Trying to Find Paris, SC

We needed to find the Colville Bridge because it was a covered bridge and Win had never seen one. She’d never even seen “The Bridges of Madison County." (Back in 1994 while living in Colorado I’d been inspired enough by the book and movie to road-trip it to Madison County, Iowa and photograph all the covered bridges myself while simultaneously searching for a Clint Eastwood look-a-like in a beat-up pickup truck. But I digress.)

We took Route 1893 out of Millersburg and rolled along through the Kentucky farmlands. Wildflowers were in bloom like it was springtime and black barns lined the roads. When we got to the bridge, a marker informed us that the Colville was the last remaining covered bridge in Bourbon county and that “it is of Burr truss construction, which is the multiple king post type.” (And if anyone reading knows what that means, please, I’m begging you, leave a comment.)

We just thought it was pretty.

After that we put the top down and began our journey south on Route 89. It took us through a section of Daniel Boone National Forest that was mountainous and winding, densely forested and dotted with churches and mobile homes. Around one bend, a hand-lettered sign indicated that just beyond our view we’d find the Drip Rock Holiness Church. We were both consumed by the sense that we might burst into flames if we ventured anywhere near such a place, so we continued onward. My favorite church marquis warned DUSTY BIBLES LEAD TO DIRTY LIVES.

For about ten miles the road was single lane, and Winnie drove it like a NASCAR racer, one hand on the stick, one on the wheel. We blasted Jimi Hendrix “American Woman” and Tom Petty “Free Falling” and Winnie let me sing along at the top of my lungs. Somewhere on the southeastern edge of the forest, a gloomy pall permeated the atmosphere. One shirtless guy smoking a cigarette, another with hair and beard like Jeremiah Johnson, and a couple of pear-shaped ATV-riders doing 10 miles an hour on the highway (absolutely determined not to let us pass) doesn’t justify the overwhelming feeling that we might be driving through Deliverance country, but that’s what it felt like. We didn’t so much as slow down until we were well out of those woods, and then it was to eat on the town square in Pineville, at another restaurant called La Esperanza (unrelated to the one in Paris). Our waiter was so moved by Winnie’s large Virgin de Guadalupe bracelet that he unbuttoned his shirt to show us his tattoo of her.

That night we set up camp in the Cumberland Gap in Virginia, hiked up to a cave calling each other Becky Thatcher and let a truck driver from Florida build us a roaring campfire just because he couldn’t stand for us “to not have anything to look at.” In the morning we took down the tent, drank our chocolate-flavored coffee without milk and drove across a thin finger of Tennessee, through a sliver of the Cherokee National Forest and into Asheville, North Carolina. About 35 minutes after I said, “I could sure use some health food – like a veggie burger or a sandwich piled high with raw vegetables or a big salad topped with beets” we pulled into Nick’s Grille, where Win was able to order a veggie gyro and I got spanakopita and a Greek salad for $5.99. There was even grilled tofu on the menu. Can somebody give me an Amen?

An hour later we were in South Carolina (fourth state in four hours) and began our search for Paris, SC. We found Paris Mountain State Park easily enough, but were too late to get a campsite. Sitting at an intersection, we were reduced to an uncontrollable fit of giggles as an ice cream truck playing Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer” on steroids came careening around a corner doing about 60. It was like a police chase where the bad guys were escaping in an ice cream truck. Had the freezers stopped working and the ice cream man was about to lose his load? Or as I imagined: “Jesus, it’s 4:30 and Vacation Bible School’s about to let out! I’d better hurry!”

Driving through an endless array of strip malls and four-lane expressways, we began to get the blues (cue Billie Holiday and Sarah Vaughn on the MP3). Paris no longer existed. The ruthless march of progress had swallowed her up, I fear, for where my atlas told us we’d find Paris we only found an endless stream of subdivisions, Pizza Huts and Starbucks. Not even a town limits sign.

Our first strike-out. Time marches on.