Pardon me, boy, have we stumbled into Georgia?

In the fine tradition of arriving at the border of Azerbaijan when we intended to be in Armenia, en route from Birmingham, Alabama to Chattanooga, Tennessee we found ourselves in Georgia. Georgia was disappointingly unwilling to welcome us with a formal sign, but as the i59 took us past Trenton and then through the Chattanooga valley, it became increasingly obvious we weren't in Kansas (or, more accurately, Alabama) any more, Toto (and neither were we yet in Tennessee).

Chattanooga seems to have been home to more than its fair share of civil war reenactors, and the battles which often preceded them; a scenic drive to the aptly named Point Park quickly showed how unsuited the rocky and mountainous terrain was for wandering around in woolen underwear hoping your gunpowder didn't catch alight...

It also left us wondering where these tiny little towns get the budget for the vast array of perfectly manicured public parks and sparkling new public art displays... at least according Parks and Rec, we thought middle America was in the middle of a funding crisis?

Isn'timmitation the main point of public art?

While being the low point in the accommodation stakes of our holiday (I'm looking at you Ramada Limited), Chattanooga was certainly the high point in the surprisingly pleasant and good food providing stakes. After making the most of said public parks and art, we jumped on the recommendations of Chowhound and had one of the most delicious meals of the trip at the Meeting Place -

Our new favo(u)rite restaurant

it's only new and you should totally get there now (well, if you're in the Chattanooga vicinity or 100 miles or so from there). The menu is packed full of top-chefesque lightly modernised American specialities (ramps, shrimp, grits and sweetbreads) all explained by the extremely helpful server in the future tense, which seems to be the standard construction employed in America - "there's gonna be some chow chow, and the chef's gonna take it and grate it, and then there's gonna be some hot sauce... " giving the menu descriptions the pleasing air of a session with a gypsy fortune teller, except when he employed the same phrasing to describe dishes already at the table, giving him the air of a very bad gypsy fortune teller.  But with fried chicken that's gonna be that good, who's gonna complain?