Returning Home

On this final stage of our return home, we traveled east on US-64, that famous road from Manteo to Murphy.  I realized that if we continued on this road, we would (in two or three days) arrive on Main Street in Highlands.

This was pretty country to drive through on a sunny Sunday morning, bright green, close to the water, with bait and tackle stands all along the roadside; we stopped in the little town of Plymouth at lunch-time to see if serendipity would provide an interesting place to eat.  Out on the bypass, we passed up Bojangles, Burger King, and all the rest.  But on Main Street we stumbled upon the only building that had cars parked out front, the Garden Spot Cafe and Oyster Bar.  This was a true local place!  As soon as we walked in the front door, an older woman (the owner, probably) announced heartily "It's New Orleans today," and indeed the special today was Oyster Po' Boys.  Neighboring churches finished their worship services shortly after we were seated, and in no time the place was packed.  We enjoyed good, simple food, and listened with great pleasure to that ordinary chattering conversation all around us that takes place in small towns across this country. 

Our next stop was a Sunday flea market at the Raleigh Fairground, a place we had not visited for a number of years.  What a treat!  Here you could barter for anything at any price, and the place was filled with Americans of every racial, ethnic, and religious group.  If you merely cast your eyes casually on some item in a stall along the way, you would attract the zealous attention of the proprietor who would immediately tell you that his prices were negotiable.

I wandered into one stall, and a young African-American man hurried to say, "Don't worry 'bout no price, man, I'm giving it away!!"  All around me, I could hear conversations like, "How much would you take for that?"  "Oh . . . $20?  "Well, if I want the little one there too, would you take $22?"  This is Capitalism at its most basic.  Some of our politicians in Washington would benefit from a stroll down this crazy popcorn-smelly noisy aisle and learn what the real America economy is all about.

And there, suddenly, right in the middle of all this chaos, this little flock of birds came strolling down the aisle, babies in tow.  "They just walked in the gate," somebody said.  "Nobody knows where they came from."

We ended our Sunday journey at the Historic Brookstown Inn in Winston-Salem, where we had stayed earlier in the year on our journey to Atlantic Beach.  We love this place!  It is a piece of history, an old mill converted into quiet rooms (helped by two-foot-thick brick walls) right next door to Old Salem.  The highlight for us is seeing Sally, the hotel cat, who occupies all the comfortable chairs in the lobby.

The room, with its brick walls and high beamed ceiling, was perhaps the most comfortable place we had stayed on this entire trip.  There was not a sound all night, and we slept as soundly as Sally.