way back.
And oh how happy I was to find that it’s a myth that the South is hot year-round. And how happy that still makes me.
My dad flew down and helped me find an apartment and groceries and whatnot. At the rental office, he mentioned he lives in Vermont. The lady at the desk asked my dad how many football games he’d be flying down to see. I think we both gaped at her; she couldn’t figure out why. We thought she was telling a not-so-funny joke. Turns out that was a serious question.
We took the requisite picture by the Auburn University sign (Note slightly mocking poses and baffled looks. We’d seen about a hundred freshmen and their families beaming with pride by this sign and decided to get in on the action, albeit with our typical good-natured smart-alecky flair.)
Then Dad went home, and I tried to settle in. I had a days-long headache from the hours and hours of driving and steady diet of Mountain Dew and beef jerky and mind-numbing orientation activities and relocation from elevation 6,200 feet to elevation 700 feet.
And then, before I’d met anyone at all, my car broke down. And I ran out of food. I had my car towed to a place about two miles away, where it took me about half an hour to decipher what the repairman was saying in his heavy accent. I’m pretty sure he thought I was missing some crucial parts, like eardrums. I said, “What?” and “Can you say that a little slower?” about twenty times. After determining that they’d need to keep my car a couple days at the least, I started walking home.
About half a mile into the walk back, in August, in hundred-degree heat and a type of humidity I’d never felt before (though I like humidity; it really is the heat that gets me), I was pretty sure I’d die. I couldn’t go on. I was super in-shape at this point in my life, but there was no way I could make it back to my apartment.
So I laid down on the sidewalk and waited to die. Or for a passing car to take pity on me and offer to drive me the rest of the way home. I probably laid there for half an hour. It’s all a blur. I didn’t know it was possible to be so miserable and not die quickly.
It became clear no one was going to stop. So much for Southern hospitality. I guess it doesn’t apply to weird girls who look passed out in public places. And I guessed since I wasn’t dead yet that I probably wasn’t actually going to die. I got up and trudged the rest of the way back.
And oh how happy I was to find that it’s a myth that the South is hot year-round. And how happy that still makes me.
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