Anyway, we did our two Brahms concerts (3 of 5 stars, according to the Birmingham News critic, but he's a jerk and sits too close...and he only ragged on the sopranos and tenors, anyway), and by Sunday, I was ready for a day of rest. We had a farewell soup and sides luncheon for Sarah, who's off to rock Midland, Texas in a Ron Burgundy sort of way (She's kind of a big deal. People know her.), and I went to bed that night eagerly awaiting the next morning, when a group of us would make a pilgrimage to the Unclaimed Baggage Center in Scottsboro.
What, you may ask, is the Unclaimed Baggage Center?
It happens all the time - your luggage doesn't meet you at the carousel. Sometimes, if it's my sister's bag, it ends up on the wrong continent. Other times, it winds up lonely and discarded, and then the airlines sell it to this group in Scottsboro. They then dissect the bags, dry clean and tag as needed, and open the goods up to the waiting public.
I kept hearing "Schadenfreude" in my head all weekend, but swore I was doing my patriotic duty for Presidents Day by improving the American economy. As it turned out, however, the joke was on us.
Let me tell you a little about Scottsboro, Alabama. It'll have to be a little, because honestly, there's not much to say. Scottsboro makes Fort Payne look like a booming metropolis. It's tiny. It's tucked up near the Tennessee border, about 30 miles from I-59. Unlike Fort Payne, it doesn't even have a band or a claim to global fame - all it has is the Unclaimed Baggage Center.
We didn't know this when we set off, so Jason, Brandon, and I were looking forward to the excursion when piled into Jason's car for our day trip. After a pit stop to take pictures of Brandon's smashed car (including one of her hugging the car goodbye), we set off, stopping only for gas and for lunch in Fort Payne. Don't you love little restaurants where everyone stares at you as you walk in the door? Still, they make a good cheese sandwich.
Somewhat satiated, we headed out into what can only be described as God's country, hoping for bargains. What we found was, to put it mildly, disappointing; the place was rather like a flea market with a high price point. Granted, they had some jewelry and a few fur coats, plus a selection of iPods, a couple electric guitars, and two saddles, but the only thing any of us bought was a paperback, and that cost me a whopping $4.36.
There was one bright spot, however. They had this:
It's Hoggle, from that Bowie classic, Labyrinth. (Thanks, Roadside America, for taking a picture!) The puppet arrived in someone's suitcase and has lived there ever since. Go figure.
Frustrated, we tried the knock-off unclaimed baggage store across the street. This proved to be a mistake, as the proprietor was of the surly, probably-has-a-gun-under-the-desk variety, and the best item for sale in the shack was a giant box of Tampax. Doesn't get much better than that, I suppose.
Tiring of this exercise in futility, we got back in the car and headed home, planning to reconvene that evening for pub trivia. As I was driving back to Hoover, I couldn't believe I'd failed in my mission to acquire cheap goods. On a whim, I pulled into the TJ Maxx parking lot - I'd only been in once before - and took a look at the women's racks. Half an hour later, I emerged with a black Dana Buchman sport coat and a khaki linen Tahari jacket, for which I paid only $175. If I'd been at Saks, they would have set me back around $825, so I felt pretty good about myself. I'll be going back to TJ Maxx.
Trivia was fun but for the cigarettes, to which I am annoyingly allergic. We only missed one point all evening, but so did three other teams, one of which had fewer players and thus won. If only we'd known that a Black Velvet is Guinness and champagne, we wouldn't have had this problem.
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