04/15

Franklin, North Carolina, a small mountain town just a few miles past the state line. In desperate need of food, we hitched a $5 shuttle into town and were welcomed by “A.T Class of 2025” banners flapping from shop windows. Seems Franklin’s become a bit of a hiker haven, though you wouldn’t know it based on the curiosity and confusion from the locals cruising down Main Street.

Though, I can’t really blame them. If a van full of smelly, half-starved hobos strolled into your neighborhood, you’d probably raise an eyebrow too.

We booked a night at the “Sapphire Inn Motel” and took care of our town chores (laundry and resupply) before heading to the room. Upon entry, we were greeted by all the luxuries of a classic motel: dead bugs decorating the windowsills, questionable stains on the sheets, and a picture-less frame bolted to the wall like some kind of ironic art. Nothing fancy, but at least the water was hot.

On our way to dinner, we stopped by the office to pay. The place was empty, so we let ourselves in. While looking around for the clerk, something on the floor caught my eye.

A swastika! Right there, next to the Roomba.

Appalled, I turned to Nick, “let’s get out of here.”

We rushed back to the room and packed our things with urgency. No way in hell was I giving my hard earned money to Nazis. Storming back into the office, key in hand, I pounded on the door to let them know we wouldn’t be staying.

This time, someone answered. A short Indian woman stepped out, visibly confused. “Is something wrong?”

Trying to stay polite, I told her we were dissatisfied with the room’s cleanliness and had a change of plans. She told us there were no refunds.

That’s when I pointed to the floor.

“Not to mention that.”

She blinked at me. “The Roomba?”

“No ma’am. The swastika.”

Her expression didn’t change. “That is for my god,” she said. “I clean it every morning.”

It was then I realized... The symbol wasn’t Nazi propaganda, it was a traditional Hindu symbol of good fortune. She wasn’t a Nazi. I was just a fool.

In my attempt to take a stand against ignorance, I walked face-first into my own.

We apologized, but still asked for a refund on account of the dirt, not the deity.

With our tails between our legs, we walked a mile up the road and checked into a slightly less sketchy (but equally uninspiring) motel.

Dinner came, and we shamefully slurped our miso soup at the hibachi next door.

Let this serve as my formal apology to that woman, and a fair warning to you, dear reader: Next time you see a swastika… ask yourself one thing.

Are you sure?