Adjusting to Southern Life...
I have to admit, being a born and bred northerner, I had my share of qualms about moving to the south. I really miss the pizza. Not that the south is void of pizza, but I’m talking about real New York pizza where a large is a full 16 inches and typically weighs more than a bowling ball….loaded with enough grease and cholesterol to drop a healthy marathon runner on the spot.
I also miss knowing how to get where I have to go. Unlike my husband, I usually have no problem stopping and asking people for directions, but down here I always feel like I’m stuck in a nightmare with Andy Griffith doing a bad parody of the comedy shtick Who’s On First.
“Excuse me. Can you tell me How to get to Route 1?”
“It’s right there…next corner.”
“At the sign that says Swansea Road?”
“Yes, mam.”
“So Route 1 is Swansea Road.”
Only in Pelion. If you’re comin’ from Swansea then Swansea Road is Pelion Road.”
“Uh-huh. And the road that I’m on now, where will this take me?”
“North.”
“I’m facing south. How will that take me north?”
“If you go south on North Road you’ll wind up smack dab in the center of North, South Carolina.”
A few conversations like this and I was running for the nearest tourist center to buy them out of maps.
All in all it hasn’t been bad, although everyone in the family has had to laugh at some of the strange differences in culture, and how we, being the saucy New Yorkers that we are, handle them.
Some examples of conversation snippets:
“Can you get me some pop?”
“Is that a drug?”
“Where do I go to buy liquor?”
“To a package store.”
“Then where do I go to send packages?”
“The post office.”
“Will you please stop calling me mam?”
“Yes, Mam. Sorry, Mam.”
Girl in Class: “Will you stop talking like that?”
Boy in Class: “He’s from New York, that’s how he talks.”
Boy in Class: “Well, he’s in the south now, he needs to talk like us.”
My son: “Well, I can’t just drop my IQ.”
“Where’s your accent from?”
“New York. Where’s yours from?”
[Puzzled, I don’t get it look]
“Like, are you in the mafia?”
“No, I’m from the non-Soprano’s side of New York.”
“Can I get you a buggy, mam?
“A buggy?”
“It looks like you have your hands full?”
"Yeah, with groceries, not babies."
“Are you gothic?! My mom told me never to talk to those.”
“So turn around and stop talking then.”
“Hey, say dowg again. Listen to how he says dowg! Like there’s no W.”