Day Sixty: Birmingham (Rest Day)

Slater climbed out of his foldout bed early that morning to go to the bathroom, but when he returned, Bonnie, the loveable black lab, had stolen his spot. He nudged her politely, but there was no budging, so eventually they ended up sharing the bed for another hour of sleep, until we gradually made our way into the kitchen. Casey had baked cinnamon rolls for breakfast, so we gave into sweet temptation by eating a few too many and drinking coffee on the sofa. The night before, we had a discussion about a famous movie called “Fried Green Tomatoes,” which was filmed at a café near Birmingham—and naturally, since it was one of Casey’s favorite movies, we had to watch it. We got way more invested than we expected, and after telling Casey how much we loved the movie, she insisted on taking us to the actual café where the story took place.

First came the driving tour of Birmingham, which included a trip to the 16th Street Baptist Church where the bombing of 1963 took place, as well as a hike up to Vulcan Park, where the statue of Vulcan, the god of fire and metal, stands high above the city to remind Birmingham of its roots in steel and iron production. The place was awesome, and so is their website - http://visitvulcan.com/ - check it out!

Onward we went to the Irondale Café, the famous restaurant where “Fried Green Tomatoes” took place. The food was served cafeteria style, meaning that we were able to pick portions of various entrees, sides, and desserts, and we ended up with far too much food. On my tray was a cucumber salad, roasted chicken, cornbread, fried green tomatoes (duh), and blueberry cobbler with homemade ice cream… yuuuuuuum. The lunch was incredible, but unfortunately for us, we were supposed to ride that day—so once Casey and Alex helped us get our bikes from the car, we hugged them goodbye, thanked them time and time again for their amazing hospitality, and sat down on a bench outside the café to take some time to digest.

It was becoming unbearably hot; the bench seat singed our skin and we began to sweat almost instantly after walking outside. Luckily for us, just minutes after sitting down, the owner of the art gallery next door walked outside and made a comment along the lines of, “It’s too hot to be riding bikes!” and invited us inside. We stepped into the shop and saw walls covered in bright paintings, windows draped with stained glass pieces, and cases full of handmade beaded jewelry. Towards the back of the store was a large wooden stage garnished with a Martin guitar, and we instantly knew that Andrea, the owner, was a performer. She is a free-spirited soul with a keen eye for artwork, and she was fascinated by the fact that we were from the Portland area, because she and her husband have been planning a trip to the Northwest that will take place in September. We talked about sightseeing opportunities and worthwhile hikes, and most importantly, food—and once we put in our two cents, we urged Andrea to perform for us. She picked up the guitar and stood on stage without a flinch, belting soulful tunes in her pleasantly smooth voice. Slater took his turn after she passed off the guitar, and next thing we knew, we had spent almost an hour in the shop, and we decided we had no choice but to get going.

We said goodbye to Andrea and rode half-heartedly down the road to a gas station to fill up our water bottles, but we were quickly interrupted by an email from Andrea that read, “Tried to stop you but you had already gone… can put you up for the night!” That was enough to convince us, after all it was already nearly 5 p.m., so we gave her a call back and hashed out a plan.

Andrea had a couple of hours of work left, so we rode toward her house, about five miles, and hid from the heat in a Starbucks. We weren’t there long before a man walked beside our table and asked, “Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to California?” Our faces displayed sheer confusion, and it wasn’t until he reached out a hand and introduced himself as Jerry Lucas that we realized he was Andrea’s husband. He worked just down the road and figured it would be easiest to tow our bikes to the house in his pickup truck, and there was no way we’d say no to that! We loaded up the truck and rode through a beautiful neighborhood, full of fancy little shops and historic houses, until we reached their beautiful home. It was built in 1927 and resembled an old brick castle—it was stunning. Inside was bright and open, decorated with eclectic artwork and stained glass windows created by Andrea, and ruled by a sweet-tempered, monstrous Husky named Noah. Andrea was in the kitchen, heating up her homemade spaghetti masterpiece and fresh French bread. We sat in the kitchen, drinking wine and sharing stories while the room filled with the aroma of Italian spices, which we then scarfed down in record time after sitting at the dinner table.

We spent hours laughing our hearts out with Jerry and Andrea that night as they told stories of wild friends and malicious parking spot thieves, then we moved the party to the living room to continue conversation for a little while longer before our sleepiness got the best of us. Of course, we ended with the inevitable ghost stories about their former home, and we couldn’t help but walk a little quicker through the dark hallway to our room that night. The heebie-jeebies faded easily, however, and we drifted to sleep in our cozy bed, surrounded by childhood photos and trinkets, just like in our own homes.