Returning Home to Cabbagetown

A Caravan Writers Collective writing prompt

In our camper van, about to enter the Krog Tunnel and into Cabbagetown.

For the first 8 summers after we started traveling, we returned to the same place. When we were sailing, this meant hauling the boat out and preparing it to live on land over the winter. Then we’d load up our little green Honda Civic with all our possessions, clothes, guitar, camera, computer, tools, kitchen appliances, and the remainder of the food we had from 6 months of sailing. Because I always overestimated how much we needed, there was a lot of food.

We'd drive from Southern Florida to Atlanta. Once we hit the perimeter (the outer ring of highway that circles the city), my homesickness would start to wane. But it wasn't until we crossed through the Krog tunnel into Cabbagetown that I felt like we were really home.

We had lived full-time in Cabbagetown for four years before we went nomad. I remember the first time our realtor drove us through the Krog tunnel into the neighborhood. The tunnel was layered with a concentration of graffiti like you might see in a scene out of a dystopian movie, in a place long abandoned. Where was he taking us? I would soon find out that the tunnel was an unofficial free zone; the city looked the other way and let the “vandals” have at it. It was an ever-changing canvas of colors, tags, slogans, and murals.

The Krog tunnel is actually famous. You may have seen it in a movie, TV show, or music video. Assuredly, it has also been featured in many, many TikToks.

Greg walks Dave in the Krog Tunnel.

Although there are many entrances to Cabbagetown from most directions, there is only one from the north, the Krog Tunnel. The tunnel was once described as being the birth canal of Cabbagetown.

Cabbagetown has a unique history. It was created in the late 19th century to house the employees of the Fulton Bag and Cotton Mill. Workers from Appalachia and rural Georgia filled its shotgun houses. They brought their traditions and created a tight-knit community. The Mill closed in the 1970s. Artists and musicians would move in as the mill villagers moved out to find new work opportunities. Finally, gentrification crept into the neighborhood, and little by little, the old shotgun houses got updates, colorful coats of paint, and became half-a-million-dollar-and-up houses. Despite all these changes, the neighborhood kept its closeness and didn’t forget its history. Even today, everyone knows everyone. Neighbors gather on front porches. They help each other when the need is there. I could go on about all the ways Cabbagetown is special, but instead, let me tell you this: Cabbagetown is the kind of place that would organize a second line parade for the passing of a beloved pet cat.

Second line parade for Dexter the Cat.

We came to Cabbagetown every summer to house sit during hurricane season. House sitting wasn't something we intended to do. We just showed up with our car full of stuff, and our friends started asking us to look after their pets. Every few days, a week, or hopefully longer, we would move all our stuff out of one house, into our car, and into another house with new dogs and cats to look after.

Farewell party. Playing music on Lynne’s porch.

Sailing ended up costing way more than we realized it would, so Greg started doing odd jobs and eventually started a painting business with our friend Paul. Paul was great at getting jobs, but not very good at organization. He'd chat up neighbors and line up the gigs over the winter, and then he and Greg would layer fresh new colors of paint onto old clapboard houses in the sweltering Atlanta summer. As they worked, they'd listen to a community radio station. Every day at noon, the station would play Roumania, Roumania. Time to take a break and return to our home of the week for lunch.

On the roof of the old mill, with Atlanta in the background.

There was always lots to do during the summers. If we got back to Cabbagetown early enough, we could participate in the Cabbagetown Olympics. Next up was the Cabbagetown Reunion Festival, the first Saturday in June, to welcome back all the Cabbagetown Originals from the mill days. Forward Warrior brought artists into the neighborhood to paint murals on the 25-foot-high wall on one side of the CSX transfer station that ran along the north side of the neighborhood. There were family-friendly fireworks in Cabbagetown Park for the 4th of July. And a more dangerous display at the corner of Wylie and Powell Streets. There were birthday parties. And happy hours and potlucks with a view of the Atlanta skyline on the roof of the old Mill, which had been turned into lofts. There were movies and music in the park. For a year after the George Floyd murder, there was a protest at a busy intersection on the perimeter of Cabbagetown.

Neighbor-lag was a unique Cabbagetown phenomenon. Walking a couple of blocks to a friend’s house could take considerable time because you would always run into someone you knew along the way. Dogs on a walk hate neighbor-lag unless, of course, you run into Ros, who always had a small cup of dog treats attached to her belt.

At the end of the summer, we'd have one last party. We'd say goodbye to our temporary pets and move out of our final house. With enough money to do another season of adventuring and fresh memories with our friends, we were ready for the rhythm of our traveling life again. We’d leave the comfortable womb of Cabbagetown and pass through the birth canal into the big, wide world towards new adventures.

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This story was written in response to the Caravan Writers Collective community writing prompt:

Favorite summertime ritual, summertime tradition, summertime memories … and the music that drives these emotions … oh yes …

For the music portion of this prompt, I have gathered some songs about Cabbagetown, Atlanta music that I love, music by people who have lived and/or performed in Cabbagetown, and of course, Rumania, Rumania.