America, the Series- Part 3 "I've now been awake 48 straight hours."

Friday around 8 am, we pulled into Memphis. It was a little anticlimactic, since we got lost within a couple blocks of my buddy's frat house. But once we made it, we said our hellos and our "I can't believe you pulled this off"s. Then we did the usual chit chat, trying to catch up the last year of life in fifteen minutes. But once the newness wore off, which didn't take long, unfortunately, for my friends who are used to sleeping on a regular schedule, beds were found. But at this point, I've already been awake for 36 hours, I'm excited to be in America, to see one of my best friends the day before his wedding, and to be able to speak English freely with anyone I meet. I wasn't sleepy.



So instead I volunteered to help Paul move into his new apartment. He already had everything loaded in the big Uhaul, so it was just a matter of driving over to the new place and moving the stuff in. The Turk decided to come too, for no apparent reason. After a short, maybe 20 minutes, panic, when Paul thought he had lost the keys to the truck and I had to find them for him, we were off. His new apartment was on the third floor and the Memphis heat and humidity had already descended upon us. It felt like we were moving furniture around in a hamam. Paul had to go do the paperwork on the apartment, leaving me as the only truly able bodied man in the group. It only took a couple hours, but in the heat, and with me being the only one really doing any heavy lifting, it went by slowly.



After moving, we hit the showers, and then we hit lunch! It was my pick, since I'm the foreigner now. Mexican or Chick-fil-a were my requests, and there was a Mexican restaurant nearby! It didn't take long to put away four baskets of chips, two bowls of cheese dips, four bottles of salsa, and four Dr. Peppers. That was before we ordered. The over/under was set at a dozen Dr. Peppers, for those placing bets on my drinking habits. I didn't quite make that mark due to the peculiar habit I've picked up from Turks of not drinking while you eat.



Once I was full on burritos and refried beans, we headed to the tux shop to pick up the duds. I'll just go ahead and admit, I was pimped out. I look good in a tux! If you won't take my word on it, the two ladies that worked at the tux shop will be sure to back me up. I was working it.



Friday afternoon I finally got to meet the bride as well. She was, as I expected, way out of Paul's league. She was nice, clean, well mannered, and good looking. All things my buddy Paul is not. How he pulled it off is beyond me. I was also introduced to the bride's maids. Usually I handle these things with style and class (they don't call me C-Love for nothing), but seeing as how I was on about hour 38 of not sleeping, I just tried to keep my mouth shut. Apparently I had been talked up due to the fact that I was coming from Turkey and because of my chosen profession. But having not shaved, nor slept, in a few days, lowered expectations immediately.



The rehearsal went pretty much as planned. I tried to deal with the fact that even though I came all the way from Turkey to be at the wedding, I was still relegated to being a second tier friend, not making the exclusive "on stage" club, but instead, pretending to be content with my "second stair from the bottom" placement. Thanks Paul, it meant a lot, you jerk. The rehearsal dinner was at an awesome restaurant. Steak with some sort of crawfish gravy on top. Made the whole trip worth it. We ragged Paul some, and tried to avoid any incriminating stories. It's hard to do with Paul, and I may have crossed the line talking about how he ran from the Pendleton Police and then broke in to my house through the window in order to hide from them. But you only get married once!..... hopefully.



We did go down to Beale St. afterwards, but nothing really happened. I had been awake for a little over 48 hours at this point. I think I reached the 50 hour mark before bed. But, Paul and I had a serious conversation while everybody else just goofed off. My mind had already focused on the task at hand: Making sure Paul actually went through with this thing.

America, the Series- Part 2 "I'm going to Graceland."

Well, that's a lie, we didn't actually go to Graceland, but we did go to Memphis, TN! The whole point of this trip home was to ensure that my good buddy Paul did, in all actuality, marry the girl he told me he was going to marry. I had my doubts about the whole deal, but by the time I found Gouge in the Atlanta airport, it was too late to turn back. So to Memphis we went.

I thought the three of us, myself, Gouge, and the Turk, would be riding in a four door Ford Focus. Seeing as how we had to pick up a fourth guy, Hunter, in Chattanooga, it seemed like a decent option. However, the Turk thought it would be much better, since it's only $10 more, to rent a convertible. At time, I was just excited about being home. I was glad to see Gouge. I was glad to see black people. I was just glad to be there. But it became quickly evident that the convertible might not have been the best idea.

Clue #1- My luggage alone took up all free space in the trunk when the top was down, meaning that there'd be no way to get three more guy's stuff in there and still ride with the convertible open.



Clue #2- When I noticed that Gouge's knees were pretty much in the back of the Turk's seat. This worried me because I have Gouge by a few inches and because the Turk was the shortest one of us all, therefore his seat was the farthest forward. I knew that once someone else got in the front, and I was in the back, it'd be uncomfortable.



Clue #3- I was in the front seat, with no one behind me, and it still didn't provide adequate leg room. I began to miss my big red limousines immediately.



But the ride wasn't that bad. The Turk and I discussed Turkish politics, which is complicated enough to make most foreign diplomats suck their thumbs, Turkish culture, and all it's wonderful intricacies, and finally, Turkish cuisine. I had brought home a few bottles of Cukurova's finest salgam for everyone to try. It was a big hit. Kind of a like a left hook to the jaw.



Just west of Nashville we decided to stop for some grub. I was on about hour 20 of being awake and had eaten nothing but airline food in that time span. Needless to say, I was in need of some Waffle House!



That's pretty much what it looked like. Oh, the heart warming glow of that yellow sign! Oh, the smell of greasy foods upon greasy foods being cooked, served, and eaten! Oh, the slurred ebonics of our distinguished chef and hostess! I was finally, and truly, home.

Only one problem, they were cleaning the grill. No biggie, we'll all get a waffle, drown that baby in syrup, and drink Coke with free refills like it's going out of style. About half way through our dinner, the nightly entertainment began.

It seems that one big, fine woman was upset with her romantic interest and decided they needed to talk about it outside. Unfortunately, sometimes talking just doesn't solve all your problems. The lady threw down on this guy. She was wailing on him, throwing punches, slapping, and clawing. She threw her keys at the dude, her cell phone, her weave (well, maybe not), but you get the idea. When the poor guy finally made it into his car, she started to pound it. She gave it numerous, perfectly formed, mule kicks. And she left her mark. There must have been at least two or three big dents in the side of this guy's car. He had to leave with a couple hundred dollars worth of body damage to his car, a few days worth of scratches and bruises to his own body, and the knowledge that his boo was eating waffles with some other dude while he had to drive to IHOP with his tail tucked between his legs.




The waffle itself was worth the money. It was great to get free refills for the first time in a long while. And the after dinner show was more than I could've ever asked for. We paid our bill and hit the road before the real fireworks started. At the rate we were going, we would be pulling into Memphis just after sunrise.

Part 1 of the "America Series"

I'm going to try and unravel the twisted chords that make up my trip to America. The fine details of international travel are hard to recollect in the moment, but careful reflection afterwards allows a person the opportunity to replay the scenes again and again in their mind in order to catch every small detail. It also gives me a chance to embellish it a little. So until something cool happens here that's worth talking about, I'll share some of my stories from my trip home. Enjoy.

So first, when I get to New York, I was greeted by two very rude people. In fact, the very first person I talked to on American soil was rude to me. It was the guy behind the customs desk. I am in the American citizens line. I slide the guy my American passport. I speak to the guy in American English. He asks me, again in his New Yorker English, "Where you from?" I respond, in my more refined, but very much Southern English, "I'm coming from Turkey." "Oh yeah," he replies, "you speak English?" "Yes sir, I do," you jerk. Does it sound like I speak English? I mean, I'm in the American citizen line, he's holding my American issued passport, and I'm speaking English with him in a perfect Southern accent. Give me a break. Then he reads my shirt. "Dave Matthews, who's that?" he asks. "It's a favorite singer of mine." "Oh yeah, do you sing?" "Not real good." "That's too bad," in his perfectly obnoxious New York accent. At that point, I was ready to turn around, get back on the plane, and go back to Turkey. Looking back, I should've expected it, being in New York and all, but it just ticked me off. Nobody in Turkey would've been that rude. Why are the people in my own country, that speak my own language, and understand my own culture the ones that are rude to me?

After I had made my way over to the other airport, I had to go through security again. Remember, I've already been through security twice. Once in Adana, which is pretty minimal, but then again in Istanbul, which was a pretty tight security check, since it was a flight into NY. They wouldn't let this one guy bring two beers on board the plane, so I watched him chug what looked like two 40s of some Russian beer right there in line. He was much happier a few minutes later. But anyways, I check my bags and head to the security check point. They run my two carry on bags through and say that they are going to inspect my black one. No big deal, probably just a random check or something. Well the guy takes out my tube of toothpaste and says he's going to confiscate it. "Why?" I ask. "Because you're not allowed to have liquids in amounts larger than 3.5 ounces in your carry on. Don't you fly?" "Sir, I don't even live in this country." "Well you can read our website, tsa.gov, it's all there." So the jerk took my toothpaste. Now, I'm sure that reading this it doesn't sound nearly as rude as it really was. Both of these guys had that harsh New York accent and were punks as they did their jobs. Plus, I was sleepy, since I hadn't slept hardly a wink on the flight and at that point, had been awake for about 20 hours or something like that.

I found out later that there was some terrorist plot to blow up JFK that same day. I guess I shouldn't complain too much, it could've been a lot worse.

So I get on the plane to go to Atlanta. We board right on time and start to taxi out to the runway. And we sat there. And we sat there. We were probably sitting there for a good half an hour before they ever said anything. Finally the captain came on to announce that there was a backlog of planes trying to take off and that we'd be coming up in about, oh, 2 hours! That's right, two hours. Luckily, we got off a little ahead of schedule, but we still ended up sitting on that runway for a full two hours. We sat for two hours when it was only a little over two hours to Atlanta. AND, since it was such a short flight and since airline companies aren't known for their service (maybe that's why they're all going bankrupt), we didn't get snacks on this flight. Nope, no peanuts and Coke during the two hour delay or during the two hour flight following it. It was pretty ridiculous.

So I'm two hours late getting in and I couldn't find Gouge anywhere in the airport. I walked around in circles carrying all my luggage. Finally I stopped, took out my laptop, got his number from my contact list, and started hunting down a pay phone. Luckily, before I found one, I found Gouge. He was standing near the exit with a sign that said, "Mr. C-Love." It was great to finally be there, to see Gouge again, and to be greeted with some hospitality!