SUN SONG 20: Keep the Faith

Public restrooms, sweetgrass, and soul food.

June 3rd, 2022
Charleston, SC
15.52 miles

Walk map

20 days in the books!

Time is flying—it feels like I left Boston ages ago. My sense of time has been obliterated. I couldn’t tell you where I was last week, until I looked at my spreadsheet. Without it I’m lost in place and time. The dates, locations, and miles are organized so neatly. It is the glue holding this entire act together. 

This morning I left the hostel, but within blocks I was already back where I started and changing into shorts. This heat is no joke, man. Pants just weren’t it today.

Charleston proper extends beyond the boundaries of the Cooper and Ashley Rivers, but the extent of my walking took place on the peninsula, which is no more than five square miles. The peninsula could be considered the “Manhattan” of Charleston, although it bears no resemblance. It is the oldest, densest part of the city, full of historical significance and the focal point of tourist activity. 

I’m staying up on Spring Street, which is a good 45 minute walk from Oyster Point, which is the southern tip of the peninsula. As I walk, I’m encountering foliage unlike anything I’m used to, both on this trip, and throughout my life. The sidewalks are lined with palms and other tropical plants which I cannot identify. A fragrance lingers in the air from the blossoming flowers.

I walked south down King Street, which is basically one long shopping mall, full of artifice and commercial banality housed in beautiful, old buildings. Sunburnt tourists fill the sidewalks, shopping bags in both hands.

It’s hot, but down here it’s filled with air conditioning. Every 15 yards yards a rush of cold air erupts from one of the businesses doors. Sephora potentially being the coldest

I don’t enjoy walking places which draw large tourist crowds, but considering I’ve never been to Charleston before, I figured I oughta see what all the fuss is about. And as much as I champion those streets less traveled, to not walk the south peninsula would be like visiting New York City and only hanging out in Queens. You’re missing a huge part of the city, even if it is unpleasurable,  which makes those lesser known streets on the fringes all the more significant.

The neighborhood south of Broad Street is home to some of the most beautiful and opulent homes in the city. It’s much quieter down there, unless a car comes driving down one of the cobblestone streets. I kept going, eventually making it to Oyster Point, which reveals a panoramic view of the Charleston Harbor, but I wasn’t able to enjoy the view as I’d liked.

Sound the alarm. I had to pee – like right now. 

One could argue the success of this walk hinges on finding public restrooms, especially considering how much water I am drinking, and unfortunately south of Broad had none to offer. The neighborhood is void of business, yet there’s a random assortment of port-o-potties on the sidewalks brought in by contractors working on homes. Each time I thought I’d found salvation, only to learn the port-o-potties front door was sealed with a padlock. I could have just peed in an alley, but it seems no matter where I went, someone was always walking right behind me.

I ended up at a deli. I was hungry and took no time deciding what I wanted to eat. Ordered a Reuben and rushed for the bathroom door, but of course there was a line. In my own personal hell, I appeared completely composed from the outside, only to break face once the door was open. 

Later, I found refuge from the busy streets in the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. It was so quiet and refreshing. Even the most subtle moves would break the silence of those praying and echo throughout the chamber for a few seconds. I sat in a pew, large water bottle in my pack, when CRACK! The thin plastic made such a loud noise and I sank in my seat, trying not to reveal that it was I causing all the commotion. I went unnoticed, somehow.

I’m not a follower of any religion, nor do I believe in one God, but I am a believer of faith. I appreciate the conviction of those who fervently invest themselves in something so abstract and possess a certain devotion.

I think creative work and religion often share more similarities than one would think. To undertake a huge project – such as this walk – challenges one’s devotion to the “work.”  To say I've been up to that challenge throughout this entire journey would be a misconception. 

This walk has asked me to lean in further. As with all who pursue an ascetic life, it’s healthy to question oneself and your motives, but spending time in a place of worship, like the church, reminds me of my own motives.

Good, creative work isn’t necessarily about accumulating material goods and notoriety, especially in these strange times where it seems everyone is living online. The work is much larger than what I can see with my own eyes. It creates more questions than it can answer, and at the end of the day, is about having a certain faith in what you’re doing. As I always say, the sidewalk provides, but often in ways we could never imagine. That is what keeps me going.

Charleston, at least on the Peninsula, is by far the most touristy place I’ve walked throughout this trip. It was starting to burn me out, until I met Trudy, a sweetgrass basket weaver best described as an angel. She’s set up shop just a skip and a hop from the main drag of the French Quarter. 

All the other weavers hafta pack up once the market closes, me? I just got to close the door. The mayor lets me stay here.

Trudy comes from a lineage of Gullah people, African Americans who are from the Lowcountry region of South Carolina and Georgia. The Gullah are known for preserving more of their African linguistic and cultural heritage than any African American community in the States. Most of the Gullah’s early ancestors were brought through the port of Charleston as slaves, many of which worked on the coastal plantations. The coiled sweetgrass basket is an example of African cultural heritage transported across the Atlantic by enslaved people. According to Trudy, the sweetgrass basket is a gift from God.

Trudy comes from a long lineage of basketweavers and has produced baskets since she was four years old. Her great grandmother and grandmother were weavers. Once her grandmother retired, Trudy closed up her salon, and took over. She’s continued to pass on the tradition to her grandchildren, which would be the sixth generation of weavers. I learned she was granted this shop by the mayor because of her family’s connection to the Boone Hall Plantation. Her grandmother lived there.

Sweetgrass basket weaving is unique to Charleston and has a long tradition here. If you’ve ever visited, you’ve probably seen them all over. Nowadays, the baskets are considered works of art, but they once served a practical purpose, like storing food, carrying crops or fanning rice. 

Trudy is both gentle and generous with her time. Her eyes possess a certain wisdom that commands attention when she speaks. Browsing her shop, I carefully picked up each item, which prompted Trudy to tell a story, often describing in great detail how each weaving was produced. No one weaving is the same as there are no set patterns. Eventually I stopped looking around and just watched her hands slowly weave the bulrush and palm with a tool, which she crafted from a steel spoon. 

She handed me a palm, that she wove into the shape of a rose. I told her I’d carry it with me throughout the rest of the trip. I don’t have much room to carry more items, as I’ve got to keep things light, but the weavings possess a spiritual quality, one that will guide me safely in the coming days.

The peninsula is filled with less tourists the further north you go. It’s quieter and home to the College of Charleston. I stopped at the College Corner, which is akin to a New York bodega, for a bottle of water. The walls are covered with photos of customers who attended college nearby. Some were taken over the last couple of years, while others are bleached and faded from age. The man behind the register explained he is popular with the students as his store is right near the campus. His face, along with young students, is plastered all over the shop, but when I asked for his photo he declined.

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Hungry, I stopped at East Side Soul Food at the recommendation of another traveler staying at the hostel. The restaurant is located on America Street near the eastern edge of the peninsula, which feels removed from the beaten, well traversed path. I assumed I’d run into a neighborhood like this at some point if I just kept on walking, just not when the day was coming to a close as the sun began to set. Cities have a way of working that way. It’s only when you’re leaving or finishing up for the day that you discover something you’d completely overlooked. All the more reason to return. 

East Side Soul Food is a no-frills kind of joint. Pictures of Obama, Malcolm X, Oprah, and George Floyd fill the walls. Jeopardy was playing from the television and the woman behind the counter was playing along, shouting her answers along with the contestants. 

A GENTLE BREEZE!

That is correct!

I ordered a slab of BBQ ribs, cabbage, and green beans, which came in a styrofoam container and was hastily devoured. The food is greasy, and likely to shorten your life if eaten everyday, but nonetheless nourishing for a long walker. The weight of the food anchored me to my chair, but I had to get going, otherwise I’d be spending the night in the restaurant. 

I slowly wandered back to the hostel. It was a Friday night and there was plenty to see. Charleston is full of youth, albeit a hearty bunch who love to drink. I watched numerous groups of men and women, sometimes holding each other up, stumble their way down the street. Off to the next bar.

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There’s rain forecasted for the remainder of my stay, but with it brings cooler temperatures. The storms down south have a different character than the weather up north. They come and go as they please, and occasionally you’ll get hit with a tropical storm. Understandably I’m keeping tabs on the weather. A tropical storm just bombarded Florida and is set to move up the Atlantic Coast, where it’s expected to develop into tropical storm “Alex” (of all names). Fitting. 

More on Charleston tomorrow. Stay tuned.
–Alex

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