Fayetteville, Arkansas: The Scientist

Life can be random, it can daze and confuse, amuse and astound; it can hit us when we are down and thrust our weary souls onwards and forwards to the stars themselves.  The visciditudes of our brief span, the exigencies of our existence, often emerge without focus, out of nowhere, unforeseen and unbeknownst in the most unknowing of situations.  We can plan for absolution, for certainty, and find our hopes and dreams in reality ride a wave of fortune, of serendipity struck upon a star.  Every so often we look up and we are reminded that, within and without of the chaos theory of our daily struggles, great beauty can emerge, surprising and special, temporary yet tantalising, an impermanent impression that destiny and fate are as relevant to each and every one of us as the gritty sureness of a mundane Monday morning.  In Fayetteville, Arkansas, such dreams, such visions, such providence does and will exist.  You can reach them with a glance, a smile and a “Hello, I was wondering if you could help?”…

Look at the stars; look how they shine for you

Coldplay might not be to your taste, their middle of the road, mid-tempo media may not delight and dazzle.  For Dean and I, their melodies and lyrics punctuated our time in the beautiful state of Arkansas, where Chris Martin’s motifs of light and shade, hopes and dreams, shining stars and new journeys, take on a broader, ethereal meaning. 

At the state line between Missouri and Arkansas, on a narrow, winding country road far from the maddening crowd of urban thoroughfares, in the space between day and night, we witnessed for the first time the transcendental tranquillity of the Natural State.  Gazing up to the heavens we saw the galaxy explode in to focus, a black sky interrupted by millions of stars, a solar system exposed by the clear Arkansas atmosphere: a sign, a harbinger of the purity to come.  These Yellow stars were shining for us, and they seemed to will us on, like airplanes in the night sky, like ten million fireflies, to write a brand new song for the people we would soon meet: in their place, yes, but never feeling lost.  It’s true: look how they shine for you.  Here, thousands of miles from home, was a message to replace fatigue with fascination: this is the right place; drive on.

Not shaken but Stirred

The gothic sublime of the night sky in all its glory affected Dean and I in different ways, in the former awaking his soul for the creation of another epic; for the latter forming an inner warmth, a contended glow that longed to be followed by restful sleep.  Yet a roadtrip, an adventure, is not for sleep and so we headed in to Fayetteville, Arkansas, having checked in to our Super 8 roadside motel.

Fayetteville is most famous for being the home to the University of Arkansas, the Razorbacks.  The town is a perfect encapsulation of American college cool, with its wide spaces, well maintained quads and pathways, lined with deciduous trees and backpacked students, shuffling and socialising from department buildings to libraries, dorm rooms to lectures, bookshops to bars.  Dean and I felt the supportive shroud of student security envelop us like an old friend, embracing its warmth and nostalgia: a welcome return to campus life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

It is hard not be taken by Fayetteville with its liberal charm and conservative traditions, its warm welcome and inspiring visual vistas.  This is a town proud of its heritage, its youth, its sports teams and its cultural nuances, embracing its sororities and geography, resting and nestling in the hills of north-west Arkansas, at the start of the Ozark range, cavorting, meandering and rolling in the deep South.

At the heart of the main university area, a brief walk from the enormous college football stadium and the rows of picture perfect sorority and fraternity houses, is Dickson Street, a straight strip of bars and restaurants that explodes in to vitality on a Saturday night.  Dean and I noticed this immediately, despite still being tired from our exertions in St. Louis, Missouri, one night previously.  Our cab driver, an ex-US marine who was less than complimentary about Europe after his stay at a base in Germany, at least redeemed himself by offering the first in a series of fortunate events that dramatically changed our perceptions of not only the town of Fayetteville, but of our entire American adventure.  While hardly ingratiating himself to two boys from Europe, he suggested we start our evening in a bar called Stir.  Dropping us off at the top of Dickson Street, we took to heart his advice on where to sample a Fayetteville night out and glossed over the rest of his ignorant indifference to our homeland.

Armed only with the knowledge and providence of the whims of a singular taxi driver, we wearily made our way in to Stir, oblivious to what would soon unfold.  Within moments of these English feet braving the slight gap in an American door, our Fayetteville guardian angel’s second act of serendipity played itself out, as the doorman at first barred and at the last agreed to our entrance in to the bar.  The original problem stemmed from our British identification documents and the doorman’s orders not to accept them.  Whether it was a word from a senior manager, or the logic of common sense momentarily hijacking the otherwise intransigent electrodes in his brain, the doorman stepped to one side and allowed us in to this din, this cauldron of college camaraderie.

Settling in to our seats at the bar (whiskey for me, gin and tonic for Dean) and enjoying the music video projections, we were content to adjust to the scene by taking it all in, by sipping our drinks and marinating in the vibes of the room.  Out of the corner of Dean’s eye, and then subsequently in to the peripheral vision of my own, two characters came in to view, engaged in conversation and heading for a space at the bar directly to my left.  Serendipitous moment number three was about to take place.

Roxi music

The effect was not immediate.  Dean and I continued to sit facing the bar, watching our mirror-reflected selves inversed in front of us, sipping our drinks and mentally preparing to break down the fourth wall of awkwardness.  On my left, two girls nestled at the bar, talking, joking, laughing, all the while pining forward to make eye contact with the bar staff.  Sometimes it is possible to grasp feeling and meaning without being able to specifically locate what it is about a person that imbues such surety, such a mortal lock of synchronised sentiment.  Whether a twist of fate or an illustration of initiative, it was not long before a conversation had been created.

Dean and I were both in agreement that the two girls to my left seemed like friendly people, amiable to a British question about what to do and where to go in Fayetteville.  Plucking up some courage to instigate interaction, I turned to the blonde-haired girl by my side and asked her if she attended the University of Arkansas and whether Dean and I were in the right place to sample the Fayetteville scene.  The girl, with her deep set eyes and quizzical smile, looked at us with initial bewilderment and subsequent interest: were they really English and why were they in the middle of Arkansas on a random Saturday night?

In that moment we witnessed the radiance of Roxi Hazelwood, at once both fascinated by her European interviewers and determined to help.  All through America Dean and I have noticed and relied on the kindness of strangers and here it existed in its most emblazoned and emboldened to form.  Over the next five hours and ensuing two days, Roxi introduced us to her friends, her home, her local hang-outs, her overriding philosophies of courtesy and kindness, fun and charm.

Next to Roxi was Courtnie, who took to these two Londoners with a little more suspicion, perhaps appropriately so given that Fayetteville, Arkansas, is not renowned for its British connections.  Courtnie, tall, beautiful, and with a perfectly pitched level of dry humour that would not be out of place in old London town, originally thought that Dean and I were Americans attempting to sound like Prince Harry.  Only a number of forms of ocular proof would convince Courtnie that we were bonafide British, including verification via Facebook, drivers’ licenses, Wikipedia articles and Twitter accounts. 

Courtnie’s suspicions were out of concern for her friend, Roxi, who had struck up conversation with both Dean and I.  Anxious to support and protect her friend, Courtnie’s questions and one-liners were entirely appropriate, frank and honest, arising as they did out of a sense of duty to a higher cause.  Roxi and Courtnie, it transpired, were Sorority Sisters and so had a responsibility, an obligation, to look after each other, a code entrusted and passed down from generation to generation, influencing and informing its members’ values of truth and respect, loyalty and kindness.  Courtnie’s misgivings and unease stemmed not out of malice to two boys from London but out of solidarity with her kin.

The question of sororities was raised earlier in our meeting, when I asked Roxi if she was a member of any.  She replied in the affirmative and I then prepared to guess which one.  Given that my experience with sororities is limited solely to Chi Omega, I naturally went with what I know and confidently suggested to Roxi that she was a member of this most respected of houses.  To mine and their astonishment I had guessed correctly first time.  In reality, however, Dean and I should have realised immediately that these girls would be Chi-Os.  After all, our collective experience taught us that Chi Omega sorority sisters are always the most interesting, polite and impressionable of any attached to the Greek student culture.  Roxi, and indeed everyone introduced to us as a result of that first connection in Stir, epitomised such values from the moment we first met to our ultimately difficult and long goodbye.

The girls, of course, were somewhat stunned that my first guess had accurately been Chi Omega but perhaps our familiarity with this most hospitable of sorority houses helped alleviate any lasting remnants of awkwardness as we prepared, at Roxi’s recommendation, to leave Stir with our new friends for our second bar of the evening, West End.

London in the West End

West End was a grittier venue than Stir and offered a more obvious and realistic portrayal of a Fayetteville Saturday night.  Students lined the bars and shuffleboards, the open spaces around the dancefloor and stage, piling in through the steamed door and around corners and corridors to the central aspect of the room, a squared off middle zone for talking and flirting, singing and dancing, all built around a raised performing area in the corner where an acoustic guitar, singer and percussionist provided an easy-listening beat to the cheerful sounds of this din of student living.

By now, Dean and I had garnered somewhat of a reputation with our North London accents and unusual dress sense in comparison to the ordinary look of a Deep South twentysomething.  Roxi and Courtnie, who by now was more disposed to her new British acquaintances, introduced us to a number of other friends in West End, and we happily chatted and whiled away a number of hours in the bar together. 

What was remarkable for Dean and I was that, perhaps for the first time in our travels across America, neither of us felt recourse to reach for a drink, to shield ourselves away from potential embarrassment by the secure envelopment of holding a glass in one hand.  So fascinated were we by our new hosts, so at home and at peace, that time became immaterial, alcohol impractical, thoughts of home impossible.  Such feelings of contentedness are rare and hard to replicate, arising as they do out of nothing, out of chance.  Or perhaps they do not; perhaps there is a pre-ordainment to such moments of magic.  Sometimes we settle for half, for the middle ground between faith and fact.  When it becomes too difficult to evaluate, when the battle between hope and practicality threatens to confuse and corrupt conjecture and confidence that we are each on the right path, it is perhaps best to remember the line from Forrest Gump: “I don’t know if we each have a destiny, or if we’re all just floating around accidental-like on a breeze, but I, I think maybe it is both.  Maybe both is happening at the same time.”

At this time we were introduced to another mutual friend of Roxi and Courtnie.  This girl, an inquisitive, intelligent and ingratiating future lawyer by the name of Lauren Summerhill helped contribute significantly to the vitality of our many conversations with the remarkable individuals from Fayetteville.  Lauren asked critical questions, looked at issues with a clever, diligent eye, demonstrating all of the inquisitorial skill that a lawyer needs, an attention to detail and articulation that leant an academic flavour to absorbing exchanges that ranged from legal study to the state of American politics.  For this writer, it was a pleasure to discuss these topics with such a knowledgeable and sharp soul.

As the bar closed for the night, none of us wanted to part.  There was a mutual keenness to cement these new, budding, embryonic friendships, now numbering six of us with the introduction of Caroline Lang, an eminently ranked member of the Chi-Omega sorority, who kindly drove this rather haphazardly formed but affectionately fastened gang to the colonnaded majesty of the Chi-O house itself. 

Waffling

The Chi-Omega sorority house stands in the middle of the main campus area of the University of Arkansas.  Best seen in the daylight, it nevertheless radiates an imposing majesty, with its columns and steps, its hedgerows and white painted shutters.  Inside, lounges and living rooms spill out in to extended corridors, each accompanied by plush rugs and couches, widescreen televisions and grand pianos, lit by looming lampshades and modern spots and home to a number of Sorority girls who share in everything from dorm-room to dogma to dinner. 

There is a popular misconception about the nature of a Sorority, one that I have explored in earlier blogs from Baton Rouge, but worth repeating, worth extending.  The Sorority system that many Europeans believe stands for frivolous procrastination and partying is a considerable misnomer.  These are centres of tradition, of altruistic ideals and ideas passed down across many generations, each instilled with basic human values of philanthropy, kindness and respect.  Sororities, particularly Chi Omega, demand the highest of standards in its members’ academia and social interactions.  Specific grades must be achieved, precise manners must be met.  The net result of these philosophies is not a pagan paradise of immorality, but a network, an ethos, a system of honour and community, of charity and affection.  If such values did not exist, Dean and I would never have enjoyed the company of the Arkansas Chi-O girls, would never have developed such strong bonds, and would never have been able to rely so happily on the kindness of strangers that became friends.  To those that question the Greek student system in America, I put it to each that they should better research the facts and not rely on the Hollywood bastardisation of Sorority Row.

In any event, Dean and I stepped in to the Chi Omega house for just a few minutes that Saturday night, albeit meeting and chatting with more of Roxi and her group’s social scene.  We posed for photos, lounged on the sofas, and then headed off in Roxi’s car with Courtnie and Lauren to grab some late night, early morning food.

The Waffle House stands just outside of the main University area in Fayetteville.  Open twenty-four hours a day, it serves a wide ranging clientele from residents and students to passers-through, from weary travellers looking for a coffee to student revellers in need of sustenance.  Roxi, Courtnie, Lauren, Dean and I arrived to line our stomachs after a long night and further cement a budding friendship in a diner that is symptomatic of, and epitomises, the best of America: a twenty-four hour café with an almost embarrassingly long menu and terrifyingly sized portions.  To the consternation of many, the employees of the Waffle House included, I ordered the harsh browns with ‘Bert’s chilli’.  This seemed to cause a mild panic and informed on me the idea that I was perhaps the first person to voluntarily decide to have chilli made by an individual named Bert in quite some time.  As it was, the chilli, much like the atmosphere more generally within the establishment, was lovely and we were each able to quench our appetites and find out more about each other at the same time.  Tired but happy, we were dropped off back at our Super 8 motel and, after an in no way ironic group hug in the car park, retired to bed, to sleep, perchance to dream.

Calling the Hogs

The following day was resplendent in stunning sunshine, with a deep blue sky filling the horizon and lifting our already considerably high spirits.  Aware that we were not meeting our new friends until later in the afternoon, Dean and I enjoyed taking in the views of Fayetteville in the daylight, and were able to grasp more clearly just how beautiful the state of Arkansas can be in good weather.  Subtle inclines and gentle drops in the road helped to bring new contours and colours in to view, with university buildings dotting the horizon, each symbolic of American university patronage: well funded, cleverly constructed, neatly designed, spaced out across a manicured campus with inspiring buildings in which to learn and study.

On the recommendation of Lauren via Roxi, we drove slightly out of town to try some regional soul food at Moma Dean’s.  This was apparently a Fayetteville institution and particularly pleasing for Dean given his identical name with the venue.  Moma Dean’s is the perfect encapsulation of good food off the beaten track, of taking somewhat of a risk based on the recommendation of a local and rolling with it to see what happens.  On first glance, this establishment looks unkempt and derelict, with dirty floors and misty windows cornering plastic chairs and stained cutlery.  These are but initial impressions.  Look again, deeper, and you find history here: the same family preparing the same food, itself inherently tied to the region, across generations, all with an amiable welcome to regulars and new guests alike.

After our meal, Dean and I started speaking with a waiter, Caesar, who then introduced us to Moma Dean herself.  The Moma, as she is known, was a wonderful character, full of questions and hearty laughing, youthful in her obvious experience, with the sort of sentiency that belies her local tethering.  These are eyes that have seen good times and bad amidst great change in America.  They signify a broader theme in American history; that communities can continue to enjoy their traditions, their nostalgia, but do so now in a parlance of plurality, with a surer understanding of the past and a better hope for the future.

Mama Dean was chatting with some of her guests when Dean and I approached with our camera.  Amused and intrigued by our accents, the other visitors were soon also engaged in conversation with us.  This led to a rousing rendition of ‘calling the Hogs’, a chant heard across the region and particularly at Arkansas football games as both a cry of support for the team and a deliberate and passionate acknowledgment of the region’s agricultural origins.  It was fascinating to hear the cadence and metre in the calling, to imagine for just a brief moment how it must sound when 90,000 Razorbacks fans each call the hogs in unison at a college sporting event.  Armed with the good food, the friendly conversation, and the power of the hog-calling Razorbacks chant, we drove happily to the main campus area in order to chat more with our new friends at the Chi-O house and take in a tour of the grounds. 

Take a shot like a Chi-O can

Dean and I fell in to an almost state of stasis-like serenity in the Chi Omega house.  We were made to feel so welcome, so at home, by our hosts, that it was impossible not to feel the warm glow of comfort and security that comes with the knowledge of friendship, companionship and mutual affection, even so far away from home.

Our return to the Chi-O house after visiting Mama Dean’s, then, felt like the obvious move, the natural direction to drive in after our late lunch.  We toured the floors and dorms, the lounges and kitchens, meeting other sorority girls, and posing for photos outside the beautiful main entrance to the house.  Roxi, Courtnie, Lauren and now Morgan, who had since joined our group, took Dean and I around some of the other areas of the University of Arkansas campus.  Particularly interesting was the fact that the institution engraves the names of its graduates in to the sidewalk, so that you are literally walking in the path, following in the footprints, of those who have gone before, those have who shown the dedication to graduate college and move on in the world: a permanent persuasion to current students to keep striving for the next step, the next goal; a particularly inspiring notion in a university.

Standing together.  Shaping tomorrow.

Dean and I had envisaged staying just the one night in Fayetteville.  However, as Sunday afternoon began to slip in to the developing chill of evening, we were still in the town, still learning more, still discovering.  Roxi, it transpired, had to attend a campaign meeting at a fraternity house called Lambda Chi.  Running for the position of Student Treasure on a ticket that included other likeminded individuals running for other positions on the ballot, Roxi needed to attend the meeting to discuss campaigning techniques and deal with other practical issues ahead of the main election process in a few weeks.  For many this would be a cue to leave, to interfere no further in the private matters of an individual and the democratic process of her academic institution.  Not so Dean and I.  This was roadtrip documentary gold.  It made perfect sense to accompany Roxi to the meeting, to take in what was to be discussed, to witness first hand the youthful strands of American democracy, to watch and learn from student politicians who one day may shape the destinies of states and nations.

For the amateur politico or West Wing aficionado, this was heaven.  We sat and listened as the Campaign Manager discussed next steps in the election process, what posters would look like, where candidates needed to be going on the campus, how social media and networking tools would be harnessed to raise awareness, what specific events were being created for the candidates so that they could meet with voters and get the message out.  This grass-roots, activist element of politics and democracy is both inspiring and crucial, engineering in its protagonists a fundamental sense of belonging to the larger American political process, a democratic movement, regardless of who you support, that takes ideas and policies, questions and answers, plans and strategies, in to people’s homes and schools, their bars and sidewalks.  The gap between the individual and their representative is reduced by the myriad of ways that candidates are expected to communicate with their electorate, to imprint their message, their dreams, their ideals on the body politics entrusting them with their own hopes for the future, their own demands for tomorrow. 

At once both inspiring and practical, it made perfect sense for Roxi to be involved.  Her immediately welcoming and engaged nature when meeting Dean and I for the first time, we hope, will mean that the wider University of Arkansas population are as equally taken with her as we were.  Much of politics is about first impressions, about instinct, about eye contact and trust.  These are but some of the many attributes of Roxi Hazelwood, and we look forward to hearing of her ensuing election win.  Standing together, shaping tomorrow, these inspiring students and the ticket they represented in that meeting inside Lambda Chi, will forever have contributed to a personally memorable moment in this American roadtrip.  Grassroots democracy is alive and well in the great state of Arkansas.

Pulling your puzzles apart

One might have considered this an appropriate point to bid these remarkable girls adieu, to retreat to our car to continue our road trip across the state line in to Oklahoma.  Yet a warm glow of contentedness is not to be ignored, rare as it is when thousands of miles away from home.  To feel so completely at ease, to be so fully and purely welcomed, to have the opportunity to sample and learn from the culture of others, helps transcend the truth of travelling; that across unfamiliar terrain in a different part of the world it is possible to connect, to entrench ties that bind, to broaden horizons with smiles and whispers, laughter and looks.

Inevitably, then, we returned to our safety net, the comfort blanket that was and is the Chi Omega house.  In the main living room we sat and talked for so long that it became clear that Dean and I would not be reaching Oklahoma City that night and, with specific dates set to see close friends in Louisiana, it became necessary to stay one more night in Fayetteville before driving to Shreveport the following day.  This was after another new acquaintance, Rose, had kindly told us much about Oklahoma City, even providing some tips from her English Dad who now resides in the city.  Although we would never make it this land of friendly cowboys and farmers, Rose’s generosity in even trying to establish some helpful facts for Dean and I will not be forgotten and we were happy Rose joined our group for the rest of the evening. 

Certain of our stay for one more night, we were able to relax in the lounge with our new friends for several hours.  During this time, Erin and Claire joined our party, probing and asking intelligent and intriguing questions, delving in to the cultural similarities and differences between two inextricably linked nations, bound by common principles and ideals, laced histories and sensitivities, religious and linguistic parallels forged across centuries of generations, from times of conflict to an era of allegiance.  Politicians, President, Prime Ministers and Monarchs call the British-American partnership the ‘special relationship’.  It exists, it thrives, in Fayetteville.

While much binds our two nations, certain facets remain in contrast, including our cuisine.  Dean, it transpired, had never sampled a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  This most pro-American of Englishman was obviously eager to put this smite on his atlanticist record to rest and hungrily tore in to what looked like an excellent example of this quintessentially American delicacy, prepared by Roxi and Erin and presented to Dean in the Chi-O lounge.  With the impatient eyes of a number of girls on him, plus a somewhat quizzical look from your humble author, Dean delved in to his sandwich, spilling some contents, but otherwise managing to maintain a degree of British decorum, poise and delicacy despite being stared down by his inquisitors.  It was, Dean said, a very tasty sandwich.

The surreal nature of this serenity continued unabashed when another Chi-O sister arrived with an accent straight out of Gone With the Wind.  Nicole, who had previously chatted with me on loudspeaker, arrived in the living room to proudly let the assembled masses know that her endorphins had been released, that she was full of energy, vim and vigour, that she had been perfecting a new ‘firehouse’ dance move, and that she was excited to hear some English accents.  Not half as bemused as we were by her accent, that is. 

This was the most Southern of Southern drawls I have ever come across, all elongated and rounded vowels, mixed with slight glottal stops and rising inflections, completed with wide eyes and a radiant smile.  There is a notion, perhaps stereotyped, perhaps unfairly prejudiced by Hollywood depictions of the ‘Old South’, of the Southern Belle of folklore, the lace hats and gloves, the curtsies, the deference to men, to society.  The modern South, as epitomised by its sororities, is contemporary, pluralist, progressive, while still retaining the Southern charm and hospitality, the grace and humility, the style and magic of its nineteenth and early twentieth century pomp.  Nicole, as with all of the girls we met, characterised such values and traits and helped Dean and I appreciate all the more the wonder of this region.

As the evening twilight merged from a grey dusk in to the depths of night itself, Dean and I found ourselves fielding further questions, meeting new friends, providing an impromptu piano and guitar version of The Scientist and making plans for the night ahead.  The song we performed became something of an anthem for Dean and I, its lyrics at once prosaic and personal, a perfect blend of the rare certainties in life, the ocular numbers and figures, and the subjective sentiments they often surround.  The Scientist longs for the start and so, in a way, did we: to begin again the adventure so we could relive rather than end it, to concentrate on hellos that meant the world rather than goodbyes that meant ‘see you soon’ but not knowing when.

Such disheartening motifs were soon addressed, however, by another roadtrip highlight for Dean and I, as we journeyed in the car with Roxi, Claire, Rose and Erin to the University of Arkansas basketball stadium to watch a flash mob training session take place.  The aim of the session was for volunteers to practice for an impromptu, but in reality planned and choreographed dance, which would take place within a time out during the Razorbacks’ weekend basketball fixture.  This was a sensory delight for Dean and I as we took our seats in the stunning auditorium.  Seating upwards to 20,000 people, it was frightening to think that this bowl of basketball is home to a college team.  In the UK we have no such college culture, no interest in university sports.  Our school, the University of Nottingham, did not contain a stadium of any kind.  The University of Arkansas enjoys use of fully functioning, world class facilities, complete with camera galleys, executive boxes, dressing rooms, gyms, physiotherapy centres and health spas, all across a number of sporting pursuits, from the 90,000 American football stadium, to the beautiful soccer field to the athletics arena. 

Such is the investment in American higher education.  Yes, it may rely on private donations, on state support, but the comparative prices for students to attend such colleges are not much more than what British students pay for our equivalents.  In the United States there is a clear culture of providing its youth with enough opportunity to grow and thrive, to offer and supply the right resources in the correct environment to learn and develop.  As a result, the students treat their facilities with respect, honouring their parents’, government’s and entrepreneurs’ own commitment to their education, their walk of life.

Enthused and inspired by what we had just seen, by the university’s commitment to its students and by the students reverence for the facilities and opportunities they have, we left the stadium with the flash mob, itself a perfect encapsulation of American positivity and enthusiasm, still rehearsing.  With the bright lights of the arena still dazzling, still igniting like stars in our eyes, we took in some food at Mexico Viejo and then rose ever higher, in both gleeful spirit and literal altitude, to take in the fullness, the wholeness of the city sprawl from Mount Sequoyah, just outside of town.

Bring me that horizon

Mount Sequoyahh rises in the hills that surround Fayetteville, and is arrived at by a steep drive up winding country roads, themselves lined with the colonnaded mansions of Southern folklore, with gabled vistas and long, snaking drive ways, covered and draped by Spanish moss and arching oaks, through thickets and copses, shrubbery and streams, and then up higher as the street widens and arches, carving a crevice out of the hillside and spinning to face the town from which it rises, springing forth like lunar tranquillity to a wider aspect, a broader focus: the city, the sprawl, the twinkling lights of the horizon, stretching away beyond in to the night, untethered and inexorable, correlated but never attached to the murky land of the republic.

This vista of Fayetteville was at once inspiring and astounding.  Not the largest of towns, it nevertheless took on new meaning, partly imbued by our happy state, our joyful singing of songs from Glee as we took on the inclines to reach the vantage point.  From up here, from this height and this sentiment, Fayetteville stretched wider than before, from downtown to its University campus, from its residential zone to its industrial exterior.  In the cold night sky, we saw taillights and headlights, flashing blues and dotted greens: forwards, progress, movement. 

Next to the vantage area is a large, illuminated crucifix, not of Cristo Redentor magnitude but bright, visible, deliberate and towering over the metropolis nevertheless, as if to remind the citizens below that, out of the pure facts of academic study, out of the cement of serious life, the gritty reality of the grey area between youth and adulthood, there is still room for faith – any faith – and dreams, uncaused causes and intangible tangibles.  This view, these people, that moment: beauty and wonderment, happiness and perspective, new horizons and old comforts, from atop of Mount Sequoyah to the hinterland beyond.

I’m going back to the start

They say that it is easier to leave than to be left behind.  Whether this is true or not depends on our point of view, on your relative position in the context of the departure: whether you are leaving or being left.  Regardless, Dean and I braved a snowy, grey morning with a gritty but necessary certainty: the road trip must continue, the show must go on.  We packed our bags and prepared to drive.

Our final stop was to pay a last farewell to our new friends as they ate brunch in the Chi-O house.  We were meant to merely step in briefly.  We stayed for three hours.  Three times Dean and I tried to leave, having enjoyed a quick meal of corn dogs, mozzarella and tomato crescents and fried green beans with Roxi, Caroline and Erin.  Alas, as we moved through the splendour of the house one final time, Dean and I found ourselves in further conversations, new introductions at what was meant to be our denouement.

This was the long goodbye, an aching and constantly revolving set of salutations and platitudes.  It was also a hello, as Dean and I happily conversed with the likes of Laura, Cory, Ronnie, Mindyrose and Ali.  As we finally prepared to leave, to exit centre stage and retire to the Chevrolet, a song rang out, a chorus of comfort and hope for a reunion, a return, a resolution.  The Chi Omega girls sang their anthem of affection, an aching and at the same time moving lyric of remembrance, of merging a past with a future, of moving forwards, yes, but also going back to the start.  The song ends with a beat, an impact, an almost spoken final stanza: “We’ll remember you.”

The truth is that Dean and I arrived in this town expecting a couple of days of student security but little else.  We left with new friends and new dreams, of a desire to reciprocate if any of them decide to visit London, with a new appreciation of how deep the universal values of hospitality, kindness and kinship can run, how they can bring even the most frivolous of vacations a new meaning, a higher focus.  Not goodbye, then, but see you soon.  Until we meet again.

A postscript

At the heart of the success of our stay in Fayetteville, Arkansas, was Roxi Hazelwood.  It was Roxi who first engaged with me in the bar on the Saturday night.  It was Roxi who took us on to the West End, introduced us to her friends, brought us in to her meetings, toured us through her campus, and let us in to her home.  In doing so, she also articulated a substance of herself, her own hopes and fears, dreams and aspirations, of trepidation of what might be ahead for a girl with many interests, many attributes, many visions.

Throughout our stay in Fayetteville, we played and heard The Scientist.  In leaving, it became clear what the song truly meant: its deliberate bridge between fact and fiction, science and faith.  Roxi, a biochemistry major, was our Scientist.  Her studies involve the pursuit of proof, of certainty, of ocularity.  Yet she stands at a precipice, interested in law, politics, language, travelling, at the cusp of graduation and yet still nestling within the refuge, the sanctuary of academic structure. 

The reality is that nobody can predict a future.  Certainly Dean and I could not have known what would await us in Fayetteville. 

In that daily struggle between what you know and what you think, between what you expect and what will ensue, it is sometimes appropriate, sometimes apposite, to let the music play out.  The point of The Scientist is that, within its lyrics of ‘numbers and figures’ are less concrete creeds, of puzzles, of progress.  Roxi, our scientist, our friend, changed both our roadtrip and our perspective of this great nation.  It was a shame for us to part but the beauty of this smaller, interconnected world that we live in, just as in the beauty of the song itself, is that, while it may not be easy, while it may not always work out, while variables still exist and time changes and affects each of us in different ways, there will always be chances, always new roads to travel, always ways to go back to the start in search of the answers.  In search of tomorrow.

~~~

‎"Happiness, AR"

The twinkling lights of a Saturday night,

Flicker past over the brow of a hill,

While diner signs and motel lines keep out a winter chill.

A force of weary travelling,

Of a need to stop and sleep,

Countered by the smile of another friend to keep.

This, my friends, is Arkansas,

Headlining at the top of the bill.

Who would have known that such seeds were sown,

In a town called Fayetteville?

Robert 'Sammy' Samuelson 

Fayetteville, Arkansas - 12 February 2012.