To the recent college graduates who have somehow failed to spend all of Daddy’s money in five-and-a-half years, fear not, tradition says you deserve a vacation. Consider it your version of the Grand Tour, the jaunt through Europe that served as the capstone to a formal education in centuries past for (privileged) young people, exposing them to the greatness of Western civilization and the suffocating politeness of high society “on the Continent.”
In the 21st century, of course, that means a meticulously planned, shockingly expensive social media safari. There may be less high culture, but that’s no reason to skip the politeness: “Three Michaelan-jello shots, grazie!”
As a young person staring down the barrel of adult life, I well understand the Grand Tour impulse. In fact, I’ve just completed a graduation tour of my own. It was less than grand. Diplomas secured, a college friend and I set out on bicycles from St. Louis to Baton Rouge. I had plenty of time to daydream jealously about Florence while drafting behind him. Unless you’re the lead dog, the view never changes.
We pedaled 65 to 70 miles every day and looked for cheap places to sleep—campgrounds, motels, churches, charitable people with couches. This was how we found ourselves one night in a primitive state park campground in Mississippi. There were no lights, showers, or restaurants for miles around. The place was empty, save for a half-dozen bikers (motorized division) who had already strung up hammocks and tarps between the pine trees when we coasted in. Black leather vests, braided white beards, and country music blaring from one of the Harleys completed the scene.
Hunger and boredom overrode cowardice and Northern reserve. We introduced ourselves. These, we were told, were the men of the DaMant clan and they politely explained how they were “kin” to one another. Like the characters in a Russian novel, everyone was someone else’s papa, brother, or step-cousin, and we could only nod and pretend to comprehend.
Silas, the only nonrelation, owned a convenience store and knife shop and was a “total badass,” according to the group, a compliment he affirmed with a nod. When asked how many guns he had tucked away in his shop, he seemed to lose count after nine, including the sawed-off .410 with a deer antler for a handle hanging above the door. How does he make them beautiful knives? “All my ideas come from smoking weed,” he explained. DaWayne, who looked like the oldest brother, passed us sausages off the grill and insisted we eat.
Feeling thoroughly welcome, we settled into the cultural exchange. “Do you all have sweet tea up north?” Yes, but it’s not as big a deal. “How about grits?” Kind of, but not really. “You had crawfish yet?” No, but we’re planning on it. “What about chitterlings?” Boiled pig intestine, no, definitely not.
At 8 years old, a DaMant boy would start with the family roofing company, baking every day in the heat alongside the older men. It’s a step up from what their grandfather did for a living—sharecropping—which has only just vanished from their corner of Mississippi. They regarded the loss of tenant farming and their old ways with a certain nostalgia. Silas the Badass said Walmart was to blame.
“When you’re poor like us, you have to use what you have to make what you want, and we all have scars from when it didn’t work out so good,” someone explained, offering us homemade 100 percent DEET for the bugs, which we politely refused. “If they take our guns we’ll build better ones!” one of the elders toasted.
My favorite story was the one about a family friend who lost his full set of dentures out the pickup truck window, but by now you get the picture: The newly minted college graduates collided with the ultimate rednecks.
Our night at the campground was an absolute pleasure, the high point of our itinerary. Young people have always loved travel, but we perhaps tend to overload our luggage with high expectations. You’ll remember that Lucy Honeychurch, the heroine of E. M. Forster’s A Room with a View, only smooched her darling George after she had misplaced her guidebook and lost her chaperone. I hear Florence is lovely this time of year, but we never would have met the DaMants there.
Had we made the right choice for our Not-So-Grand Tour? The DaMants’ final question was literally all the proof I needed. “Y’all ever tried moonshine?” they asked. Well, now we have.
