Odd Days: In search of Pat Conroy

Sure, we wanted to gorge on seafood. And sure, we wanted to prowl the cemeteries. But in my heart of hearts, I went to Savannah with the hope of running into Pat Conroy. Of course, he would invite me to have coffee and then we would chat. I might ask him how he was coping with his depression, whether his daughter was speaking to him, whether he was still happy he forgave his father for beating the shit out of him. You know, that sort of thing.

Well we didn't run into him in Savannah, so we drove on over to Beaufort, S.C. which is only about 30 minutes away. Conroy lives on Fripp Island, but he comes to Beaufort for coffee.

In case you are ever in the mood to stalk Pat Conroy, you will need to act like a local. If you are "made" -- as the lowlife tourist you are -- you will see local lips pressed together tighter than a clam shell dipped in super glue.

To pass as a local, you must first learn how to pronounce the name of the town. Had you ever been to Beaufort, N.C. where people know how to talk, you would think to pronounce the S.C. doppelganger "Bo-fort." But you would be wrong. Beaufort, S.C. is pronounced "Bew-ferd." (Hailing from a state that calls the Poudre River the "Pooter River," I cast aspersions with some trepidation.)

For all of that, we failed to track down the elusive Mr. Conroy and reluctantly turned our tourist-mobile toward Jonesborough, TN (pronounced Johnsburg).

Just kidding. About the pronunciation, I mean.