77. “If they ask where you are from, it’s not that they’re be being nice”

(Amtrak across America - 4: Florence to Miami: 23-28 October, 2024)

This is Florence, South Carolina: the one without a cathedral, but with the much-depleted Amtrak station:  a short awning dating from the 1920’s covering a ground-level “platform” leading into a 1980’s minimalist brick “Amshack” station house. Passengers are herded into the “Amshack” and kept there until the baggage scooter and its trailer tootle their way from the back of the train to the station doorway for bag pickup.

The hour-long dusk drive to Myrtle Beach reminded me of the guidebook description of Los Angeles in 1979: “A thousand vapid main streets all heading nowhere”, except this was Highways 301 and  501 and bypasses lined with vast digital advertising hoardings on hurricane-proof steel posts. A trio of high signs advertised an alluring “Gentlemen’s Club” on an extensive coastal bypass road adjacent to many golf courses, followed by a fourth, flashing the Reform Church Service Times (salvation of a kind, I guess). The 6 to 8 lane highway thrusts itself through denuded forests for most of the way, relieved by clutters of Big Box stores, off-the-plan drive-in fast foodaries, occasional sad cotton fields, scattered housing developments, remnant swamps and more Vast Advertising for “MINI GOLF!”. This is apparently a very big deal here for families while the blokes are off playing maxi-golf in one or more than 90 golf courses developed inland from the coastal “family resorts”.

Lori, my driver, guide and friend of 55 years is providing cultural notes to help me to surviving the Myrtle Beach experience. She had previously sent me very educational local history books which seemed to cover rampant development. This one local mega-company apparently had the power to  approve, censor or close any theatrical events in its properties which may be in  conflict with local “family values”, as well as to seemingly manipulate local voters to its advantage, such as changing local legislation to allow a new casino to directly fund a public school which then had its public funding cut. Nice.

There’s also the story of the owner of the Boston Red Sox buying and staffing his own local brothel to ensure the comfort and fitness of his professional baseball players on team-building  trips to Myrtle Beach. Nicer.

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Downtown Myrtle Beach

Some local cultural notes to assist your visit:

This is a tourist town. If greeted by “Where’re ya from?” Proceed carefully. If they think you are from the liberal North East, you’ll likely receive a lecture about “respectin’ local customs”. If you can wear this, the farewell will be: “Have a blessed day!” If you get farewelled with something like: “God Bless!” assume it is a coded insult.

Local positive folklore is that South Carolina was doing just fine as part of the Confederate South. I’m informed from another local source that the reality was that over-cultivation had ruined the soil and the most consistently successful economic activity was slave breeding. Have a blessed day.

On the road with Lori and Dave: my lovely hosts and guides took me on an extensive tour of the stunningly pristine, fine white sandy beach with its benign Atlantic ripples.  While heading into the main drag from an Arts District gallery exhibiting Lori’s work, we passed the town’s silent Ferris wheel and skirted a gothic black pile of four-level mini-golf course, with tasteful purple pools and waterfalls. Passing signs for something called “The Gay Dolphin”, were promised for “Later”, by tour guide Dave.

Firstly: local government planning at its finest (stuff moved out of downtown to clean up the once crime-and-dance-hall-ridden Mall of this “family resort”). Following the neglected single track railroad out from downtown, through peaceful looking ‘burbs’ then less peaceful looking housing, driver Dave zipped into a gravel car park for a quick photo of “Suck-Bang-Blow the American Original Biker Burnout Bar” then zoomed out and took a right into the industrial zone, visiting ‘tatts street’, and providing helpful directions to ‘streetwalkers’ street’ (the wrong end of one of the more expensive residential areas in town). We wandered the river estuary with its line of cowboy bars, patient, fluffy grey pelicans, fishing boats with occasional TRUMP flags and a walkway over the shallows with scores of commemorative bronze plaques… most of which were strangely meaningless because you “had to be there…”

Dave makes a memorably good Manhattan: an excellent entree to the short drive to a newish local mall imitating a traditional Main Street strip-shopping area for several tidy blocks.  Tupelo Honey  Southern Kitchen: “grits” are a very acquired taste - if you can develop a taste for congee, then grits are for you… But, crispy Brussel sprouts with garlic buttermilk ranch dipping sauce are just mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…

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“Later” arrived as a very quiet Thursday night in North Ocean Boulevard. The Ferris wheel was lit, silent and still. The balmy boardwalk in the evening breeze was a little more lively and the Gay Dolphin still beckoned, with its lurid neon signs on both sides of the Boulevard and a uniquely awful aqua-toned Halloween window display. The Gay Dolphin’s innards were three packed floors of souvenirs of all varieties and ages and tastes, and postcards more faded than the wall paint, or even more faded ancient price stickers on some vintage-look trunks downstairs (in what Australians might know as the Copperart section). The sullen staff were decked out in jolly rainbow tie-died T shirts as they asked “Where’re ya from?”

 With my accent I was on safe ground.

Favourite souvenir items? Beyond the tin trays and glassware section of the basement were novelty chess sets featuring uniformed soldiers from the Union and Confederate armies: you too can re-fight the Civil War (in a more civilised, strategic and blood-free fashion) and change the outcome.

Next door was the pinball and games parlour with original, vintage BASEBALL machines. The required baseball knowledge combined with pinball dexterity was foreigner-bemusing, but Dave and Lori racked up impressive scores despatching the cardboard players (many with a worrying lack of heads after wearing so many years of circling around the back of the machine) from the field.

Friday: fine brunch, then a drop off at the modest bus station (well-hidden from prying eyes and wheels by strategic roadworks and scattered palm trees). which made the Florence Amtrak station seem palatial.  It was quite benign whiling away a few minutes in the shade outside the modest terminal with fellow passengers: mostly under 30, black and of limited means. The bus looked a bit knocked around but ok from the outside. We were each assigned a pair of seats with device charger plugs after loading our own bags.

The interior was a disgrace. Every seat’s black vinyl/leatherette cushions had been worn through to the cross-hatched reinforcing materials and opening seams beneath. More recently fitted seat belts seemed ok, and ignored. Legroom was so tight that the allocated seat-pair-with-device-charger-points-per-person was an act of knee-bending charity by the driver.

Greyhound has hit hard times and runs a sad skeleton service when compared to the proud network of 30 to 40 years ago. Passengers must feel demeaned when the vehicle is so worn and shabby (but hopefully roadworthy). The remembered deep growl of the engine hasn’t changed. It got us from A to B (Wilmington Cape Fear NC bus station) on time. Fellow passengers were condemned to another 3 to 4 hours of shabbiness to Washington DC after this rest stop (restroom/vending machine/woman behind counter shrieking arrivals and departures….).

The connecting bus to Raleigh was less worn and did what was timetabled through medium-sized towns across North Carolina. Small election signs for local officials were stabbed into roadside grassy knolls; massive digital highway signs flogged Harris (“voted to extend Medicare”) and “Trump = ACHIEVEMENT. Harris = SOCIALISM”.

Goldsboro NC bus station is a minimalist brick exchange for a local skeleton transit service - all finished and parked for the weekend by 6pm.  Adjacent, over the cyclone fence is the old railroad station which hasn’t seen a train (or any maintenance) since 1968 and forlornly awaits planned restoration. It was once grand, suggesting that Goldsboro’s future may be lurking in the rear view mirror.

Unusually for the US, Raleigh NC Union Station is bright and proudly modern: a very recent repurposing of industrial buildings close to downtown. The plan is to set the terminal up as a local produce and bistro centre as well as serving train passengers with a friendly Amtrak office and spotlit traditional, heavy railroad wooden benches. Ticket staff recommended a good Asian Fusion restaurant with passable wine for dinner, while I pondered repeated SMS messages from Amtrak’ apologising that my sleeping berth had been “reassigned”.

The senior conductor apologised at the train door about my “reassignment from your booked roomette, Sir”. “Sir” was apologised to several times by the young car attendant - very much on “L Plates” with plaits as he led me past all of the roomettes and twin rooms to… the disabled compartment. With an already made up three-quarter bed, double-sized compartment with ensuite bathroom, “Sir” suggested the newby car attendant stop apologising for such a massive upgrade as “Sir” was more than content. It was late but dinner was offered in the adjacent dining car. “Sir” was more than happy with a gluey mud cake dessert with rather good Merlot (included in the sleeper fare) and a sound, sound, sleep after a hot shower, until a Jacksonville FLA daybreak eight hours later.

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Saturday: Miami station is a vast square shed a long, long way north of downtown in an area where the station staff and fellow passengers queuing for checked bags strongly advised me not walk the half mile through a down-at-heel industrial area to the Metro station. A taxi was on offer. It was metered (unlike the one from Raleigh Greyhound station in the ‘burbs to downtown Raleigh Union where the fare had been “negotiated” - there being no other taxi on offer - to about a modest 40% premium). In Miami, I willingly(?) paid (!!!) about AUD95 to reach “Sunrise Apartments”, (actually the Yotel but with a separate street entrance for residents and dodgy, passive-aggressive landladies).

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Earlier that day…. A string of unhelpful messages from “Sunrise Apartments” had been perfunctory notes that I would “be sent a key”  at 4pm. At 4.10 I was received WhatsApp instructions to download an app and enter a code to gain my apartment “key”. If Amtrak trains have access to wifi or phone service away from towns, it’s a tad patchy… and so it was from West Palm beach to Fort Lauderdale.  The scenery was flat freeways, flat farmlands and flat industrial estates so I could focus on the wavering technology.   I let the sender know I was having difficulties downloading an app I didn’t know I would need. The responses were a mix of over-the-top prayers and texted/phoned hysterics. Not comforted, I notified Booking.com of this… and the app did, eventually, load after another hour of trying - in Hollywood FLA station, about ten minutes out of Miami.

The very expensive taxi found the building’s “second” entrance after cruising around the block a few times (meter turned off for this: good!) Three other people were at the street door, hammering to get in because the app keys didn’t work.   The young concierge buzzed us all in, apologised that “systems’ not working”, gave us a lesson in using the digital keys for elevators, apartments; life in general…

It took a few attempts to gain entry by phone app to my apartment, which looked fine, with a tremendous view across the water towards Miami Beach… however with no working TVs, no wifi info, no evident microwave; a burnt out electric kettle. As Volatile Landlady Maria’s last contact with me had been over-the-top-enthusiastically-positive-God-bless-you’s (after I contacted Booking.com from the train), I risked a message to her about the the “missing bits” in the apartment, requesting assistance.

After a pause, the WhatsApp lit up with a screaming, abusive and threatening call and texts about how unreasonable I was etc, etc, and no-one else had ever complained etc, etc, and why was I such a difficult person etc, etc, and she was going to evict me within the hour etc, etc, and “Good luck finding a hotel in Miami in the next 30 minutes” etc, etc (The apartment had been booked with a large prepaid USD amount so cancellation was not an option for me;  there was no mention in the OTT emotional, prayerful, blackmail about a refund etc, etc,… although the adjacent Yotel was offering good rates…).

All “those” difficult parent meetings in three high schools have trained me well in long silences and talking down screaming persons towards some kind of middle ground (“…and a handshake on the way out” - Keith Miles, mentor). We got there, although none of the offered promises of repairs, replacements, recompense etc, etc, actually happened, although I DID receive the wifi code. By this stage Maria had stopped enthusiastically blessing me for some reason. I just wanted the ballistic Maria out of my life so ended the call, eventually blocking all contact except texts.

After a rather good Indonesian meal around the block, I typed out a suitable report for Booking.com. (When their reply commenced with: “We were becoming concerned about you. Thank you for making contact.” The tone suggested that the Prayefully-Abusive-Landlady-From-Miami-Hell was possibly well known to them already.)

I spent an educational evening on YouTube learning how to boil water on an induction cooker, and squinting  at YouTube TV offerings on the mini Ipad.

But the view remained spectacular.

Sunday:

Miami is a Spanish-first business town. If the customer responds in English, there’s a smile and a change of language. It became quite charming from bus drivers, shop workers, pizza restaurants and the Filipino owners of a nearby Japanese restaurant. In the adjacent Cuban Bar, the salsa is welcoming, the food is pure 1960’s Havana; the English is an enthusiastic added extra. On the free trolley circuits around Little Havana and South Beach, locals board with a loud “Hola! Que tal?” to friends on the bus, especially through Little Havana where old blokes get on the bus for an hour’s dozy ride around the circuit until a family member climbs on to wake them. Little Havana “the best known Cuban exile community in the world” initially looks like edge-of-town American suburbia with down-at-heel condos, gas stations, pawn shops, convenience stores and bail loan offices, but with Cuban flags paired with US flags in yards and on shopfronts. It’s only when the trolley turns into SW 8th St that the murals, more prosperous businesses, live latin music from vivid clubs and cafes and the (rightly) modest “Bay of Pigs” memorial, feel more vibrantly Cuban.

The “trolley” delivers you back to Brickell station on the edge of one of the richest and glossiest city areas (a huge contrast in a few blocks, you get used to this in US cities…). You can take the spotless and uncrowded Metro into Government Centre Station (where an area the size of two classrooms was set aside in the ground-level-entrance and securely guarded to encourage early voting on electronic voting machines in small curtained booths). Or, you can take the free downtown Metromover - like an extensive airport shuttle - which climbs and twists around the Miami River and downtown streets with free stops every 400 metres. I was beginning to warm to Miami.

Freedom Tower, the brownstone clocktower - a large former newspaper office - was converted to an immigration facility in the 1920’s. It is now a freedom symbol to Cuban immigrants, especially those arriving in small boats to seek asylum in the Mariel Boatlift Cuban exodus of 1980. It’s also where to pick up the route 20 bus to Miami Airport or South Beach.

I was waiting at the stop with a middle aged guy of generous build wearing a souvenir T shirt from San Antonio, TX: “12 Reasons Why a Gun is Better Than a Woman”. I stopped reading his gut at that point and jumped onto a bus to enjoy street/beach culture in South Beach, and more Art Deco architecture than I have ever seen in one place. Miami was created by the railroad companies in the early years of the 20th Century as a winter sun “destination” for cold northerners. Most celebrated was the Florida East Coast Railroad run by Henry Flagler who extended its tracks out to Key West in 1912. The 1930’s were the glory years, preserved in massive hotels but also in more modest shops and apartment buildings across South Beach: now a National Register Historic Area. I walked the beach, briefly. I walked the architecture, extensively.

Monday night: Miami International Airport.

Swiss Airlines has delayed boarding by 15 minutes. There being few seats, people were sprawling on the extensive carpeted area. Next to me was a Swiss family, not used to such “long delays”, catastrophising among themselves about what awful and life-threatening technical problems might be causing such an unreasonable delay.

The delay did cause amissed connection in Zurich, but a 6 hour stay and free lunch in a bookshelf-lined cafe and a guaranteed arrival into Warsaw were not hard to take. A Swiss school tour group’s teachers at the Service Counter trying to rebook the whole group with their bags were looking more fraught… They did all appear, successfully rebooked, on my Air Baltic flight to Warsaw, taking off into a breathtaking sunset over the alps.

I’m so glad I took the advice from Lori and Dave to leave the US before the Presidential election; so grateful to have experienced such a brilliant Fall cross-country  journey with their encouragement, and the verbal, written, and very practical encouragement support of my recently departed stepmother, Shirley.

As for Maria-the-Miami-Landlady-From-Hell: she responded to my complaint to Booking.com by fixing all of the issues I raised, including information in her apartment about where to find and how to drive the appliances. She sent me extensive photos of everything she had done after I had checked out… (copy to Booking.com), ready for her next guest. She thanked me for my excellent advice in an extended Whatsapp message....

In the words of the Myrtle Beach locals, to the lovely Maria: “GOD BLESS!”

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A Postscript:

I am now regularly haunted on Facebook’s “People you may know” banners by images of Maria-the-Miami-Landlady-From-Hell, posed alluringly, invitingly, white-clad, prone across a pure white bed, in a pure white room, gazing coquettishly at the selfie lens, scarlet lipsticked with eyelashes the size of Chicago apartment balconies… a lastingly and relentless souvenir of my stay Miami.

#Amtrak #TrainTravel #Silverstar #Myrtlebeach #Greyhound #Bustravel #Miami #USA