Making an air approach to Atlanta is like diving into a monstrous tossed salad. The land below is a fluffy carpet of complimentary greens which seems to stretch beyond the distant curve of the earth. The open spaces are given over to the necessary compromises to man — roadways, houses, and Golden Tombstone drive-ins — but Mother Nature steadfastly holds on to the rest.

The First thing you notice about Atlanta is its women. Eat a peach, indeed! Georgia has the most beautiful girls in the world: all suntanned and healthy, foregoing the standard street uniform of jeans and workshirts in favor of multi-colored blouses and skirts so short you’d swear (with a smile) 1966 had arrived and decided to stay.

If you’re as radically hirsute as thisreporter was when he first set foot on Southern soil, you’ll get a lot of straight stares from the old crust who, if they’ve paid lip service to the liberalization of the South, keep their unspoken outrage close to their hearts. Still, the vision of a slow and sullen people with suspicious natures and itchy trigger fingers carried by outsiders like myself are soon enough revealed as twisted cartoons.