Savannah Georgia is old.
It was founded in 1733 about 20 miles up the Savannah River from the
Atlantic Ocean. It was and is an
important port. When the plantations of
the South were growing cotton and indigo and tobacco for trade with Europe much
of it was shipped out of Savannah. And
when ships from England and elsewhere returned they brought goods back to the colonies
through Savannah. It was an economic
engine of the South. When the Union Army
marched to the sea toward Savannah a deal was struck outside the city that the
city would concede if it was spared from burning and destruction. That deal made Savannah the tourist magnet it
is today.
When I guided the Buick off the interstate into the historic
district it was jammed with tourists.
There were more old people on the streets of Savannah than you could
shake a stick at, often old men in tow behind their wives who brandished maps
and pointed down the street. The men
looked like they mostly wanted a park bench and a beer. Out of towners were mad
to see Old Savannah.
I pulled into the visitor’s center, went in and got the
aforementioned map, and discovered from the nice man at the desk that a popular
city tourist route was easily drivable. And
so I cruised it, gliding effortlessly in the Buick past old couples huffing and
puffing down ancient sidewalks. They
looked like their feet hurt.
The route was simple.
I went down Liberty Street to Bull and took a right. In two blocks I was taking a little jog
around a beautiful city park, a square called Madison, ringed by majestic old
buildings, cobblestone streets, and well tended trees. It was beautiful. Every five blocks or so was another such
square: Monterey, the larger Forsyth Park, then left on Gaston Street to
Albercorn, left again past Calhoun Square, Lafayette Square, Colonial Park, Oglethorpe
Square. I parked on Oglethorpe square, extracted
a cigar and a flask from my golf bag, grabbed a spot on a park bench, and
soaked up a little southern ambience with a touch of whiskey and nicotine for
good measure.
It was a fine day.
The sun was out. There was a
steady stream of tourists ogling the old buildings around us. Tourists wear clothes they would never wear
at home. Many of the old folks had on funny
hats and sneakers that were too white, bought new for the trip I think and just
getting broken in. A guide of some kind
decked out in a panama hat and a pure white suit as if he was a southern
gentleman was leading a group of Asian tourists through the little park. He was a big guy and carried a cane, though
he was young and didn’t need one. The
little Asian tourists came up to about the second button on the tour guide’s vest,
where a gold watch chain was draped. He
was going on and on in an exaggerated southern accent, talking about Oglethorpe
himself.
General James Oglethorpe was the British guy, member of
parliament, who first landed in Savannah, made peace with the Indians, named
the 13th colony Georgia after King George of England, and planned
the layout of the city, including the very squares I had been admiring. He got rich in Savannah, he and his friends,
though they first attempted to start a silk trade with mulberry trees which
proved a bust. Oglethorpe envisioned a
Georgia without slaves, a ban that held up until 1750 when the cotton industry
and wealthy planters overwhelmed the politics of that idea. It was cotton that made Savannah the port,
the plantations around it and the city itself, the commercial capital of the
South.
Maybe we’ve always had our
wealthy 1%. Their wealth would not have
been possible without the ownership of African slaves. As I sat there having a nip and a smoke
amidst the splendor of antebellum Savannah I tried not to forget the pain and
backbreaking labor that made it all possible.
It’s invisible still. You have to
know it’s there.
I tooled around the boulevards and swank neighborhoods a
while longer and then headed for the river.
There was a Cotton Exchange down there, some old iron staircases leading
down to the river, where I imagined I would find dinner. Besides dinner I needed a liquor store. I was running low on Bushmills and sorely desired
a resupply.
I parked in a swank old parking lot near the river and as if
by magic lo and behold what was across the street but a purveyor of spirits,
your high toned antique looking liquor store.
It looked tiny, but I ventured in.
The owner was a smoker, and his place stunk of stale cigarette
smoke. You forget how obnoxious that is. Rather than shelves lined with booze there
was a single bottle displayed of everything he sold. And yes he did have Bushmills. I made my standard selection and when he rang
up a single bottle of the basic Irish mash I was surprised when he announced
the cost to be $32. The very same bottle
I bought at Herman’s Liquors had cost me $18.
What you gonna do? I paid and got
out, stashed my bottle in the Buick, and made my way down to the river on
narrow iron steps hugging an old stone wall.
The Savannah River is wide there. Steamboats must have lined the bank while
being loaded with cotton. The old stone
Cotton Exchange was a block away. I
strolled along River Street the opposite way, hoping to find a selection of
restaurants. I wasn’t disappointed.
I chose the lower level waterfront restaurant of the
Bohemian Hotel called Rocks on the River.
It looked good. I didn’t consult
Yelp or Trip Advisor. I read the menu in
a glass frame near the door and went in.
Nice place, not too big. As I
waited to be seated I could smell seafood cooking, and realized how hungry I
was. It was a long time since that dry
Moon Pie.
The hostess walked me to a two seat table by the
window. It wasn’t crowded, but as we
passed a couple seated near the door I thought I smelled irises. When I took my seat I was facing them, a few
tables away. They were having
drinks. It had to be irises. I grow irises in Ottawa, my Mom’s pale purple
ones from the farm. Transplanted them
myself. They smell like sweet grape jelly
and lemons at the same time. That was
what I smelled, in the midst of the rich smell of crab and shrimp.
Thankfully our waitress smelled it too. When she brought the couple their salads she
said something to the woman about how good she smelled. She shared the name of some hard to pronounce
French sounding perfume. They
talked. The man smiled quietly. The waitress left.
They were a couple about my age. The woman at the table looked nice. She wore a pearl choker against a gray
sweater. He wore a sport coat. They paid attention to one another, each
looking closely at the other, both talking and listening. I’d observed lots of couples on this trip who
were stone silent, or both staring at their phones. Couples give off vibes. This couple’s vibe was affection and caring
for one another. They smiled and
laughed. You don’t have to hear the
words people are saying to understand how they feel. Body language says a lot. They were both saying they were in love. She reached across the table and touched his
hand. He wrapped his fingers around her
wrist. Another Leo Kottke song began to
play in my mind. You can listen to it
here.
Along with the stirring travel instrumentals inspiring
freedom that Leo Kottke graced me with as I made my way down the road in the
Buick was that beautiful song by Bach “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” that is
pure love. It hit me, before I ordered my
meal, that in addition to feeling free I was also lonely. You can’t have it both ways.
Across from me was an empty chair. I’d been there before. When I travelled the trains in Europe fellow
travelers would exit the train into the waiting arms of family and lovers on
the platform while I walked quietly by with my backpack. It seems like I’ve been going back and forth
between those two songs forever; songs of righteous escape and love songs. People can close in around you and make you
feel like you can’t breathe. And just
about the time you shed yourself of them you realize there is nothing better,
no moments sweeter, than those you spend with someone you love. In a sense I’d been fleeing home and rushing
back my whole life. I don’t know how to
resolve it, except to keep trying to find a balance. I feel sometimes as if I’m running out of
time.
The she crab soup was made with butter and sherry in the
cream and that flavorful rare crab. I
savored every spoonful. The shrimp and
grits had a Creole sauce flavored with spicy andouille sausage. The grits were
stone ground and formed into cheesy little cakes. I had roasted asparagus on the side. The Chardonnay was cold and crisp. It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a
simple yet elegant meal. I was no longer
in the Waffle House. The couple finished
their meal and walked out hand in hand.
I was jealous.
The sun was getting low as I left Savannah. I wasn’t far from Florida. Tomorrow would be my last day. I got on the Interstate and drove to
Jacksonville, taking an off ramp as I was nearly out of town. I checked into a Hampton Inn. It had been a long good day. I felt a little melancholy. I didn’t want my trip to end but I was ready
for it to be over. Is that crazy or
what? The bed in the Hampton Inn was
soft and inviting. I was out like a
light.
Jacksonville Florida
Elevation 39 feet
Longitude 81.31’20”W
Latitude 30.19’55”N
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