Tuesday, September 19, 2006

The last time we met, there was talk about geography and exploration and, implicitly, the potential for our nightly discussions to transform into a bona fide travelogue. You know the type, I’m sure. A string of effortlessly charming anecdotes. Hi-res, glossy photos of expansive vistas. But the most stunning pictures would come from words, piercing verbal vignettes about the local culture and the people who are its engine.

This is one path we decidedly won’t travel, thank goodness, and here’s the reason. I couldn’t even make it “downtown” this weekend, and I’ve been told by colleagues and strangers alike my intended destination is expensive and overrated. Whether this is true or not, I can’t really say, because I was sidetracked by this on the way.

Southpark Mall has been hailed, or so I’ve gathered, as a kind of spectacle. I needed to find out why. What I discovered, after watching my gas needle drop in real-time, is it should be called Can’tpark Mall. Round and round I circled, up and down various parking garages, only to join the throng of pilgrims in the inexorable push to find the same damn vendors present in every mall. I expected to find storefronts capable of shopping themselves, and instead I left vowing to never return.

We’ve arrived, then, at the destination we know best. Complaining. I fully intend to make it downtown this weekend or the next, but for now this is your travelogue. This is your Canterbury Tales, and I’m your Chaucer. You want to hear about the Wife of Bath? More like the Wife of Shut Up.