toad stranglers

of course there were many others in batesville. those tentatively dipping a toe into the waters of the new south at natalie's cafe at the corner of college and st louis st, in a jarring cluster of prefab little cottages reminiscent of the faux bohemia of nashville, indiana...squeezed in between a service station and kroger. lattes and mochas and panini for the aspiring-to-atlanta crowd, though other closet coffee afficianados trickled in, like the construction worker from the bridgework down the hill who was flummoxed by the baristas barrage of questions on milkfat and sweetness and roast but game for the other-than-mccafe experience. mom having an important community service meeting while the nanny shepherded her too-old-for-a-nanny sons. on a bank porch where I took shelter from an earsplitting rainstorm..."my husband [in truck] said the rain don't matter," "think if I run I can miss the raindrops?," and, most importantly, "this is what they call a 'toad-strangler.'" another theme was the dark evil of the next town over, newport. part of this is explained by denise's identification of the town as 'niggerville,' of course with the qualification that she's 'not racist' and that 'there are white niggers too.' but I think there's some standard 'the next town over is on the wrong side of the tracks / wrong side of the river / down on its luck / whatever going on.

anyway, in the end a fellow motorcyclist offered me a ride 'home' (to the super8) in his dry truck. southern hospitality and the amazing capacity of the cross-country motorcycle ride to instigate conversation.