This Convention Had a Favorite Sun

We cannot always travel where we want and when, I reminded myself as I plucked sheer cottons and linens from my closet and pulled out a broad-brimmed hat.

Given a choice of summer destinations I would never elect to visit Atlanta in July or New Orleans in August. Summer is for mountains or parks or beaches or northerly cities.

But my husband, the writer, follows national political conventions and, sometimes, I follow my husband.

No matter how Democrats and Republicans may fight over fiscal planks for America, they seem to share a zeal for off-season prices when choosing the sites for their nominating sessions.

If the thermometer were a factor, all conventions would be held in Seattle. Instead, major contenders are Miami, Houston, Dallas and other steaming centers of population.

How hot was it in Atlanta?

A bank sign on Peachtree Street boasted “33 degrees,” but that was long before noon and it was in centigrade. The totals in Fahrenheit hung in the high 90s; matching humidity could be read on shiny noses and brows.

It was hot enough that, even before the first gavel on Monday, Charles Kuralt of CBS was rummaging through stacks of blue oxford-cloth shirts at Macy’s. “I’ve been here a few days and I’m already out of shirts,” the wilted newsman said. “What size?” a clerk asked. “A fat man’s size,” said Kuralt with a sigh.

It was hot enough that Walter Cronkite hesitated a moment when asked what he’d like to drink, after one of the late-night sessions. “Rum and Diet Coke with lime,” he said. The tropical mix seemed a natural in Atlanta, where Coca-Cola syrup was first concocted back in 1886.

It was hot enough that David Brinkley beamed during an autograph session for his new book, “Washington Goes to War.” The signing took place in the air-conditioned comfort of Macy’s.

This department store proved a cool and pleasant crossroads for Democratic delegates, tourists and the press. Live music blared from jazz bands (menswear) and an a cappella choir (on the mezzanine, near running shoes). A white grand piano was ensconced amid the ground-floor glitter of cosmetics. At high noon a young pianist in white tuxedo played a soulful version of “Dixie.” Then he reverted to Mozart.

Macy’s was decked in red, white and blue. Lines formed upstairs where Polaroid offered free photos with a cardboard cutout of Michael Dukakis or Jesse Jackson. A photographer told me that the people’s choice, as she saw it, was too close to call. I confused her by posing between the candidates.

It was so hot in Atlanta that Andy Rooney of “60 Minutes” downed two iced teas before ordering a bowl of black-eyed pea soup with salsa and sour cream at the Ritz-Carlton Cafe.

It was so hot that my favorite meal was a frozen peach yogurt, nine-ounce size, from an outlet called Yogurt’s Last Stand. Well, that or a wild mushroom and onion tart, made with sweet Vidalia onions, a Georgia treat.

In what was steadfastly called “the cool of the morning” (high 70s Fahrenheit), I visited Oakland Cemetery, which was founded in 1850 and is Atlanta’s oldest. Black and white, millionaires and paupers, Confederate soldiers and golfer Bobby Jones are buried in those 88 acres at the end of Martin Lutheran King Jr. Drive just east of downtown.

My pilgrimage was to see the grave of author Margaret Mitchell, a daughter of Atlanta who, in 1936, gave the world “Gone With the Wind.” Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh came to Atlanta for the film’s premiere in 1939; the classic saga of the South was packing them in at the Omni Theater during the convention.

The Mitchell plot is in the sun, but nearby are towering magnolias. A marble urn on the family stone was filled with a dozen red roses. They were pretty enough to be real, but their petals did not wilt. They stood as straight and tall as the yellow plastic tulips in the next row.

As I drove away, with the car’s air conditioning on high, I wondered how hot it will be in New Orleans for the Republicans?

Probably hotter.