As soon as I left the offices of GPB I got back on I-75 and didn’t get off until Tifton, three and a half hours later. I have always wanted to visit Plains, but I didn’t have the time to linger as I would have liked, so my goal for the night was Thomasville, the City of Roses. “A lot of wealth there,” someone had told me at my Atlanta reading. “People go there for the weekend to shoot quail.” I just wanted a nice dinner.
I pulled into town a little before five. The downtown was charming, with a lively main street dotted with what looked like interesting restaurants. Prowling the side streets searching for a lodging, I passed the famous 300-year-old live oak, some of its thick branches nearly touching the ground.
The only motel, I was told, was about a mile outside town. I had passed it coming in and it didn’t look too inviting; close up it looked even less so. (The inherent vulnerability of a motel room seems even greater in the age of random violence.) From the woman in the office I learned that I was only about 30 miles from Tallahassee, so I got back in the car and drove the loveliest road of the trip, an undulating strip lined with Spanish moss.
I assumed that, on entering Tallahassee, I’d see the tall buildings (or building) of downtown and be able to orient myself. But not only did no skyscrapers appear, hardly any structures did. The city seemed to consist solely of trees and parkways – a lovely aspect for residents, an annoying one for visitors like me who don’t use GPS. I drove and drove, and grew increasingly frustrated by the absence of landmarks and people to ask for directions. It occurred to me that I probably should start using GPS.
