We Are Not Alone

As you may have noticed, it’s been a little quiet here in the YAB Offices this past week. The lights have remained low, and the air-conditioned had been reduced to a break-even temperature of 78 degrees. That way, you’re not turning off the icy reprieve and at the same time not paying exorbitant utility bills for chilled air you’re not planning to use.

You see, as I am prone to do on an annual basis, it’s vacation time for Chris Condon. Last year, you, as a loyal readership, saw it coming. After all, weddings are oft followed by periods of rest and relaxation in the form of “honeymoons.” Granted, no one actually knows this glorious word’s etymology – and lacking access to Wikipedia here in the Charleston, South Carolina’s airport, you’re going to have to look it up yourself. (That is, unless etymology has something to do with insects, which would conclude I have no business publishing this blog using the English language. Let’s pray for the best.)

Yes, you read me right. We are writing to you from Charleston, South Carolina. A city that had front row seats to the opening act of the Civil War. A city that has enough palmetto trees that it totally makes up for the fact that they are nowhere to be found in the entire remainder of the United States. A city with 3.2 restaurants per Charlestonian – and yet, table service remains rather speedy. A city so nice they named it twice – and put that second name somewhere in West Virginia.

(Which begs the following – if Charleston, a relatively uninteresting name for a city can be repeated, why don’t we retread our cooler names? All in favor of renaming Frankfurt as Albuquerque, Kentucky, say AYE!)

(No? What about one of the 2 Newarks?)

Anyways, as we sit here waiting an outgoing flight, I can certainly recommend Charleston as a vacation destination. Nay, we did not encounter any Nordbergs fixing submarines during our retreat (or any Nordbergs not fixing submarines for that matter.) But that doesn’t mean we were strangers in a strange place, either.

For a man to marry a woman, one of the many gifts he bestows upon his bride is the right to his surname. While the ring may be shinier and cause her girlfriends more rounds of shrieks of glee, it is the last name that will have a longer last memory. After all, rings are kept in public record and on tax returns. So no matter what, if a married man is on a vacation, he’ll have at least one other of his kin in accompaniment.

In South Carolina, perhaps more.

As we learned on a ghost tour Wednesday night, it was the Irish settlers (not setters, as Spell-Check insisted) that made their way down the coast centuries ago to name this Carolinian peninsula after King Charles (wouldn’t Chazztown been just as honorable?) That’s right, the Irish. You thought they all ended up in Boston, didn’t ya? Nope, the South apparently started its own little colony of Emerald Isle residents. Fitzpatricks, McDonalds, O’Maras, Keanes, Gallaghers, Finnigans, and that’s right, Condons.

Besides having a drink at local pub Tommy Condon’s, we saw the family name practically everywhere. Silver nameplates of Condons who have moved on to be tax accountants and attorneys. Condons who have opened their own bridal shoppes. Condons who long to rename important American cities.

Oh wait. That’s me.