Most people across the south have been to Atlanta at one time or another. Braves fans. Frequent flyers. Politicians from up north who want to change the way we do things in Georgia.

Corporate offices from all over move to Atlanta because, if you want to do business, this city is the place to make that happen. The music at Chastain Park is something you need to experience. If you’ve never been to the Fox Theater, shame on you. The Variety Playhouse at Little Five Points rocks. And no trip to Atlanta is complete without a naked dog from the Varsity.

However, there’s a hitch. To get to Atlanta you have to deal with the beast.

I made a trip to Atlanta this week and stayed overnight in a hotel there. Every geographic inch of real estate anywhere near I-285 is Atlanta to me. Technically, I spent the night in Duluth, but Duluth has no separate identity in my mind. Norcross is an address in Atlanta. Marietta is a town square swallowed by Atlanta. Decatur is Atlanta’s left arm. College Park its right leg, and Newnan is Atlanta’s little toe that went wee-wee-wee all the way home.

I can’t help it that I think of the biggest city in the south in this manner. Atlanta is like the polar ice cap that hides everything beneath it. The non-native who wanders through this city cannot tell where terra-firma begins and ends. There are currents of historical little towns that move beneath the surface, but to my eye they are lost. There are no distinguishable boundaries to the metropolis and the tenacles that reach out in every cardinal direction.

The town of Hampton, where I grew up, is only 35 miles or so south of the Atlanta airport. And though it remains mostly distinguishable from the city that looms to the north, it lives within the influence of its shadow. Hampton resides is what the politicians call the 15 county Metro-Atlanta area. Which means that when our state government makes decisions that affect Atlanta, there’s a pretty good chance that those decisions will have some ripple effect in little old Hampton.

Marian, my sister, was always more comfortable with the city than I was. Even when we were just pimply faced young teenagers and we would be off someplace like Panama City Beach, Florida; and she would meet some new friends down on the beach. Eventually, they would ask her where she was from.

“I’m from Atlanta,” she’d say.

It was a convenient answer, but it was a lie. It perturbed me when she would do that. And I’d call her on it.

“Nobody knows where Hampton is. It’s just easier to say we’re from Atlanta.”

That was her excuse.

“What’s wrong with saying you’re from Hampton?” I’d ask. “You’re not from Atlanta.”

Eventually, she did live in Atlanta. Not just one of the swallowed-up communities around the city, but close enough to see the lights of the downtown skyscrapers at night from her neighborhood. After nearly 30 years she moved down to Fayetteville which is located near the belly button of Atlanta.

“We’re moving to the country,” she said.

I get it. They moved from an old Atlanta neighborhood. Quaint with sidewalks and shaded parks. Driveways touching each other. They moved to a wooded six acres just a hop-skip-and-a-jump off one the busiest four-lane highways in the area. More serene for sure, but part of Atlanta.

I’ll probably get hate mail for this. Life-long members of places like Marietta and Fayetteville cling to their identity. They have roots there that don’t belong to Atlanta. They won’t like me saying that “everything” up that way belongs to Atlanta. But Atlanta is everywhere.

The fact is undeniable. The blanket of Atlanta’s influence covers a huge part of our state.

It probably makes me a redneck to repeat this, but there’s a saying among the rural circles in which I travel. On a lot of levels, I find it true.

“Well, there’s Atlanta and then there’s the rest of the state.”

That doesn’t mean we are divided. It doesn’t mean that Atlanta no longer belongs to the south. There are still hole-in-the-wall diners where they serve black-eyed peas and turnip greens with cornbread if you know where to look. For the most part, southern gentility survives in the city.

It just means that we all acknowledge that Atlanta is a different kind of place.

When you come to Atlanta, you’re likely going to travel the interstate. Think root canal. Slow and painful. Roll down your window and you’ll swear you can hear the roar of Niagara Falls. That’s just the sound of over two million of your closest friends who drive into the city every day.

Where I live, the interstate highway is only two lanes rolling through the pines and pastures of Georgia. Sometimes there are exits with nothing at them. No gas station. No fast food. Just another stretch of paved road that disappears off into the countryside.

Most of my interstate travel is on I-85. When I head to Atlanta, just south of Newnan, those two lanes widen into three lanes. This is your first sign that Atlanta has stretched out one of its longest tenacles. The grassy median is replaced with a concrete barrier and the flow of gasoline powered vehicular rockets on wheels moves like a ribbon of ants into the city. Some days are more like bumper cars at the fairground.

Two-hour trips can turn into four. The speed limit is merely a suggestion. You could breeze through the downtown connector, or you could have time to read a book, clip your nails and do your taxes sitting on 285. You never know.

For this reason, if I’m going to the mountains, I go around Atlanta. If I’m headed to South Carolina, I take backroads. I will drive several peaceful hours on a longer route through the countryside just to avoid the mayhem of the city.

But sometimes you have to go there. You have to put on your best face and enter the mouth of the beast.

Which is why I went to Atlanta the other day. Our state nursery and landscape convention was this week. I’ve been an exhibitor there for over twenty years. Peddling trees. Meeting new customers. Wheeling and dealing to make business connections.

This year, I didn’t have a booth. I’m shutting down and have no trees left to sell. But I wanted to go and walk the trade show floor one more time. Kind of a farewell tour. Shake hands and say thanks face to face to a lot of good people.

I have tried my best to be grateful. No man achieves anything of lasting value without the influence of family and friends. I owe a lot to the people in this industry, and I wanted to tell them as much in person.

I dreaded the drive home. But Atlanta was kind to me this time. From the parking deck to my driveway, two hours. That could be a record.

Oh, Atlanta. Home of the Braves. Neighbor to my southern heritage.

Until next time.