About Atlanta, people say just the opposite of what they say about New York City: It's a nice place to live, but you wouldn't want to visit there.
From This Story
Especially in the summer.
Atlantans regard enthusiastic vacationers with dismay. We'll scramble some salty eggs for their breakfast and lay a pat of butter on their grits to get them started. We'll set the translucent plastic gallon-jug of Publix sweet iced tea sweating on the table among the coffee mugs. After that, they're on their own.
"What are we doing today?" our first-time guests from Oregon ask expectantly on the first Sunday morning after their arrival.
We regard them balefully.
"Don't you mean, what are you doing today? Because we're not going anywhere."
"Weren't we going to climb Stone Mountain?" they ask, with a hint of reproach. They don't want to have to remind us of the glorious hiking trips we once made together in the Cascade Mountains, through valleys of wildflowers, toward glacial peaks.
"It's 98 degrees out," we mention.
"At nine in the morning?"
"And humid," we add.