Travel Blog

Our first stop, after picking up our rental car, was at the Carrboro Farmers Market. It was smaller than I expected, and subdued because of the heat and the absence of dogs. Carrboro’s is that rare outdoor market than bans canines, one of the chief attractions of markets (at least for Hania).

We checked into our Chapel Hill hotel and, on a recommendation from the receptionist, drove to The Pig for lunch. I was tempted by the bahn mi pulled pork tacos but went with the more traditional pulled pork sandwich, accompanied by a side of fried okra. Of all the things that one fries, okra may be the best.

Back at the hotel, Hania took a nap and I went out to explore. Franklin Street featured a handful of shops selling Tar Heel garb but no store that sold the Wall Street Journal. A fire engine passed, painted the same baby blue as the clothing in the stores.

I drove to the library and asked if there was any room devoted to Thomas Wolfe. The young man at the circulation desk didn’t say “Who?” Instead, he told me of the library, closed on weekends, that has a collection of Wolfe’s papers. Then he directed me to the garden dedicated to the writer that I once was addicted to and now never read. But I remember his writing about Chapel Hill, how he had arrived to the leafy campus as an awkward mountain boy from Asheville. His overwrought prose had given the town, and the campus, an almost sacred air to me.

The garden sat behind one of the old college buildings. It had a couple of benches, donated, according to their plaques, by members of the Thomas Wolfe Society, and an abstract sculpture titled “Look Homeward Angel.” The shade from the trees provided little relief from the heat.

But I still made it over to the student store, which had more baby blue clothing – the color, I was told later, is known as “Carolina Blue” – and rows of books and basketballs, many of the latter painted white. The others, encouragingly, were brown not blue.