by Michael Alvear

"The only problem with living in Atlanta is that when you drive out of it, you're in Georgia."

Those were the last words my boss in Miami said to me before I left his employment. He thought I was crazy--going north so I could be in the South. I laughed but I didn't totally discount what he said. I suspect a lot of us transplants to Atlanta feel a tingle of doubt about the South that lingers like the scent of magnolia on a windless day.

For somebody like me--half Hispanic and half Jewish--moving to the South was like a high-dive board. Every step up to the top was greeted by frantic voices trying to talk me out of it. When I finally reached the landing, I thought, "What have I done?" And when I finally dove in, I prayed I wouldn't be killed.

My first day in Atlanta didn't go well. I was welcomed not by the fresh-baked aroma of a sweet peach cobbler, as I'd hoped, but the ear-splitting, eye-straining spectacle of a state-trooper pulling me over. I was just outside of Atlanta, my ex-boss' biggest fear.

The cop was puffy, wore mirrored sunglasses, and hadn't seen his belt buckle since high school graduation. My biggest fear.

Hoping to win him over, I told him my life was starting over. My car, crammed with everything that made me tick, was testimony to my new beginnings. I was leaving Miami and heading for Atlanta. His smile gave me hope. He understood. He nodded. He leaned into my window. "Thar's one thing I can't stand more than Miami," he hissed, "it's Atlanta."

My first hard lesson in the South: the one thing southerners hate more than a big city outside the South, is a big city in the South. I took my ticket and swore at my ex-boss.

As I pierced the perimeter I was almost side-whacked by a pick-up truck with a sticker that said, "white, straight, and still living in Atlanta." There was just no end to my new beginnings, it seemed.

But I knew beautiful sunsets aren't wrecked by mosquitoes if you've got enough bug spray. And I had plenty of that. Lucky, too, because you could spend your whole time in the south scratching and miss everything good around you.

There's just enough bad in the south to drive you away for good. And just enough good in it to swear the bad isn't that bad.

Nothing steels a southerner for a fight like a transplant telling them what's wrong with the south. But I'm greeted with total silence when I complain. See, my biggest beef with the south is that there aren't enough southerners in it. Southerners just sort of stare at me when I say that, and blink a lot. But I'm being honest. My biggest complaint about the south is that it's over-run with people like me.

People like me don't stretch out a "Good Morning" greeting like two tots testing a gumby doll. People like me think hospitality is how doctors treat you after surgery. People like me hire developers who don't believe in porches or sidewalks. People like me wait for people like you to say hello first.

Southerners never hear me complain that this isn't the way we do things back home. Hell, I didn't like the way things were done back home. THAT'S WHY I MOVED HERE. If I wanted Atlanta to be like somewhere else, I'd move there.

Atlanta's friendliness isn't just a cliché to me. People here really are interested in you. A friend told me you can tell what part of Georgia somebody's from by the first question they ask you. If you're in Atlanta, they'll ask you what business you're in. In Macon, they'll ask you what church you belong to, and in Savannah they'll ask you what you'd like to drink.

Either way, I don't mind being asked anything by any southerner. A southern accent is like the straw that stirs your favorite drink. Sometimes it gets in the way, but most times it just makes everything taste better.

I have to admit I didn't always feel that way. Until I moved to Atlanta, I equated southern accents with stupidity. Now I equate them with character. I seek out the CFO of our company--a very intelligent man-- whenever I can, just to listen to him. He talks like his consonants just mopped the floor and won't let his vowels in till they've wiped their feet.

That kind of charm, you can't get anywhere but in the South. My ex-boss was wrong. There's no problem driving out Atlanta and finding yourself in Georgia.

Michael Alvear has written for Southern Voice, the Atlanta Journal, Media Week, and many other publications. Much of his work is available on his website.