TulaneLSU's Top 10 signs of Fairhope, Alabama

Dear Friends,

Few things are more important to a community than inspiration and hope. When Mother woke me this morning there was such glee, perhaps even some inspiration and hope, in her eyes that I could tell she was aware today was going to be a special Front Day. Obviously, as you all know, it was the first Halloween Front Day in our history, but there was even more in her eyes than that excitement. It was the expression on the face of a child putting on his hand fashioned costume just as the sky begins to hint to pink and nightfall and treating are soon to follow. On Mother’s face was the look of a woman ready for an expedition.

“Son, Fairhope is hosting its Downtown Trick-or-Treating again. Do you remember how much fun we had two years ago? Now hurry and get ready. It starts at 10:00.”



It was 6:00 Saturday morning and once I wiped my eyes from the salts of sleep, I realized Mother was already in her Naomi costume. We usually dress up as Bible characters for Halloween. The last time she dressed as Naomi was 2015, when I was one of Naomi’s sons.

“Here, I’ve had my seamstress in St. Rose make you an outfit for Naomi’s younger son, since you have outgrown the eldest son’s outfit.” I do not particularly like dressing as one of those sons, as both had untimely deaths and their names loosely mean ruin and illness, but how can anyone say no to Mother? She hoisted a rough sand-colored cloth vest with pants that looked like they were made from burlap coffee sacks. The shepherd’s crook was the same as the one I used in 2015. Mother fixed two Chocolove chocolate bars for me, with hot chocolate of course. I like these Chocolove bars because the inside wrappers have printed on them poems of love. Anyway, by 7:00, we were merging onto 610.



Fairhope, Alabama is ballyhooed as a utopia of sorts, but after several trips to Fairhope, I can say it is only a poor reflection of what it must have once been. It was founded with great inspiration and hope by pilgrims seeking a fair and just economic system. Apparently they were Georgists who thought people should not be taxed on the fruits of their labor nor did they think individuals should own property. Instead,government and society flourish by having communal land ownership. Individuals who use that land are then taxed, and it is that tax that keeps the services of government funded. It is an intriguing idea.



The ineffable inflatus of such a community is a magnet for utopians and artists. Shortly after the town was created, the artists descended upon these shores and bluffs like flounder during a Jubilee. For decades, they say, it remained a crowned city with its prized jewel just a few miles south at The Grand Hotel, as Grandmother said. When we tried to enter The Grand, were were forbidden today due to the hurricane damages.



Advances in car and road technology and degradations in American sense of place lead to residents of that terrible city named Mobile living up to their town’s name. They moved to the Eastern Shore and the wondrous place about which Grandmother once so fondly told me stories is little more than a fairytale to me.

I moderately enjoy Fairhope, but that is only because I know Mother so loves it. She spent at least one week here each year as a child, staying at The Grand. If you ever bring up the town or the resort, be prepared for a very lengthy story about one of her stays. A few times each year, Mother coaxes me into joining her for a journey there. I have not the heart to tell her I find Fairhope to be a glorified suburb with an interesting founding, but whose heart today is dominated by the uncultured Southern nouveau riche, all too quick to drink alcohol, pretend they care about Christianity even while routinely using God’s holy name in vain, and flaunt their modest wealth with sophomoric golf carts they drive throughout town. Their other vehicle is a new Kia Telluride, as Suburbans have fallen out of favor since Korea figured out what desperate and insecure American suburbanites want.





Fairhope was founded as a walking town, and it still should be. But the lazy slaves to mechanization must believe a mile walk is too far for their 250 pound frames. A lot can be gleaned from a community by measuring the percentage of its residents who are obese, and I can say Fairhope, like much of Alabama, has quite an epidemic on its hands that a mask will not ameliorate.

Fairhope is hailed widely as a place with great food, but I have not found that to be the case. Gambino’s, for instance, is said to be the best Italian food in Alabama, but the two times I have visited I have said to Mother, “Olive Garden is better.” The sandwich shops around town, like Panini Pete’s, are wholly adequate, but nothing worthy of conversation. Dragonfly, however, has been a staple of our visits, and I have quite enjoyed it.

Today, however, the service was slow and sloppy. The dishes were also not up to the standards I remember before covid. The star of today’s show was the dish of tempura green beans. They were quite great, and if I had a few orders of them and nothing else I probably would sing praises right now.



I moved on with the wahoo taco and a chicken taco, at $8 and $5, respectively. Neither was worth it, and the wahoo tasted fishy, making me question its freshness. I finished with a bowl of chicken and rice, which had too much soy sauce and not enough peanut sauce. I would not recommend it.





Before lunch, though, we joined in the trick-or-treating. In normal times, people cast unwelcoming gazes at me when I trick-or-treat without using a young niece or nephew as a prop. This year, though, everyone was quite hospitable, and not a single person asked where my children were. I scored some great candy, especially from that witch at R Bistro and Pastry, which is a decent restaurant.