Map Quest with Local Flavor

Driving home from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, is much like driving home from anywhere; it’s more about the getting home, and a lot less about the drive. In my mind, I divide the drive into thirds, which might not be entirely accurate, but it works for me to break the monotony. There is the first third, from the beach to the Florence area, the middle third, which is Florence to Columbia, and the last third, Columbia to Greenville. The middle and last parts are typical interstate roadways, complete with heavy truck traffic and the occasional slow down due to an overzealous local sheriff or a Buick going the speed limit in the passing lane. That first leg, though, is where the action is. It consists of four lane highways through small towns, the names of which don’t register until you see it painted on a cop car or incorporated in the name of the local high school. They are all numbered roads, but I have been driving it for so many years, I don't even know the numbers anymore, which isn't so great when I have to actually tell one of my friends how to get to the beach. Still, it is the leg of the drive I prefer to do, because the possibilities are endless.

Leaving the beach means going first through Conway, a sleepy town with what I hear is a beautiful downtown area. But the road bypasses downtown, so instead it is the usual assortment of fast food places and run down strip malls. I have to be careful on this stretch, because it is the bottle neck of the drive, with all the RV’s and motor boats going in the same direction before the small roads split into even smaller ones as vacationers head off for different paths, up through North Carolina or continuing west to the interstate.

Next is Aynor, which is the perfect name for a redneck town. Just say it out loud and you will see what I mean. Aynor is nothing to write home about, except perhaps to ask Mom or Dad for money to cover the speeding ticket you most likely will receive there. The road goes from 60 miles to 45 to 35 in the span of one city block, and they mean 35, by golly. My husband got a ticket there once, back when we were in college, from a Boss Hogg type of cop who actually said to him, “How old ARE you, son?”

After Aynor, towns are less clearly defined by name. But there are definite landmarks along the way. I pass Galivant’s Ferry, which from the road looks to be more of a trading post and less of a community, with its lone church, gas station, and barn colored general store. It looks like the kind of place where you could pick up some calico cloth, a sack of coffee or flour, and maybe a couple of slaves rather than a Slim Jim. Off the main road, you can see the oak lined drives to the plantation houses of years gone by. The properties must somehow back up to the river, and I get the feeling if I look over the bridge I will see more than one Tom and Huck like pair poling down the waterway. It doesn’t look like there has been much gallivanting around these parts in well over a hundred years.

Along the way, I pass Sparky’s, one of those neon signed stops which keeps growing larger and more obnoxious by the years. I have never stopped there, but I am fascinated by the items they advertise outside their establishment. Minnetonka moccasins, fireworks, pecan logs. Sounds like a hot night at the trailer park to me. And it must be, because the parking lot is always packed.

I try to determine the road kill on the next stretch of road, until we approach one of my favorite bits of local color. At a fork in the road is the BoBo Spa, an Oriental European spa, housed in a nondescript white building no bigger than a small house. There are no triple XXX’s or posters about to tantalize. The sign speaks for itself; relaxing oriental European massage is all you need to know. What I like about it is in the opposite direction, not less than a mile away is the charred remains of the WaWa Spa, which burned down a number of years ago. It, in its heyday, was a more prosperous Oriental European spa, with a main house and smaller cabin sized outbuildings. I like to think it was arson from its rival gang facility, as those oriental European masseuses are a tough bunch.

Before I get to the main turnoff towards the interstate, I pass the empty remains of a couple of textile plants, their parking lots and grounds overrun with weeds behind the chain link fences that surround them. These plants make me sad, much in the same way that passing fields of crops other than tobaccy make me sad. They are the death of that town, those plants, no longer manufacturing anything. Up the road from them is a state of the art pharmaceutical manufacturing facility, all cool glass and modern design. It is a strange juxtaposition, especially when you consider that the people who worked at the defunct textile plants are probably not even qualified to sweep the floors at the new place.

A couple more Wendy’s, a gas station or two, and I hit I-95. The first leg is done. I drive on a bit further until it is time for my husband to take over, so I can slump in the passenger seat and snooze. All the good bits are done, and the rest is just road.