Once upon a sweltering Carolina summer day, a yankee girl from the heart of black and gold country relocated to the town that banks built. And it didn’t take long for her to notice that her liberal, blue collar background didn’t exactly mesh with the khaki crowd. Charlotte, she realized, is a place so torn in identity that it lacks one altogether. It is the Bible belt and the yacht club, NASCAR and wine tastings, Neiman Marcus and sweet tea. Neighborhoods are either nice or ghetto, jobs are either country club worthy or “unreal”, and car payments should cost close to the amount of your rent.
Driving through the jungle of 400 foot cranes and old plantation houses, our yankee felt defiant. Maybe her 93 Ford didn’t belong on Providence Road, but she drove it there anyway. But just like the Queen City itself, driven to change not from the past, but from money, our yankee was drawn into the crowd. Sperry topsiders and The Wachovia Classic, trips to LKN and Dilworth, bills and more bills followed by shopping trips at Southpark and uptown lunches at Capital Grill. Somewhere between the Old South and New Money, our yankee became Meck. She was looking back, trying to find herself, and always striving to keep up with the Belks.
Lick
Guessing because this is old, I had not read it before.
Almost too disgusting to finish, this description is the epitome of Charlotte!
GASP.