This is a work of semi-autobiography and therefore should be considered fiction. Names and events have been altered. "Seven Years Bad Luck" is an ongoing series. This is part six. Part one here.

I wonder if seedy areas of cities in the United States all look alike. In Mobile, as in Pensacola, the less polished part of town has brown asphalt and broken white signage edging the roads. My GPS instructions send me into this part of town, and I’m quickly turned around. This does not look like the area for wedding venues.

I’m officially late now, massaging the foam and vinyl of the steering wheel with my anxious fingers.

I’m going to have to ask for directions, so now all I’m looking for is someone unintimidating to question.

To my surprise, I do find a wedding venue in the area. Multiple ones in fact. As I continue driving around, I find these small square buildings with courtyards, and little fenced in patches of grass. One such place, I stop in front of.

Sandwiched between two buildings is a garden courtyard with a tall and concealing black latticework fence. Under the black arch I can see a wedding in progress, a bride and groom both wearing white, the seats holding splashes of color on both sides. There’s a man standing by the gate, dressed so nice he could have been a groomsman, except that he’s wearing a vest instead of a jacket. His white sleeves and black pants look lovely against his brown skin. It seems like he’s there to vet guests. It looks like this is my chance.

I run out of my car and cross the street. The guy jumps in front of the gate a little, tensing up. I come to a stop several feet in front of him, kicking myself for charging forward like a child. If they’ve got someone to watch the gate, presumably it’s for a reason, I chide myself. I pause for a second to catch my breath.

“Excuse me, do you know where,” I peek at the invitation, “the Bragg-Mitchell Mansion is? I’m looking for a wedding.”

The guy lifts his whole arm and points to the left.

“It’s in that direction, a ways down,” he says. There’s little expression on his face, so I’m dissuaded from pressing for more detail. Truthfully, I’m a little intimidated by his impassiveness. Still, I’m pretty good with directions and I have an idea.

There’s a whirl of white behind him. That’s enough to convince me: I really don’t want to interrupt.

“Okay. Thank you for the directions.” And I do my usual scurry back to my car.

I go back to the point where I got lost, and find the route. It changes from a dusty grey road to smooth black and yellow, forested ground interspersed with manicured lawns. I’m in awe, watching these beautiful manors flash by on either side.

Idly, I wonder if any of these places are repurposed plantations. Getting married in a former plantation mansion strikes a funny feeling in me.

I suppose it’s one thing you can do with them.

The other thing to do with them is turn them into museums apparently. I turn into a long gravel drive, this huge place built in the Greek Revival style expanding between even bigger old oaks. It’s beautiful, especially under the trees, the stunning day throwing light and shade across the tall, white columns, encircling the house like soldiers.

I park in the gravel drive. There’s no one outside. I can hear a loud noise coming from within. I stop for a moment outside to read the black ironwork sign by the porch, with a blurb about the place. It was owned by a lawyer apparently, who became a judge. This place wasn’t a plantation, though it does mention that the judge had a plantation somewhere else that he owned.

I climb onto the porch and enter the house unchallenged.