My Faraway, Nearby

In the late 1930s, Georgia O’Keeffe painted an evocative oil she titled, “From the Faraway, Nearby,”a piece that blends skeletal and landscape imagery in a way that captures the mystery and magic of the American Southwest, the region that influenced much of O’Keeffe’s work, particularly that created later in her life.

From the faraway, nearby. It’s a valediction O’Keeffe used to close her letters to family and friends, missives she penned from her beloved Ghost Ranch in New Mexico. And it’s a phrase I’ve come to associate with charming little Aiken, S.C.—my favorite mini-getaway.No, Aiken doesn’t possess the mystery of the American Southwest. There are no canyons or chinle rock formations. No arid washes. No wide-open rocky vistas. But for me, Aiken is the faraway, nearby. I get in my car, drive about 22 or so miles to the northeast and I am transported.

Before you wag your heads in pity and hope that one day I broaden my horizons, let me run down a quick inventory of some of my more far-flung exploits. I’ve trekked the Nakasendo Trail, following the footsteps of the Samurai. I’ve ridden a camel across the Thar Desert in northern India. I hiked the rocky path to Macchu Picchu and wandered through the mountain villages of Nepal. I’ve slumbered in a goat hair tent in Jordan, head swaddled in scarves like a latter-day Lawrence of Arabia. I’ve fished piranha out of the Amazon and eaten them for dinner. I’ve stood in the shadows of the great pyramids of Egypt and, yes, they are really, really big.

I’ve done faraway, friends. And I’m doing it again in February. Faraway Finland in February. (While we’re alliterating, let’s toss “freezing” into the mix.) But Finland and the ice hotel and the dog sleds and the bubbling reindeer stew and the cloudberry liqueur…that’s months away.

What’s a girl with a restless, wandering soul to do when she feels the need to escape the everyday? Well, find a closer faraway.

Enter Aiken, S. C. Named after William Aiken, the wealthy railroad magnate who hired Horatio Allen (better known for a little structure he erected in New York called the Brooklyn Bridge) to lay tracks from Charleston to Hamburg. The first train rolled into town in October 1833 and, by the late 1800s, Aiken was the destination of choice for Northerners looking to ride out the cruel months of winter on the backs of spirited polo ponies.
Today Aiken is a thriving equestrian center. Polo, fox hunting, eventing, hunter jumper, steeplechase, the year-round training of racehorses. Aiken has it all, including Hitchcock Woods, the largest urban forest in the country, which is perfect for a little in-city trail riding on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

That’s part of the reason I feel so faraway when I’m in Aiken. I know nothing about horses. Well, I know enough to know that I don’t want to get on one. I didn’t even like the merry-go-round as a kid. All those raised hooves and flared nostrils spooked me. But I’m willing (and sometimes even excited) to pull on a pair of paddock boots and go tromping around a farm to watch classically attired English riders and their mounts fly through a cross-country course or go soaring over stadium jumps. For somebody who rides a desk chair in a hermetically sealed office five days a week, Aiken is worlds away from my everyday life.

But it’s not simply Aiken’s equine element that is so appealing; it’s the whole package. The tree-lined streets. The grandiose cottages. The hometown feel blended with cosmopolitan flair.

A few weeks ago, three friends and I signed up for a cocktail class and an overnight stay at Aiken’s storied Willcox Inn. The Willcox (and I’m quoting from their website) “was built in the late 19th century for well-to-do Yankees seeking warmth, light and high society.”

“Aiken,” it continues, “was popular with the swells and dandies of the Gilded Age and they came in such numbers every winter that the town was dubbed the ‘Winter Colony.’” Swells and dandies. I love that.

So anyway, we four female dandies packed our overnight bags and headed to the Willcox where we spent our evening receiving instruction from a young New Zealander on how best to employ our jigger and Boston shaker. First came the fruity, pink Parisian (one of the Willcox’s homegrown cocktails) with hints of wild elderflower, then the vibrant green Japanese Slipper (love that melon liqueur), the You Name It (a pear-flavored mojito) and the final round, a dessert cocktail called the O.Btini, which was essentially a scoop of berry sorbet doused in vodka. Not only was I faraway, I was totally gone.

We finished the evening with dinner in the lobby where earlier that evening I had engaged a dapper documentary filmmaker in lively conversation about South Carolina’s rich archaeological resources. But that was before I slipped on the Japanese Slipper. I wasn’t quite as engaging during dinner. Yet despite my slightly impaired state, I managed to make an excellent culinary decision—the proscuitto lamb sirloin, potato gnocchi, sweet corn puree, and baby spinach…and then, blessedly, le sommeil du juste. The sleep of the righteous.
The next morning, in the Willcox’s spacious Whitney Suite, I opened one eye to a brilliant blue sky and, on the television, The Fly, the 1958 film about the scientist who has an unfortunate accident while experimenting with his matter transporter device. I entered during the scene in which the half fly-half scientist eats his meal with a large napkin over his head to protect his wife from the horror of what has happened to him. Oddly enough, it felt a little like a recap of the evening’s dinner. 

Extraneous as this tidbit seems, I assure you it is highly germane. You see, I never watch junk like this at home. Wiling away my hours watching pabulum while still tucked between high thread- count sheets is a luxury I afford myself only when I’m freed from the demands of everyday life. If I had been home, I would have been taking the glass to the recycling center or cleaning out the cat box. It’s good to get away.

After ringing in the morning with coffee and a sci-fi classic, we headed to Pat’s Restaurant on Richland Avenue whereupon I consumed a platter of corned beef hash. Something else I never do at home. Thirty minutes later, as we were strolling the aisles of the historic Aiken County Farmers’ Market, I remembered why.

When we got to the market, Kath was first out of the car because she heard someone say that the cakes had just been marked down. Never ever stand between a woman and baked goods, particularly after a greasy repast of eggs and potted meat. She bought a sackful of oversized cookies off a table that, according to the historic landmark sign, was one of 45 built by the original farmers who began selling their produce there in 1951. The structure itself, erected in 1954, was built (perhaps grudgingly) by the Aiken County chain gang. Today, the Aiken County Farmers’ Market is the oldest county farmers’ market in continuous service in the same location in the state of South Carolina.

We loaded up—fresh jalapenos and tomatoes, baguettes, goat cheese made from an ancient Greek recipe, a potted Daphne plant and some pasture-fed, Black Angus beef from Mibek Farms in Barnwell. When Marian asked if we wanted to stop at TJ Maxx on the way home, I uncharacteristically declined. In my mind, I was not in a city with a TJ or any other remotely familiar retail outlet. I was far, far away…planning a rustic lunch of bread, cheese and sliced ripe tomatoes…for we four laughing friends.