There's a saying: God watches out for children and idiots. At 23, I'm not entirely certain which category I fall into, but in any case, my trip to Fort Payne couldn't have been any better if I'd planned it.
I got into town ahead of schedule, even driving at the speed limit. (I was keeping it on 70 - some Ricky Bobby wannabe had whizzed past me, followed five seconds later by a cop. Schadenfreude, indeed.) Once there, my first task was to find the newspaper office, which I proceeded to do. Eventually. As it turns out, having no sign is a big problem for ignorant out-of-towners, and I ended up asking directions at the Shell station, then driving down a single-track gravel road for half a mile before realizing I was going the wrong way.
I did find the paper in the end, and the publisher gave me a very nice interview. Afterwards, I decided to go downtown and check things out. I made a note of where the tourist information center was, then headed towards Fort Payne, cobbled-together Google map in hand, and tried to find the Alabama Museum.
Well, I drove right past that without even seeing it (which my map confirmed once I squinted at the microscopic streets), so I parked near the Depot Museum and began taking pictures. Since I was already at the museum, I figured I should check it out, and that's when the providential aspect of this trip began.
The museum's a tiny structure, a three-room deal packed with artifacts, costumes, and the neatest player piano I've ever seen. Once I explained why I had come - the all-black getup made me stick out just slightly - the lady heading it up was more than happy to show me around and explain the exhibits. She then insisted on introducing me to a woman I'd seen on my way in, who turned out to be the mayor's wife.
This is what I love about small towns. Emma, who could not have been nicer, insisted on taking me to City Hall and letting me meet her husband. She then drove me to the Alabama Museum, where who should we see in the gift shop but Randy Owen, the band's lead singer, signing autographs. I toured the museum, after which Randy told Emma he'd be eating at a little restaurant downtown in a few minutes, so she took me there for lunch.
Randy had recommended the spinach salad, but I had a sandwich instead. When he and his wife arrived, he looked at my plate and remarked that I hadn't tried the salad (which is the "Randy Special" on the menu.) I replied that my companion had, and Randy said it was difficult to get a good spinach salad. He then had me introduce myself to the cook, and while the bill was being paid, I sheepishly slipped over to the Owens' table and got an autograph. "Don't worry," his wife told me, "this happens all the time."
I had asked to be pointed in the right direction for DeSoto, but my guide would hear nothing of it and took me on the driving tour herself. "You'd never find it," she explained. "When I saw you, I thought, 'That girl's in over her head.'" True, and I was grateful for the tour - the roads are long, winding, and lonely, and the odds of my finding either of the waterfalls would have been slim.
I finally parted company with Emma around two (she was going to put up her tree), then drove back to town to take a few last photographs. While I was outside the restaurant, a group of folks on the sidewalk watched me, and as I walked past, one commented, "The lady in black." I turned and smiled. "Where you going?" he asked.
"Home."
"Where's that?"
"Birmingham."
"You don't sound like it."
Rather than launch into the details, I explained, "I studied in Scotland last year, and it messed me up."
"Oh, so did I!" the girl with him smiled.
She had been in Stirling. Small world after all. Very, very, small world.
