Charleston, WEST VIRGINIA.      Yay!  A spur-of-the-moment (sort of) vacation to the hometown of my hero, Ann Magnuson. Home state of another hero (for his classically eloquent speechifying against giving the President the right to declare war without an act of Congress), Robert C. Byrd.  And Jessica Lynch, hero for her Congressional testimony.  And opposite-of-heroes but equally beloved Hasil Adkins and Jesco.  And—on and on, a heap of personality for a small, cash-poor state.  But so iconic.

We were meeting Michael Lipton, writer, musician, founder of the West Virginia Music Hall of Fame, Carpenter Ant, and all around cool person.  Ann emailed that we were in good hands (shortly after we were there, she emceed the first induction ceremony of the Hall).

Flights to Columbus, Ohio were half the price, so we winged it into there and rented a car.  Beautiful early November, autumn just peeking in that part of the country.  Cushy rest stops in Ohio, a nice rock wheel perfect for stretching.  A grafitto too filthy even for Brink.

Michael and his girlfriend-who-looks-like-a-model-but-does-something-called-peace-and-reconciliation-for-a-living, Lyda (sp?), met us at a groovy college type coffee shop where I was asked if I wanted regular or cinnamon coffee.  Should have got cinnamon.  Out the window, a protest march.  Lyda went to the door, this being her field. 

Megan Williams, a woman held captive, raped, tortured, abused for a week by a group of people, men and women.  Captors white, victim black.  Rev. Al rumored to appear, but he baled.  Modest-sized march followed by huge police and camera vehicles.  Sometimes I feel like everywhere I go, action follows. 

We left this surprisingly urban scene for a quick look-see at more rural WV.  Michael had provided a brief itinerary of sights near Charleston:  Kanawha Falls at Glen Ferris (which also had a fascinating old inn we did not tarry at) and the New River Gorge Bridge, with descending stairs offering a spectacular view and a challenging ascending workout, giving us an appetite for Dirty Ernie’s Rib Pit, which was closed, so on we went to Fayetteville, a charming arty little town which had what claimed to be West Virginia’s only Cajun restaurant.  Sadly, the rib special advertised in their window was finished.  My shrimp with cheese grits was more southeast than Cajun anyway, and delicious.

Between Glen Ferris and Fayettevile:  the Mystery Hole.  More on that later.