Atlanta from the 31st floor

The view from my suite at the Marriott, and my soon-to-be-defunct MacBook. Not only do I have a sentimental attachment to this particular one, they don't make the black MacBooks anymore

I was checking into the Atlanta Marriott Marquis this week when the desk clerk told me that since I had asked for a king-size bed and they were all out, she was upgrading me to a suite.

Truth be told, I didn't give a damn whether I had a king-size bed or not; I just said that because I was traveling alone. One person, one bed. Makes sense, right? Oh, holy hell, this room was fabulous. I could have had a party, except I left my friends and my lover at home.

Of course God (or Spirit, Yahweh, Goddess, the Force, the Universe, etc) gives with one hand and takes away with the other, so the last day of my trip my MacBook died, taking every photo I shot of the beautiful Victorian-garden Oakland cemetery. I'm going to try to get them back and do a whole other column on that, but not today.

My office in the suite. A wet bar is opposite the desk.

I was in Atlanta for the 2011 Conference on College Composition and Communication, so luckily my computer didn't die until the last day, because I needed it. The hotel, which is akin to LA's Bonaventure in size and scope, was crawling with decidedly unfashionable people reading books in the corners when they weren't chatting with colleagues or drinking over-priced beer in the lounge.

I love my fellow composition teachers, but really, we are a dowdy lot. If you thought corduroy jackets with patches on the sleeves were something you only saw the "The Paper Chase," think again. Mid-calf flowered skirts and sensible separates are apparently de rigueur for the professorial set. Oh, and eyeglasses, lots of eyeglasses, of course. All that reading we do weakens our eyes.

A public art project brought in statuary from Zimbabwe
that line a hallway at Hartsfield-Jackson airport.

The airlines probably did a land-office business in overweight baggage charges on our return flights. The publishers were handing out review copies of textbooks, the National Council of Teachers of English were selling books, and I took reams of notes. (I could have just said the NCTE, but that also stands for National Center for Transgender Equity, so one must be careful.)


I was lucky, I stopped acquiring books at just the right time; my case was 36 pounds on the scale in L.A., and exactly 50 (the limit) on the way back. Only 14 pounds is pretty good. To steal an expression from Alcoholics Anonymous, when it comes to books, "One is too many, and a 100 is not enough." Once you start, it is difficult to stop.

Atlanta was lovely, and the people were all so nice. (Except the taxi drivers, I only had one who was a native speaker. The rest were surly foreigners.) Beginning at the airport, Atlanta was charming all over. There is an art exhibit in the Transportation Mall, "Zimbabwe: A Tradition in Stone." It was my reward for not getting on the subway tram to baggage claim. I had to walk forever, but at least it was interesting. By the way, if an airport has gone to the trouble of building a subway, take it. That means it is a loooong way to baggage claim.

The terrace seats restaurant at Turner Field. I can guarantee I'll never sit here again.

Turner Field.

The first night I was there, one of publishing companies sponsored a buffet dinner and open bar at Turner Field, the home of the Atlanta Braves. They have an arcade-like area near the entrance with electronic batting cages and a pitching game that tells you the MPH of your fastball. Needless to say, this non-athletic teacher didn't try it; I don't like to play games I suck at. I killed at the in-flight trivia game, but baseball? Not so much.

Statue of Hank Aaron near the entrance to Turner Field.

My head started playing Tim McGraw's "I Like it, I Love It," where the song's persona is complaining that he's so wrapped in his new girlfriend, "I ain't seen the Braves play a game all year..."

I can see why people like ballparks. This one had a museum, and was very pretty, but once you're there, you gotta watch baseball. That's the downside, as far as I am concerned.

The next afternoon, I caught a cab to Oakland Cemetery and spent about four hours wandering around the huge mausoleums and crypts of Atlanta's famous and rich. That's my idea of being outdoors.

I went, of course, to see the grave of Margaret Mitchell, author of "Gone With the Wind," but ended up seeing so much more. The cemetery, which had all its plots sold by 1884, is segregated, with whites, blacks, Confederate soldiers, and Jews each in their own area.

Phil Hulst, the volunteer on duty in the visitor's center, is a retired educator with a lovely Southern accent. He told me that this year is the 75th anniversary of the publishing of "Gone With the Wind," and next month will be full of celebrations like this. That figures, I'm always a day late and a dollar short. Hulst directed me to the African American section, where a grant has helped them do a free cellphone tour.

You dial a number, then punch in the number on the sign in front of the grave. The narration tells stories, like that of Dr. Roderick D. Badger, a prominent black dentist who was the son of a white plantation owner and a black slave. His work became so popular with both races, that white dentists banded together and tried to get a law passed to prevent him from practicing.

On the way back to the hotel, my one English speaking cabbie, a young black man, expressed surprise that I could spend all afternoon in a graveyard, I explained the African American Voices project and how inspiring it was. He was intrigued and said he had lived in Atlanta his own life and didn't know anything like that existed.

I only wish I could have seen more of Atlanta: it seems like a very cool place. I especially would like to have that suite back....