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13th Aug 2017

JOE Backpacking Diary #1 – “Jesus is my Lord, Donald Trump is my President”

Carl Kinsella

The Greyhound bus lived up to its reputation before it even left the New York Port Authority terminal.

An irate passenger who’d missed an earlier bus insisted he be allowed on our (sold-out) one, and when the driver robustly denied him, the would-be traveller stood in the way of the door, warning the driver that he was ex-military, and that it would take security to move him.

In the end, the guy agreed to leave, but not until he was surrounded by four armed cops. That moment was a microcosm of the divide currently facing America, even in its major cities. Some conscientious witnesses pulled out their smartphones and filmed the cops, obviously well aware of the many high-profile instances of cops killing black civilians who had committed no crime at all. There were others who loudly applauded the policy for peaceably resolving the situation, such as it was (the man was not detained).

The journey from Manhattan to Knoxville, Tennessee takes the guts of 20 hours, making plenty of stops on the way – mostly in the state of Virginia. One of those stops is Charlottesville, which, just two days later, would be in the headlines after a white supremacist rally sparked violence, which led to the murder of a woman at the hands of a white nationalist terrorist.

At this point, I will note that the man sat opposite me on the bus journey wore came pants and a baseball cap that bore the Iron Cross, a well-known Nazi emblem. The longer I spend in the south, the clearer it seems that white supremacy has either become, or has long been, a legitimised subculture in the area. Confederate flags hang in the fronts of stores that sell knives and airsoft guns. Here, they think of it as a celebration of history, but doesn’t history imply something that’s been and gone?

Over 20 hours of driving there’s a lot of time to take in the lay of the land. Houses in Virginian are more scattered than in your typical Irish suburb. Some are beautiful, built from red bricks and hidden in coapses of trees whose branches brush off slate roofs. Others are built from wooden panelling with tin patio canopies as if they’re competing in a “whose house can burn down the fastest if lightning strikes?” contest. Mailboxes are planted seemingly in the middle of nowhere, dozens of metres from their houses – I can see why Hollywood high school jocks spend so much time bashing them with their baseball bats.

Eventually, I got into Knoxville bus station. Pretty much the split second that I get off the bus, I’m conned out of $20 – in case you were curious about my street smarts. A guy spins me a yarn about needing to get back to Montana before promptly frogmarching me to the ATM where I duly provide the funds. I quickly realise that I am not cut out for solo travel, but this is unsurprising to me, a man who has never been cut out for anything at all.

By the time I reach Gatlinburg, everything is closed, including my motel. I reluctantly shill out for a last minute motel room and traipse up some steps toning sleeping quarters, which would accommodate a family. Like a large family. There’s still one obstacle though. A big-ass cicada.

Cicada bugs are like the little guy at the club who thinks he needs to fight a big lad to prove himself. These motherfuckers fly straight into your body like they’re a goat trying to ram you. When I finally get to my room, one is throwing itself suicidally against my door, over and over. I know that if I open my door without killing it then he’ll be on my hands for the rest of my stay, so I think on my feet, pull out my aerosol sunscreen and spray him until he’s on the floor immobilised and twitching. I kick him off the ledge and hope that he’s dead. I Google “Is it a sin to kill insects?” The answer appears to be “Not if they are on your property.” I tell myself that the doorstep of a motel room fits that bill, and I feel no remorse.

When the morning came, I finally had the chance to start exploring. The town of Gatlinburg is a tourist trap circled in by the Great Smoky Mountains – and as a tourist, there are worse places one could be trapped. On either side of the town are airlifts up into the mountains and back down, as well as entrances to the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. The mountains are truly beautiful, and when high enough you can see the clouds rise off the mountains, like smoke. The park is home to wildlife, interesting rock formations and spectacular waterfalls – and you almost wonder if the Blackpool-style amusements of the town are really necessary to draw people in.

Photos from The Smoky Mountains #nofilter

A post shared by Carl Kinsella (@carl.kinsella) on

The cuisine of the town is suitably American. There are no fewer than three separate restaurants with the words “pancake” and “cabin” in their name in Seiver County (literally as I write this entry, I have driven past a fourth). I’m not complaining. There are also several BBQ joints, burger joints, a Five Guys, a McDonald’s and a “Johnny Rocket’s” which is presumably owned by Eddie’s worse stepbrother. The amusements range from arcades to ziplining, and there are craft stores everywhere. For better or worse (often worse) there are a lot of things you can buy here that you’d never find in Ireland. The same, however, is true in reverse. While there are licensed spirit-sellers in Gatlinburg, the same is not true in neighbouring Pigeon Forge, where it’s hard to get a beer and occasionally illegal to get anything stronger.

Pigeon Forge is the home of Dollywood, and a highway strip a lot like International Drive in Orlando. Big name restaurants the size of warehouses, discount stores and enormous fairy lights line the highway. The unbelievable density of branded buildings matches any street in Dublin, even though we’re in the mountains, crystallising just how preposterously large America is.

Dollywood itself is like a low-key Disney. The rollercoasters are surprisingly high-octane and the musical shows are high quality. No performance features Wagon Wheel, the greatest song of all time, but I let that slide. Within Dollywood, there are also more places to eat than could ever be necessary, a chandelier, a blacksmith, and a golden eagle who lives in the park because he can’t survive in the wild.

While in Tennessee, I was struck by how the preferred method of communication appears to be the slogan t-shirt. I’ve had almost no need for my Kindle so far, since every restaurant I eat in and every street I walk down is dubh le daoine wearing their hearts on their sleeves, chests and backs.

Most of these t-shirts feature crucifixes, bible verses and slogans like “Jesus Is My Lord, Trump Is My President.” It’s probably rude to stare, but it’s hard to keep your eyes to yourself when passers-by present their philosophy to you on Fruit of the Loom. One ambitious t-shirt was emblazoned with a star-spangled crucifix and the instruction “Stand for the flag, kneel for the cross.” Not knowing which was expected of me, I did neither, and kept moving.

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