Lynchburg

Lynchburg is a small city, economically depressed like Anderson, but very charming in its own way. We drive on old streets that are twisty and hilly and lined with historic buildings and lots of 1950’s storefronts – some abandoned, some turned into trendy furniture and rare book shops or restaurants with Peruvian and other ethnic food. It seems green has been preserved wherever possible. Wherever concrete has not invaded, trees and patches of grass grow. A red brick or white wooden church with a sky-scraping steeple can be found on almost any corner. From my hotel window, I can see the Texas Inn, greasy spoon and home of the cheesy western, a hamburger topped with American cheese and a fried egg. My cousins take me to a tiny coffee shop called The Drowsy Poet, where all of the food and drinks are named after Austen and Hemingway and other classic novelists. The owner is a Jamaican man named Smiley. He tells us we have to try his famous Milton Milkshake, but refuses to tell us what’s in it. We each buy one and it’s fantastic. The mystery of it makes it taste exceptionally good.