dev & bets.

Crossing the border into America is akin entering an entirely new world. A world filled with billboards for hospitals, shooting ranges and cheap alcohol and cigarettes. It's a world that seems to be fuelled entirely by fried chicken and guns, and which is so vastly different from home. On the first day we left Sarnia, well fed and under rested and headed down to Chattanooga Tennessee. En route we saw several cop cars hold guns at a fugitive in his car, a thousand billboards for "The Waffle House" and a car which appeared to be smoking as it raced down the I-75. Upon arriving in Chattanooga, we got out of the car only to see a stylish man dressed to the nines in a well tailored suit and sporting a fedora. Thank you for confirming my stereotypes deep south. That evening after feasting on more chicken than I thought humanly possible, we downed our 36 PBRs and wandered the town. Outside a classy bar (not classy in the slightest) I witnessed my first ever brawl which was filled with spitting in the face, quasi curb stomping and lots of sucker punches. It was frightening. My friends and I calmly waited for our hotdogs while the hotdog stand man looked on as if it happened every night. He obviously had a gun hidden amongst all of those condiments. -Bets