PNC Arena: Canadiens at Hurricanes

Well. Another arena, another Habs game. And last night's ended in a 3-1 win.

Part of Jody making sure I got my awesome new Pacioretty jersey in time for Christmas was so that I could wear it to the game last night. But I  bottled it at the last minute. I didn't want to deal with driving to the arena, so I figured I'd catch an Uber there, then get a drink somewhere nearby afterward, and head back downtown when the crowds dispersed. I imagined myself wearing a Habs home sweater, all alone, walking into a sports bar full of drunk Canes fans after the game. The image wasn't pleasant, win or lose. Turns out there's nothing anywhere near the arena, at least not that I could see beyond the vast parking lots, so I needn't have worried about sports bars.

I should have worried about the fans at the game, though, considering the woman next to me kept shrieking at an eardrum destroying volume for her team, booing mine, and calling Subban a diver. And the drunker she got, the louder she complained about hating Canadians. Not the Canadiens, Canadians, one of which I'm guessing she assumed me to be. Hopefully she didn't represent the rest of the team's supporters. 

It is always possible that I'll run into superfans when I go to games, though, given that I always sit as close to the ice as I can manage. I don't see my team often, so I had might as well see them close up. Last night's seat was 3rd row in front of the face-off circle to Carey Price's left for 2 periods. I don't know if it's how the arena is set up, but it was the first time I've been close enough to the ice to get a chill. Not an excited chill, an actual chill. When the action came by, the speed of the skaters threw a cold wind up off the ice... a cold wind that smelled like sweaty hockey equipment. It reminded me of some of my first exposure to hockey, seeing a high school friend play in a tiny rink that was normally used for figure skating. In the seating area (2 or 3 bleachers), you had waist-high boards, no glass, and a stern warning to keep your eye on the puck. So last night's cold, slightly smelly breeze put me right back to those early days of falling in love with hockey, more than 20 years ago.

But I digress. The other nice thing about being close to the ice is that you notice so many things that you can't see from the higher up seats, and definitely not from television. Like how nice the players are to kids, taking time to talk to them, or give them sticks and pucks, even on TV timeouts during the game -- I've particularly seen Brandon Prust and PK Subban do a lot of it -- but how they pointedly ignore all of the adult fans shouting out for attention. In fact, most players rarely look directly at anyone on the other side of the glass, except Andrei Markov, who occasionally scans the faces in the crowd with a look of disdain, or at least the Russian severity he's known for. Or that when my hockey boyfriend Max Pacioretty is concentrating on the ice, he has his tongue out, wagging around like the kid in A Christmas Story trying to decode Annie's secret message. And that Carey Price, normally deadpan in interviews, has big dimples, which he shows constantly during time outs, grinning away chatting with teammates... as long as the game is going well. When it's not so great, the smile goes away. He goes to the bench for water, nobody says a word, then back to the crease.

And before you ask, yes I was also watching the game. It was a typically frustrating affair like Montreal's been putting up all season. They had one strong period, then spent the rest of the game letting Carolina have possession, playing sloppy defense, and leaving Price all alone in net to save their asses. Luckily he's one of the best goalies in the NHL, and a couple more of our goals went in than did theirs.

But it came out a win, and I was happy. All's well that ends in the W column, I guess.

The Carolinas

In my ongoing quest to see the rest of the US states before I leave this expansive nation, I find myself in Caroline du Nord, as some of my fellow Habs fans would say. I figured a Montreal hockey game was a good enough excuse to come to the Carolinas, and with a rented Chevy Cruze at my disposal, I've now seen some of both states.

I arrived in Raleigh Saturday night and wandered the streets around my downtown hotel a while looking for food. I wasn't feeling up to the raucous nightlife I could see going on in the many bars and restaurants, so after a lot of walking, I gave up, got a mediocre shawarma to go, and had a quiet night in. My plan was to get to bed at a decent hour so that I could transition to the new time zone seamlessly, wake up early to visit the fitness room and grab some free Hampton breakfast before watching the Dons game at 10, then hitting the road to an as-yet-undetermined location in South Carolina.

Of course, plans are usually disrupted by reality, and I soon found out why this was the first hotel room I've ever been in that had complimentary earplugs next to the mini shampoo and shower cap. I got to bed around 12:30, but couldn't sleep due to the loud untsa-untsa-untsa of what I can only assume was a nightclub nearby. After finally managing to drift off briefly, I was awoken again at 2am by screaming drunks who spent what seemed like an eternity hollering at each other, blaring car horns, and having some sort of competition to see whose bass could rattle my windows the most. I finally passed out sometime after they all fucked off home in the wee hours. So my plans had to be updated when I slept through my alarm and got up in time to watch just the last 10 minutes of Aberdeen's victory.

Determined to still get out and see the area, I used the googles to find things to do within a decent drive from here. After finding a lot of no interest to me, there it was: Cheraw, South Carolina, birthplace of Dizzy Gillespie, 2 hours away. Done. Sold. Sat Nav programmed. The drive was pretty simple and straightforward, and mostly devoid of traffic. Not that I would have minded; of all the parts of this country I've driven, Southern drivers are the nicest (yes, the Carolinas are part of the South). I never speed in rental cars, and I'm usually semi-lost, so I stay in the slow lane. And in the South, nobody rides my bumper trying to push me to go faster, they just pass by, and don't cut me off afterward. They move out the way for merging traffic, and then move back, so as not to clog the passing lane.

On my way to Cheraw, I saw many, many historical markers, mostly to do with war goings-on. If I were a person fascinated by American history, it would have been a great day out learning things. But I'm not. Only music history for me, so on I drove, reading nary a sign. Being a dork for anything Scottish, though, I was interested to drive through the town of Aberdeen, NC, which was so Scotland-inspired as to have a tartan sash emblazoned on its 'Welcome to' sign. I made a mental note to stop there on the way back, but when I came through the other direction, I was following a vehicle that said CAUTION CHURCH VAN on the back and became so obsessed with staying behind it to try to get a photo at a red light that I missed the whole town, and the picture.

Anyway. Despite losing phone signal at the state line, I drove directly to the birthplace of Diz to find that it's not much worth making a 2 hour drive for. There was another of those famous historical markers, and the vacant lot where his house had been was turned into a park with a few benches and some jazzy modern art. I stepped out of the car for some photos, did a quick drive through the dilapidated downtown area, and turned back north. By the time I got back to Raleigh, I was tired out and wanted nothing more than a movie and bed.

Today I did bit better in my tourist attempts, and took a walk over to the State Capitol and the North Carolina Museum of History. As I said, I'm not a history buff, except for music, and I'd seen on the website that the museum had an exhibit on Carolina Bluegrass. I was disappointed when I got there to see that it was just one glass case without much more than some Doc Watson records and a kid playing the banjo on an old TV show. But since I was there, I wandered the whole museum, and was again reminded of how Southern this state really is, and how much tobacco means to it. It's odd, though, for all the tobacco influence on the area (I went through Marlboro County yesterday, everywhere I turn it's Tobacco Road this or that), I have seen very few smokers out and about. Maybe their history means they know enough to know better.

I'm now taking a rest before the big Habs-Canes game tonight, and then tomorrow I fly off to Edinburgh for Hogmanay. But not before I get some good barbecue. I have 3 hours between hotel checkout and airport check-in, so I hope to spend as much of that time as I can consuming smoked meats. And enjoying every delicious minute of it.