Valley of the Dolls

When did I start wondering why?

Someday, I promised myself, I would step off the train at Fayetteville, NC, and let my curiosity lead the way. I wanted to see what life in Fayetteville was like, what stories were waiting to unfold in its streets. From the window of the train, it seemed unassuming—sleepy, even. The kind of Southern town that stretched itself out like every other place along the route once you crossed Virginia and found yourself in North Carolina, heading South from New York to Florence, SC.

And yet, Fayetteville had a quiet intrigue. Even in the rain, it felt alive in a way Florence—just two hours further down the line—did not. Its character whispered promises that made me wonder what lay just beyond the fogged glass of the train window.

It was peculiar how a town of over 250,000 people could seem smaller than White Plains, NY, a city of fewer than 75,000. White Plains, NY, with its bustling energy, felt like a metropolis in comparison to Fayetteville’s spread-out charm.

As the rain fell, passengers climbed aboard the Amtrak, bound for destinations farther south. The hum of activity and the rhythm of the train brought a small smile to my face. I would explore Fayetteville one day. I just knew it.

Fayetteville, NC

Florence, SC