anywhereisbetter

We’d driven more than an hour off the main interstate, into the Smoky Mountains to the town of Cherokee, North Carolina, only to discover that Santaland was closed. “Mo-ther-fuck-er,” Matt astutely proclaimed as we pulled into the deserted parking lot. My thoughts exactly.

There wasn’t much to see, but we got out of the car and looked around anyway. Gigantic candy canes and reindeer carousels taunted us from the other side of the amusement park’s dilapidated fences, while what was surely a sleigh-styled roller coaster wound around the trees overhead. Paintings of happy dancing elves adorned the buildings, which themselves looked straight out of the Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer television special. I could almost hear the park’s ubiquitous soundtrack blaring from the speakers high overhead. On second thought, I was kind of glad it was closed.

“At least get a picture of me next to the sign.” It was hardly the kind of campy eccentricity we were sure to have found within the gates of Santaland, but it would have to do. Matt ran back to the car for the camera, but in accordance with our overall luck at what was fast becoming our personal, Christmas-themed hell, the camera’s battery had gone dead. Son. of. a. bitch.

But everybody knows that you don’t drive an hour and a half off the highway on winding two lane roads in the middle of nowhere to not get your picture taken at Santaland. No, we would not accept defeat. Matt plugged the battery into the charger, and we waited, walking in slow circles around the parking lot. As the blue light of dusk slowly began to fall, the park’s surreal atmosphere and intense emptiness transformed the place from kitschy to just plain creepy. Santa’s welcoming smile became more menacing with each passing moment, and Matt and I both grew impatient. We cursed the camera. We cursed Santa. We laughed uncomfortably as the occasional car drove by, certain that its occupants were staring coldly at the two idiots standing awkwardly in the big empty parking lot. Finally, we took our pictures. I don’t think they were worth the wait.

And so we kept driving, further into Cherokee, in search of something–anything–worth seeing. Descending into the valley, deeper into the mountains and further away from the comfort of the familiar interstate, we were swallowed by the thick bucolic landscape, and the roads became tunnels all wrapped up in trees. Emerging from the greenery, a bright purple sign announced “The World’s Largest Game of Bingo” at some place called Tribal Bingo. I’m not sure how one determines the largest game of bingo, but neither of us were curious enough to find out. We kept driving.

As a night fog settled below the mountaintops, we passed fruit stands and run-down shacks leaning against huge lots of rusting old cars. With every bend, over every hill, the ironic humor of Santaland and Tribal Bingo faded into the distance, until one more turn, when we finally found what we were looking for. Signs, a dozen or more, glowed in the dusk sky of the empty old town, each marking another motel straight out of a decade long past–buzzing neon signs flickering “VACANCY” just as they had forty years ago, resting against a deep green backdrop of rolling hills.

Below the signs were charmingly anachronistic U-shaped buildings of the same era, cars scattered about their parking lots. I imagined a disinterested kid, or maybe an old man, the same one who’s run the place for the past four decades, sitting back in a rolling chair behind the counter, checking his list of rooms as keys dangle from old hooks on the wall. I thought of that first look around the room, its musty air escaping as the door creeps open. I pictured lone travelers, carelessly dropping their bags on the floor before collapsing onto the bed, sighing deeply as they settled in for the night.

We snapped a few pictures, and turned back toward the main highway, hoping to make it there before daylight had completely vanished.