Atlanta I Do Declare
There are two very distinct and likable Atlantas — Old Atlanta, which paces itself as calmly and steadily as the oft-romanticized Southern accent it’s famous for; and New Atlanta, practically vibrating with urban excitability, a city with an addiction to upscale shopping and reality TV. Both of the Atlantas, however, pride themselves on good manners, pressed clothing, and the unquenchable desire for status. There is every reason for a jet-setting Denverite to arrange a trip to the Empire State of the South.
Large oak trees loom overhead, their centuries-old roots as strengthened by history as the dynasties that thrive in the shade of their pre-antebellum splendor. Here, estates carry on acre after acre, grounds meticulously kept and grass so green, admirers squint from quiet thoroughfares as they marvel the grandeur in passing. Old money, a defining factor for Old Atlanta, is the canvas on which ensconced young debutantes and their suitors paint their social and political scene, an inexorable seal of approval bestowed them by their generous familial benefactors. The charming and genteel nature of the wealthy Southern lord or lady is often mistaken for naivete, which is a mistake, for well-honed social graces — often instilled in monied children through rigorous cotillion classes and endless cultural grooming — provide a most apt cover belying their unparalleled access to regional influence and power. This is old money and what it purchases. But in the spirit of good manners, we’ll move to sunnier pastures.
As with many US cities, the land went from Native American territory to a burgeoning city of primarily Irish and Scottish settlers. The end of the only major rail line that delivered goods to and from the South lent her the name Terminus (fans of The Walking Dead, there you go), but after a period of significant growth, Terminus became Marthasville (after the governor’s daughter), then eventually settled on Atlanta, short for Atlantica-Pacifica, as the Georgia Railroad became her economic claim to fame.
The slave trade drove Atlanta’s growth as a textile territory before delivering a polarizing moral crisis to her doorstep. In her stubbornness surrounding states’ rights and slavery, she courted her own doom. The Civil War reduced most of her magnificence to ashes … but not for long. The ensuant rebuild by stalwart dignitaries combined with the economic prosperity of the Piedmont region has made Atlanta one of the top 40 globally recognized cities for big business. Though Old Atlanta is certain of her place in the world, with her sprawling good looks, metropolitan cityscape, and deep coffers of old money, she doesn’t brag — that would be unbecoming.
But then there’s New Atlanta, a thriving hub for bravado and the arts. This is where artists like Usher and John Mayer, Cee Lo Green and the Indigo Girls, Toni Braxton and Outkast cut their teeth. This is the place where fresh talent leans over easels and graphics keyboards to create programming at Turner Broadcasting, from Cartoon Network releases to Adult Swim lineups. It is in the suburbs that surround the glittery municipality that The Hunger Games, The Walking Dead, the latest Captain America and literally dozens of other pop-culture phenoms are being filmed.
New Atlanta is, as Brooke Candy might say, “Gone With The Wind fabulous.” Her sparkling shopping districts are lined with every nuance of chic, from the haute couture of Diane Von Furstenberg to the world- renowned suits of Sid Mashburn. Bentley, Lamborghini, and Rolls Royce provide a parade of eye-candy consistently, and celebrity sightings have become so mundane that locals are more protective of than star-truck by their famous neighbors.
But the real playground for the LGBT community is Midtown Atlanta. Yes, hunty — we own Midtown. This is where RuPaul tore her punk-rocker fishnets back in the 80s, leaving the scene saturated with and inspired by her hunger for fame; where the ubiquity of clubs have multiple stories that boom with lightshow fantasia and floor-to-ceiling speakers; where exquisitely clad lads and ladies who enjoy world-class dining aggregate in LGBT-owned eateries; where singles cruise openly and couples feel safe laughing and kissing on a blanket in lush, formidable Piedmont Park. Atlanta Pride is enormous, drawing half a million incredibly diverse visitors to the district to engage in boots-on- the-ground activism and scintillating varieties of modern-day debauchery.
And sure: In rural pockets around the state, you might find catch a whiff of the abysmal after-effects of slavery, from confederate flags flapping atop giant trucks masquerading as symbols of “history, not hate” to storefront signs brandishing outright white supremacy. Those instances, however extreme, aren’t nearly as common as the sugary-sweet black Grannies who insist you put your bottom in that rocker and eat some food that’ll “stick to them ribs” — like pecan pie, skillet-fried chicken, and jalapeno cornbread — and she doesn’t care what color that bottom is. Those experiences will always outweigh the bad in the South.
The flight from Denver to Atlanta is slightly more than three hours — enough time to watch a movie and take a disco nap before you step off the plane and into the bustling metropolis of a deep-fried big city.
Y’all take care.
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