Charleston

June 5, 2012

Light rain and a dim but inevitable dawn.

Charleston lay under perfect summer light, warm but not too warm, brilliant blue, our last night there the full moon glittering on the fountain of the Square. When I first went to Charleston, in my famous graduate school Southern summer adventure, I came flying from events in New Orleans, and when I reached Charleston I thought that would be the haven, that I would find a lover and live out my life in one of those inward mansions with the long verandahs and mysterious gardens. I found Nick and Tradd Street, but what was meant to last for years lasted for days. Each time I return, that first determination reemerges in my mind, and I look for invitations from the universe to stay.

The Embassy Suites, I finally figured out, was installed in the old buildings of the Citadel, the courtyard covered over into an atrium, the famous staircases painted pink and climbing into the rows of rooms. The people at the hotel were lovely, and there were cockatiels in the lobby and free cocktails in the evening, but the experience was damaged by the fact that our room had no windows. This disturbed me more than I would have guessed. All my personal rhythms were thrown. We drove down with Bill, and that first evening we strolled around renewing old acquaintance with certain bars and certain street corners. By the end of the evening I was so drunk I could not possibly drive Bill to his digs in North Charleston, as I had promised to do, so gave him money for the cab. One of the handsome bellboys grew up in Baltimore, and we each knew the other's stomping grounds.

At a table on the hotel patio we met Peter and Linda, an older couple who offered to share their table in the crowded evening. They were pleasant company, but in the course of discussion I learned that Peter had been close friends with Omar Pound at Hamilton, and that Linda had gone to high school in Port Arthur with Janis Joplin. Omar has been one of my curiosities, as so much is said about his father and sister, and so little about him. Peter’s description of Pound’s personality made him sound a little like me. Peter had also been a pilot, bombing Laos and Cambodia from Guam. During the Cuban missile crisis, he was one of the pilots who rotated endlessly over selected enemy targets, ready to veer into Armageddon at a signal. He is a dapper little man, still handsome, who has lived a remarkable life. He is also a composer, though whether thwarted or modest I couldn’t tell. He came to our concert.

Sunday morning I had time for the largest breakfast of the last twelve months, and a stroll down King to the Market, and then through the art show on the Square, where I bought jewelry made cleverly out of broken porcelain– which is found in quantity whenever a hole is dug in Charleston– and a beautiful painting called Violet Dawn. The painter was skillful and very talkative. I hope I kept her information, for I would like to collect her. She is one of those painters who layers and washes and proceeds meticulously, whom I admire and envy a little, but do not actually wish to emulate.

Only recently did it materialize–or at least did we fully understand-- that our gig at Spoleto was actually at a retirement village, Franke’s, north of the city. This was a disappointment, and I might not have made the trip– which, all in all, cost more than my weekend in New York– had I been fully aware. But when it came to pass the crowd was appreciative and I was glad to have provided them pleasure, as it seemed we did. The program presented us as adjuncts to “the Singing Doctors” who, apparently, perform there yearly. Pleasant conversation, partially in halting Italian, with our Charleston accompanist, David, whose skill is remarkable, and whom I like. Sunday night we ate magnificently at Coast, and I had to sleep on the couch because of reflux. Years pass between my visits to Charleston; each time I ask myself why I do not go more often. The drive is grueling, but one would get used to it. As we headed home, the roadside was alive with egrets.