Asparagus goes to the deep South

I took a trip with two friends and a baby to Hot Springs, Arkansas this weekend. I've been whining about the "south" since I moved. But Missouri is very midwestern compared to Arkansas. The first thing I noticed was the disparity in wealth. Many people lived in rusted out trailers, while next door were million-dollar homes on the lakes (all the lakes in this area are artificially made with dams). This is not the way things are in the upper midwest, but it is in PR. Luckily, our condo was spic and span, and spacious, with a modern exterior and a fireplace.

What first disrupted my noetic structure was the sight of Confederate flags fluttering in the air. They appeared not just on the back of pickups, but also flying above respectable banks and in town squares. My jaw dropped, and I began blithering. My less neurotic and better-traveled companions explained the situation to me. Many southerners' ancestors had died in the Civil War; they saw the flag as a historical symbol (and no, they probably had not read the constitutions of the states of the Confederacy); they had guns. I would probably have continued to ride my Yankee high horse if not for the last point.

My friends did not hold my incredulity against me, but rather found the situation funny. Funny enough to surreptitiously purchase a shot glass embossed with the confederate flag for me in a gift shop. A black man checked them out. "What exactly does that symbol mean?" asked my friend. "I don't know. Ask him (motioning to his white co-worker). He's white." The white man did not know either.

My second big culture shock involved alcohol. There was plenty of it flowing in Hot Springs. Sunday afternoon, I had a glass of wine at a restaurant. My friend found the waiter hot, but is in a relationship. She tried to convince me to ask the hot waiter on a date so she could live vicariously through me. I declined. He was short. I thought it odd, though, that he rang me up for an appetizer instead of a drink.

I found out why when I went to Kroger. I was excited to go to Kroger, since they are sadly absent in Missouri. I found the Arkansas a poor reflection of its Ohio counterpart, though. I grabbed a six pack and headed for the register. As I scanned my beverage, suddenly two store employees swept down and grabbed the alcopop from my grocery bag. "We don't sell ALCOHOL in the state of ARKANSAS on SUNDAY," I was loudly informed. Feeling like a criminal, I slunk out of the store. Of course, I was furious. Not only is the law ridiculous (precisely what theology dictates that it's OK to drink previously bought alcohol and shop for other items on Sundays, but not OK to shop for alcohol on Sunday?), but there was not even a ribbon around the booze section in a tourist town to warn me of my wickedness.

So those were my unfortunate experiences (apart from tripping on a table cloth in an art gallery and nearly shattering a glass sculpture). I did enjoy the historic spa treatment, and the botanical gardens, which were already in bloom. Baby and I hung out while my friends took pictures. I don't like all babies. Or even most babies. But this baby was portable, happy, chubby, cute, and smelled good. He rarely cried except when he would roar like a dinosaur at his toys. In the absence of free weights, it was excellent exercise to toss him in the air.