carrboro diaries

idyllic, in a way

Alexa and I set off toward Carrboro later than we had planned, but in high spirits. The drive from Savannah would be five and a half hours — an allotment of time we had prepared a semi-adequate playlist for. Mostly, it was made up of Eliza McLamb’s albums and EPs, the artist for whom we would be journeying to North Carolina the weekend before our midterms. I rationalized the trip by vowing to do my homework in the car.

As with any trip with Alexa, our drive was full of good conversation. We talked about the classics — the people we used to love, the way our past still shapes us, our changing perspectives on life. We both grew up in Florida, though in very different parts. It’s interesting to consider the way those things shape you. How you don’t think about it while you’re in it, but once you move away you realize how made up of it you are.

—

After passing probably 55 billboards advertising “nacho average restaurant” and “you never sausage a place,” we decided to stop at South of the Border. For those not familiar (as I was not), South of the Border is a tourist attraction on the border between South and North Carolina. I’m not too sure of the history, but I am sure that it has seen better days.

We paid $4 each to take an elevator to the top of the giant sombrero and look out at the rest of S.O.B. and, well, the highway. The girl who took us up the elevator told us she had never left South Carolina. I felt as though she said it with regret.

—

We ate breakfast in the smallest Waffle House I had ever seen. The restaurant was run, as any good diner establishment is, by just two employees. Apart from them, we were the only people in the building. They treated us kindly, brewing a fresh pot of coffee at 3pm (which Alexa spilled all over herself later) and cooking us mediocre breakfast food. I ate a greasy bacon egg and cheese biscuit and hashbrowns. Out of gratitude (and also apology for Alexa spilling her coffee), I tipped more than my meal even cost—which, to be fair, is not saying much at a Waffle House.

—

Around this time last year, Alexa and I took a road trip to Athens, Georgia. Our album of choice then was Wilco’s “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.” We drove through every small southern town, all the same blueprint of a short main street strip. Mostly, half the storefronts appear closed or abandoned. The brick buildings always covered in hand-lettered murals, faded and weathered over the years.

I found that much of South and North Carolina were the same. Small towns with more churches than there probably are people and long stretches of farmland. In the Carolinas, though, there seemed to be just as many gambling buildings as there were churches. Run down and poorly painted, with signs in the windows that advertised “Games” and “Winner’s Choice.”

Alexa and I had a conversation about faith, and the human desire to have something to believe in. Whether that’s yourself or something else. Really, the gambling buildings and the churches filled the same need in different ways. I always find myself comforted by the idea that wherever you go, there’s a church somewhere nearby. That there’s always somebody, somewhere, believing in something bigger than themselves.

—

Our Airbnb was a welcome surprise full of cat-themed decor, drawing supplies, and a rainbow “y’all means all” art print. We walked five minutes down a neighborhood road to the local cafe, passing one of those mini free art galleries on the way.

The cafe was eclectic, with a guitars on the walls and kitschy decor and the best dirty chai I’ve had in a while. We were surprised with an open mic being set up, and stayed to sit and listen while we worked on our assignments. It was full of magic and giggles as the crowd sang Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl,” shalalalaing to the off-beat guitar. One of the participants played “The Book of Love” by the Magnetic Fields, and Alexa and I shared a serendipitous smile.

—

Our full day in Carrboro was as perfect as we expected. We walked to the farmers’ market, where we drank strawberry lemonade and bought flowers wrapped in brown paper. We talked to a little girl about Taylor Swift as her mom kept calling her, “my love.” We stopped at a record store and a bookstore and an art gallery. I spent the night crying so hard at the Eliza McLamb concert that I could barely sing along.

Everything moved so fast, but not with haste. It felt idyllic in a way. This place where there were pride flags in every window and strangers who smiled at you on the street and flyers for local events on every telephone pole. Where the faith existed because of the community — the best version of believing in something bigger than yourself.

—

In the morning we went back to the cafe where we had watched the open mic. We sat and worked on our computers, finally making good on my vow to do my homework. I thought of how I wished I could stay forever. But I knew that the magic of the town was in its fleeting nature — the way it acted as a break from the chaos. A place that was not mine, but that I could escape to just for a weekend.

—

Carrboro, and the towns we passed to get to and from, made me feel both big and small. I forget sometimes, in the bubble of art school, that there are people everywhere. Some of them are playing open mics in coffee shops, and some of them are operating elevators at outdated tourist traps. Some of them are brewing coffee at the Waffle House next to those tourist traps.

But I found that no matter where we were, or who we were talking to, the humanity always prevailed. The art was everywhere—in the original guitar ballads and mini mailbox galleries and even the “JESUS SAVES” billboards littering the side of the highway. The conversation was always meaningful. The food was always made with love.

Carrboro reminded me that life doesn’t have to be so intense. It was a breath of fresh air, a sigh of relief. It felt like a place I would return to, because I truly felt like I could.

I’d like to think that there’s a life waiting for me where everything feels just like it did in Carrboro — idyllic and intentional and infinitely full of love.