Two weeks, that’s all I had. Sent to be a delegate the votes could wait, but Atlanta wouldn’t. I became part prophet, part tourist with a splash of barbeque and Hollywood to boot. Southern hospitality ruled strong, yet tears rolled down my cheeks. I crooned in the life of luxury, but this led to a paradox.
Browsing the streets were a cast of humanity – the Georgia Peach, an officer of the law, and a soccer fanatic. They came to where dreams come true. And they all had one thing in common, they talked to me. It didn’t stop with them; an owner’s daughter speaks, Naughty girl met denial, Duckman swallowed, and Abe Lincoln said let’s make a deal. All in a days work.
Sherman started his famous March to the Sea in Atlanta. Here, in this travel memoir, Mr. Y. makes his own March to Atlanta. It’s where moral conflict broods and serendipity percolates from irrevocable moments. In the here and now Ghandi stands with Martin Luther King. The past becomes the present and the present fades to the past.