Rebecca Koenig

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Ah, Savannah, where Southern hospitality means “get the hell out of here.” 

The city has a haunting quality; at night, the warm breeze blows through the darkened tropical squares, stirring the Spanish moss and the bristly tails of horses pulling empty carriages.  Even the nicest house museums have crumbling, faded exteriors.  You get the sense that the straggly-looking people sitting on park benches and the trim people walking around at midday in their tan summer suits have always lived here, and always will, and that these are actually the same people who lived here two hundred years ago when the town was shiny and new and life on the river brought excitement instead of just mosquito bites. 

Some of the attitudes I encountered certainly haven’t changed much since then.  The docents who lead my tours may have asked if we had any questions, but they certainly were not interested in answering them, even the totally innocuous ones about carpets and woodwork.  They seemed to treat every entreaty for information as a challenge, especially those about slavery.  I’m not going to speculate as to why, though I have my suspicions, but it was striking how little interest they had in deviating from their scripts.

My interactions at museums soured me a bit on the city in general, I think.  Nothing stood out as extraordinary except our weird hotel; the restaurants, museums, and shops were rather mediocre.   My favorite part of the visit was the Surrealism exhibit in the modern art gallery, and that’s not even a permanent one!  I couldn’t help but compare it to Charleston, which does it no favors; while it’s more “real” in the sense that average people seem to live and work and visit, the immediate relief from Charleston’s grandeur wore off into a faint sense of inferiority. 

There is a definite small-town vibe here.  Downtown is just a few blocks, and every museum docent told the same story about how Robert Redford filmed a movie in town last fall.  We had been worried that we’d wasted that fourth day in Charleston and should have spent it in Savannah instead, but after two very efficient days I feel like we covered everything, and would have been at a loss to fill another full day.     

My mom said she’d come back, but I’m not so sure.  Maybe once the memory of how mean some of the old Southern tour guides are fades.  I take issue with how they are portraying their history; they seem stuck in the past and not in a charming way like Charleston.  Step it up, Savannah, and when my appetite for seafood returns, maybe I’ll pass through once more

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FRIDAY, JULY 16.

Breakfast!  Unfortunately, the day went downhill from there.

[CENSORED]

It was with relief that I left that museum.  We next toured the Andrew Low House, where a highly dignified old Southern belle cooed over the furniture and when asked said there were never any slaves there, just servants…we shall see about that!  Other than that glaring omission it was a good tour, though.

Before lunch, we stopped inside the beautiful cathedral.

I was feeling pretty disgusted with Savannah at this point.  I had been force-fed a whole lot of BS about slavery, when it was mentioned at all, and was ready to call it.  But on our way back to the hotel, my mom and I spotted a house museum that hadn’t been online or in the guidebook.  I really didn’t want to do another tour, but I felt guilty, because I was ready to condemn the city’s museums; what if this last one was redemptive? 

So I took the tour, and it was a great thing I did, because it was all about the slaves who lived there and a scandal that occurred when the lady of the house caught her husband in the act with a slave woman.  It was given by young SCAD student, which was a welcome change from the snobby old ladies I’ve been encountering.  A great story, an interesting, honest tour, and the perfect ending to my summer of museums.

That’s right – the Sorrel-Weeds House was my very last tour!  It was with a sigh of relief and a buoyant sense of accomplishment that I settled into my hotel bed for a celebratory nap.

We headed back to the river tonight, and it was bustling with tourists.  My mom and I rode the free five minute ferry across the water and back before grabbing dinner at the Cotton Exchange, an appropriately named former cotton warehouse.  Had I any desire to ever see seafood again it would have been perfect, but my salad was very good too, full of the glazed Georgia pecans all the candy stores here sell.

Some brief stops in the t-shirt, candy, and art shops nearby.  The praline samples they give out here are infinitely more delicious than the ones Andy and I tried in New Orleans – hmph!  We passed lots of Friday night revelers with their clear plastic cups of what could only have been alcohol.  The Savannah riverfront definitely has a beach town feel.  

Packed up back at the hotel, excited to finally head home!

Recommended Visiting: Sorrel-Weeds House, though expensive

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THURSDAY, JULY 15.

Woke up and hit the hot road underneath the swinging Spanish moss.  Damnation I’m tired of sweating.

My first impression of Savannah is that it’s more real than Charleston.  It’s not so immaculate, there are actual people who appear to be living and working here.  It’s not a resort, it’s an authentic tiny city, with traffic and commerce and poor people and middle-class people, albeit on a much littler scale than in DC or Philly.  It was kind of refreshing, actually, after squinting for four days from Charleston’s gleam.

It’s still lovely, though.  Savannah was designed in the 1700s by Oglethorpe with public park-esque squares every few blocks, which take up a one block by one block area.  They are filled with huge live oaks, whose gnarled branches are covered in romantic Spanish moss, benches, fountains, monuments, and historical signs.  These serve as welcome oases when one is walking in the heat of the day, and they’re unlike anything else in any other city.

We toured the Owens-Thomas house first, where we got off to a great start by pestering the cashier lady about the ticket price.  Because the Telfair art museum owns the house, they sell you multi-site passes that include a few other Telfair museums.  My mom insisted there was a cheaper ticket just for the Owens-Thomas house, her guidebook said so, come on.  The lady was just plain mean; I know it’s like the worst thing in the world to argue policy with a cash register minion who has no control and is painfully aware of their own powerlessness, but she didn’t have to try to eat our souls with her steely eyes.

The tour was informative, and started in the slave quarters, so they get points for that, but the tour guide was the chilliest witch ever.  They seem to be operating on a “we encourage questions but don’t dare ask them” policy here at the Owens Thomas house. 

We next headed over to Food Chanel goddess Paula Dean’s restaurant, a must-visit, to try to get a table for lunch.  It’s so popular that the hostess sits outside starting at 9:30 am and takes reservations, which must be made same-day in-person in order to be fair.  We got there at noon and there was a sign out front that said “Booked for Lunch,” but the hostess told us she’d seat us at 2:15.  So we put our names down and ran off in search of another museum.

The Harper-Fowlkes House was kind of a bust, but that’s okay, just another data point.  We then checked out the Telfair art museum since we had that multi-site pass, and it was very small and also kind of a bust.  But you can’t beat air conditioning! 

Back to the restaurant, which is called The Lady and Sons.  It’s three floors of soul food glory, and they must run it like the Navy, with so many tourists trying to get in and all the waitresses sporting huge hands-free walky-talkies and giving directions like, “take this card up to the third floor, give it to the lady, she will put you in line, then you will be seated.” 

Neither my mom nor I watch the Food Chanel regularly, and the only times we’ve seen Paula Dean’s show we’ve gaped in horror as she puts whole sticks of butter into recipes that should never have full sticks of butter.  (We once saw her cook hamburgers that way). 

But it’s all supposed to be delicious.  And I hadn’t eaten in 24 hours, which happened to fit into Operation Undo The Damage, but also meant that anything should have tasted phenomenal.  But I am sad to report that it was just plain good.  It’s no more expensive than any old restaurant, and you do get the cool factor of eating somewhere that a foodie celebrity owns, but it wasn’t fantastic.  I will say, though, that the sweet potatoes rocked.

Our next stop was inevitable: The Juliette Low House.  For the uninitiated, this is also known as Girl Scout Mecca.  For about one hundred years ago, Ms. Low started the organization that revolutionized little girl extracurricular activities and brought cookies to your door whether you want them or not each February.  Juliette Low started the Girl Scouts.

I had never been, for the reason that my GS troop was awesome and rogue and didn’t do anything by the rules.  We made a trip to Georgia, alright, but we went to Atlanta and tried all the sodas at Coca Cola World while our lamer scout sisters went to Savannah. 

Today was the day of my hajj.  It was almost too adorable to see them all running around in their sashes and their moms/troop leaders trying to corral them into a manageable herd.  The tour was fine, the garden was nice, and yes, you snarky jokesters, I DID buy an official Juliette Low House pin, thank you very much!

Having exhausted ourselves, we hitched a ride back to the hotel on the free downtown bus, which was a terrifying experience because the driver ripped around corners like we were being chased by the devil.  When a man in the back muttered about the jerky ride she yelled back, “Don’t you be dissrespectin’ me!”  He shut up.

After a nap, we took the hotel shuttle back downtown to the modern art building of the Telfair museum, which stays open late on Thursdays.  There was an exhibit on Surrealist photography, WIN!  I love it so much, it’s so fascinating and revelatory and great job, Man Ray and friends, for showing us how to see the sublime.

We walked through the City Market area, which was full of people enjoying themselves. 

The heat had died down a bit, which was wonderful.  We walked along the Savannah River and saw the sunset.  The street along the waterfront is touristy, with bar after gift shop after candy store, and it was kind of nice after the relentless refinement of Charleston! 

Took the hotel shuttle home, then walked to Kroger’s, a grocery store, which we happened to see as we drove past.  Hallelujah, fruit!  Tomorrow, we shall have breakfast.

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Everything about this town is so elegant!

Like I wrote on Saturday, my first drive through Charleston took my breath away.  The entire city is right out of the 1850s; the decline that set in after the Civil War and lasted well into the 20^th century prevented modernization and new construction, and the damage done by Hurricane Hugo in 1989 spurred the restoration of the centuries-old buildings.  Preserved by poverty and restored by weather, Charleston itself is a veritable history museum inhabited by modern people. 

And how they live!  The entire city is composed of mansion after mansion, tightly packed from the Cooper and Ashley Rivers outward.  They are dazzling in the July sunlight, surrounded by huge verandas and palmetto trees, the symbol of South Carolina.  Even the (inevitably haute couture) shops and (inevitably opulent) restaurants were operating in glorious former residences, or at least in handsome former cotton warehouses.  There is not an ugly building to be found, thanks to the city government’s stringent preservation code. 

It is exceptionally peaceful amongst the mansions.  Except for one lady I saw leave to walk her dog, nobody ever went in, and nobody ever came out.  In fact, the entire city appeared to be made up of polite, well-heeled residents and tourists.  Sun dresses reigned supreme.  Everyone was blond and tan.  The seafood was fabulous, the art galleries were fabulous.  It was perfect.

Which was what started to eat at me.  There was absolutely nothing out of place or out of order, not even a darkened corner that made my pulse quicken.  In the modern connotation of the word, there is nothing urban about Charleston.  No diversity, no socio-economic range.  It was like utopia as envisioned by a Southern sorority.  The black women selling their famous baskets should have added a splash of whimsy to the scene, but they too were just part of the highly polished charm.  They took credit cards.

It was ideal for a few days of mother-daughter sightseeing, and I think it would make for a very romantic weekend.  Were I a very wealthy retiree, I would move here in a heartbeat.  But I think it would slowly smother me at this point in my life.  There doesn’t appear to be anything to do other than tour museums, which, believe it or not, is not my only interest!  Certainly not anything to do on a college kid’s budget.  And it’s so very very proper; sometimes you just gotta run around with a bad hair day and speak your mind, and I don’t get the feeling that that is welcome in Charleston.

Is it the most beautiful city in America?  It’s definitely in the running.  Did I have a good time?  YES.  Would I return?  Certainly!  But I think there is a funkier, more vibrant life to be lived elsewhere, where the edges are rough and the streets not quite so still.

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WEDNESDAY, JULY 14.

I felt more than a little stir-crazy this morning as we walked out onto the same scene for the fourth time.  As lovely as Charleston is, it can start to feel a little stifling, a sense compounded by the relentless heat and humidity.  The beautiful mansions blur together, the food is really too rich for repeated consumption, and I didn’t think it was possible but the amount of history to absorb here is almost overwhelming!

We packed up and checked out of our room, then walked to the Old Slave Mart, a slave-trade museum housed in a former slave auction house.  It was well done and interesting.

Then we attempted to do this walking tour created by a lady in the 1930s that takes one through church yards and past iron gates, but the success of the path depends on all the churches to keep their gates unlocked, and we ended up getting stuck in the Lutheran graveyard until a kind church lady responded to us banging on the back door.

We went to see the 19^th century Jewish Temple, then had lunch at 82 Queen, the restaurant where my parents ate when they came to Charleston years ago, awwww.  It was delicious!  Eating out in Charleston at lunch is a lot less expensive, formal, and crowded, and you get the same wonderful food.

The last remaining activity to complete was seeing the big market in the center of town, where basket weavers and craftspeople of all kinds set up their stalls every day.  There was a lot of silver jewelry and African knickknacks and art prints that were diverting to look at for a while.  But we had more time left than we knew what to do with, so found an air conditioned lobby and rested.

I was determined to avoid another infuriatingly expensive cab ride, so we figured out how to use the bus system to get to the Amtrak station.  It was a grueling process, waiting for the bus in the heat, lifting the luggage up and down the bus steps, toting everything a few blocks to wait for the next bus, etc.  One of the downsides to bus travel is that, if you’re out of town, you really have no idea when to pull the rope and request a stop, because you don’t know which cross streets are close to your destination and you don’t want to pull too early and have to walk extra blocks.  We would have passed right by where we needed to get off if a nice man hadn’t pointed to our luggage and asked if we were looking for the train, because if so, you have to get off here.  Thank you sir!

We rested our limbs in the Amtrak station, where I put in a call to catch up with Sir Andy.  The ride was freezing; as my mom noted, you can tell the train experts from the novices because the former group has brought their own blankets.

We arrived in Savannah two hours later and took a cab to Forsyth Park, off of which sat our hotel.  (I swear before this summer I had taken maybe two cabs in my entire life; it’s still so strange so say!  I actually feel a little defensive – I am not a cab-person!)  The hotel is known for its eclectic collection of art, and as we prowled the first floor we discovered display cases of women’s hats and big paintings of African wildlife, wine bottles, and Italian villas.  I think the idea is that you can meet with the hotel’s art dealer and purchase a piece…very strange.  The hallway to our room was lined with grotesque portraits done in Crayola colors.

Our room was stranger still – two beds with faux fur rug-comforters, olive green velvet curtains, and candelabras instead of lamps.  You could see into the bathroom by opening two big cabinet doors next to the nearest bed; on the other side of the doors was a big deep bathtub.  Bizarre all around!  

Too full from lunch to find dinner, we just went to bed!

Recommended Eating: 82 Queen

Recommended Visiting: Old Slave Mart

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TUESDAY, JULY 13.

Started at the Heyward-Washington House this morning, where I FINALLY got a true Charleston accent!  The tour was given by a round little snowy owl of a woman, not five feet tall, who told us about the “howse” and its “thorafayares” and how it survived the big 1989 “hurrakin” and the “wawah ba-tween the states.”  We were invited to “lingah in the gaaahden” afterward.

I feel as though I’ve been a little jaded, having worked at Mt. Vernon, because it’s just not that exciting to me to find (yet another) spot George Washington has visited.  He rented the house for a week in 1791, and they’re still not over it.  In the Episcopal Church a few blocks away, they tell you which pew he sat in.  In the park across the street, they have a big statue of him.  I love the man, but really!  I hate to break it to you, house museums, but ALL of you have stories about when “George Washington slept here.”

Next we toured the Nathaniel Russell house, which was incredible.  Definitely the most beautiful interior out of the five we’ve seen here, with a three story totally free-standing spiral staircase.  I have a really powerful staircase thing, and this one stole my heart.  Not the best tour in town, but you MUST see the elaborate woodwork, cheery paint, and beautiful windows in this museum.

We went to the “Four Corners of Law,” an intersection so named because you can get married, divorced, be tried, and experience God’s will all right there at the four main buildings.  We went in the beautiful old post office as it started to pour; they really don’t make buildings with as much care and skill as they used to.  I was wooed by the Gullah basket weavers who make and sell their wares on the post office steps.

Lunch was at a tiny French restaurant that consists of just one long counter in a narrow room.  A Frenchwoman, presumably the owner, took our orders – two great accents in one day!  It was really good and inexpensive and authentic and fun. 

Naptime, then another walk about town.  At this point we’ve seen most of what there is to see, so we are kind of just retracing our steps taking new photos and reading historical markers we’d missed.  We did look at the big market in the center of town, where people sell their crafts.  Lots more baskets! 

We had dinner at Blossom, a really nice restaurant just a few down from Magnolia’s and owned by the same people.  It was lovely inside, and we sat under the big skylight with a view of the whole dining room.  It’s fun to imagine the back-story of all the other diners: the young couples and the old man with two old lady dates and the three businessmen and the group of middle-aged friends.  More great seafood tonight – will the food here never cease to amaze? 

Recommended Eating: Fast and French, Blossom

Recommended Sweet-grass basket shopping: Four Corners of Law

Recommended Visiting: Nathaniel Russell House, Old Post Office

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MONDAY, JULY 12.

A busy and efficient day!  We rode the bus-disguised-as-a-trolley uptown to the Charleston visitor center and our first stop of the morning, the Manigault House.  It’s a lovely house but we had a strangely rushed tour.  I did learn why Charleston has a French Quarter; after the Edict of Nantes protecting Calvinists was revoked in France in the 17^th century, 1,500 Huguenots fled to the city and built homes and churches there.

We explored the Charleston Museum across the street, which has a truly bizarre collection.  It was started by city residents in the 1770s and developed over the centuries, so its exhibits are eclectic.  It was an interesting study in how the things people value and deem museum-worthy change over time; in modern times, for example, a room full of plaster reproductions of Egyptian statues would be considered tacky, but at some point it must have been thrilling.  The collections of Southern wedding dresses, Charleston silver, and Low Country history made more sense.

We had lunch at a sandwich shop across the street, then went to the Aiken-Rhett house, where I had an interview scheduled.  It was a GREAT interview, with a really open and honest museum director who spoke candidly about Charlestonians’ attitudes about talking of slavery.  Our conversation really renewed my enthusiasm for researching the subject; as much as I like history, it’s how people understand and manipulate and revise it that’s most fascinating to me.

My mom and I took the audio tour of the rambling old house, which the Historic Charleston Foundation has preserved rather than restored.  That means that crumbling walls and peeling paint and broken furniture have been stabilized, but not put back as they would have been when the house was first inhabited.  This has the effect of making every room a little spooky, like a deteriorating memory of something once grand.  It also made the slave quarters powerfully realistic.  For the real history of Charleston, this is the place to visit. 

We finished up with the movie at the visitor’s center called “Forever Charleston.”  It was half Epcot-esque romanticized profile, half-tourism ad, but we did learn some new things.  I feel like I’ve had so many facts crammed in my head in the past two days alone!

We rode the trolley-bus back the long way so we could see all the people and stores along the main shopping street and also drive along the Ashley River.  A brief stop at the hotel, then we ventured into fancy-food territory at Magnolia, dressed appropriately.  We tried their rendition of the famous Southern fried green tomato.  One bite and my mother said, “This is possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”  I concur; it was on a bed of cheddar grits in a tomato sauce, with layers of salty ham and topped with super sweet glazed onions.  The rest of the meal was good, but that was the killer.

It started to rain, so we digested in the hotel for a while.  Then we walked along Waterfront Park, which is half a block away along the Cooper River and has two big fountains that, unexpectedly, kids are encouraged to play in.  We’ve seen lots swimming around in bathing suits. I think it’s really sweet that the city provides something like that, kind of like the water feature in Millennium Park in Chicago.  We walked out to the end of the pier, where we saw a pod of dolphins swimming around the river!  Sitting on a pier porch swing, we watched brightly-lit boats pass and chatted as night fell.

Recommeded Eating: Fried Green Tomatoes at Magnolia

Recommended Visting: Aiken-Rhett House

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Now that my trip is close to its conclusion, I figure it's time to start the reflection process.  Here are five questions submitted by reader (and travelbesty) Andy, with my replies:

1. What city surprised you the most?  Why?

Nashville and Charleston have surprised me the most.  A lot of that had to do with the fact that those were two of the cities I'd never visited, so I didn't have any experience with them, but they also turned out to be very different from what I'd anticipated.  I had Nashville pegged as a hill-billy haven, but it turned out to have this cool Southern hipster streak and a lot of fun things for young people to do.  I wasn't expecting Charleston to be too different from Philadelphia or Boston except with a Southern flavor.  It's actually a jaw-dropping beauty that feels more like a large, elegant river town than a major city.  It's like Colonial Williamsburg except a century older and with real people living in mansions instead of with interpretors living in little box houses. 

2. What was the best bed you've slept in while you've been away from home?

 
My friend Katie's roommate's bed in Nashville was the most comfortable bed I have ever slept in!

3. If you had to wake up every morning and see the subject of one of your photographs out your window every day, which would you choose?

It would be hard to beat this view of Central Park:

4. What was your best use of $10.00 or less during your travels thus far?

I am rather in love with this little print I bought from a street artist in Boston for $7.  But that North End cannolo from Boston was darn delicious too.  And those beignets...

Shoes.  I always pack too many shoes.  Even when I went home and unpacked all my stuff and had the opportunity to repack, I kept putting in too many shoes!  But you know what, you never know when you're going to need this pair or that :)

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SUNDAY, JULY 11.

We spent this Sunday morning at a different kind of holy place: Fort Sumter, where the Civil War began.  Though not directly related to my research, the site was where the sectional strife caused in part by slavery was manifested in armed conflict, and it is an essential experience for every American.

Our ferry to the island fort left at 9:30, and the ride across Charleston Harbor was nice, if cloudy.  A very animated recorded narrative was piped throughout the boat, telling the story of the 1861 Confederate siege of Fort Sumter, a Federal fort, which constituted the first battle of the war.  We disembarked onto the fort, which is a big crumbling brick hexagon in the middle of the water.  A pretty young fast-talking park ranger shouted the history of the site to us.  (Every park ranger I’ve seen lately has been a young woman, and I can’t believe they haven’t all mutinied yet about the unabashedly ugly wool uniforms they have to wear.  Teddy Roosevelt himself must have designed them – bully!)  Then we walked around the fort reading signs and looking at canon, before going into the nice indoor museum. 

For the life of me, I cannot muster an interest in military history.  It’s even mildly distasteful to me.  I think I have an internal block that prevents me from understanding troop maneuvers and flanks and artillery – battles simply don’t make any sense to me.  Why would you stick around to be fired at?  I would turn around and leave!  I can never get into the play by play of a battle because I can’t get past the question of why two groups of men are standing around pointing guns at each other anyway.  It may be cowardice on my part, but I can’t see the logic in standing in a line in a little uniform waiting to die.  War is inefficient, expensive, deadly; why couldn’t generals just sit down and talk it out?   

But I did appreciate the feel of place, and it was with a somber feeling that I climbed back onto the boat.  A container ship overtook us on the return trip, and my mom got all excited and demanded to take a picture in front of it, because her work at the Labor Department has to do with shipmen who get injured on container ships. 

We had lunch at Fleet Landing, a bright box of a restaurant jutting out into the Cooper River.  I got my crab in today!  Then back to the hotel for a heat-break, before heading to the Edmondston Alston house museum.  It’s part of the row of incredible mansions along the Battery, a stretch of parkland right off the water.  Some of the most beautiful man-made scenery in America, I think, with huge early 19^th century homes embraced by wrap-around porches and smothered by crepe myrtles.

The tour was great and the house was magnificent!  Such woodwork and big bright windows and the view of the harbor! 

(Sometimes I wish I was less aware that such beauty was made possible by slave labor.)

We walked through street upon street of similarly decadent homes.  It was such a quiet, hot, sunny day, so peaceful and still, it reminded me of Beacon Hill in Boston, with million dollar mansions instead of million dollar row houses. 

Tonight we walked around more neighborhoods, passing a couple of huge pretty churches.  We nearly skipped dinner (which would have been good for us actually haha *sigh*) but found a salad and pizza place that was not too upscale for our tourist garb.

Still in love with this city!   

Recommended Eating: Fleet Landing

Recommended Visiting: Fort Sumter, Edmondston-Alston House

Recommended Walking: along the Battery

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SATURDAY, JULY 10.

My train ride this afternoon from Richmond to Charleston was long, cold, and not especially picturesque.  With a belly full of old-people breakfast from my grandparents’ neighborhood morning social, I climbed aboard and was given an assigned seat because it was so packed. 

That put me next to DeShawn, a super cute seven year old from Philly.  Across the aisle sat his grandmother and little brother.  I was impressed with how still the two boys managed to keep, especially considering they’d gotten on hours before me.  DeShawn would look over at me and when I looked back he pretended I wasn’t there.  Eventually, he said, “you goin’ to Charlestix?”  I nearly died.  “Yes, that’s where I’m going!” I said.  He broke into a grin. “Us too!”

My train buddy slept for several hours and I read a Bill Bryson book I’ve been nursing for months; it’s funny to read someone else’s travelogue after I’ve been keeping one of my own.  At one point a train employee passed by, and DeShawn, who had clearly already made his acquaintance, yelled out, “When we getting’ to Charlestix?  I’m going to Charlestix!” until his grandmother shushed him. 

Approaching our stop after seven hours, the boys were ready to be OFF that train.  DeShawn’s little brother sidled up to me and tried to charm me into letting him play games or watch a movie on my computer, but I withstood those big brown eyes and we just chatted instead.  He kept insisting that I had a car, despite my assurances to the contrary!  DeShawn whispered to him to ask my name, which I provided.  The three of them were headed off the train when I heard one of them bellow back, “BYE BECKY!”

With the help of a sassy lady out front I snagged a cab and we drove downtown.  The ride cost me more than my plane ticket to Boston had; I simply cannot tolerate the absence of a subway system.  But the driver gave me a great little tour as we headed toward the hotel, pointing out his favorite restaurants and history highlights. 

As soon as we got off the highway, my jaw dropped.  Charleston is stunning.  Huge palmetto palm trees line each block, whose every building is beautiful and at least two centuries old.  We passed stately old churches and a big outdoor market, where an evening art show was taking place.  I stopped listening to the driver as the scenery grew increasingly unbelievable.

I was dropped off at the hotel, where my mom was waiting out front.  It was great to see her and I started babbling about how excited I was and how gorgeous the town is.  After putting my stuff away we returned immediately to the streets, where my mother led me around all the places she’d explored earlier today after her plane landed.  It is all wrought iron railings and cobblestones and pristine Greek Revival architecture; every single building we passed had a historic marker.  Many people on the street were dressed to the nines; apparently, my mom whispered, people here still “dress for dinner.” 

We browsed the art show, where women were making and selling the famous Charleston sweet grass baskets.  They are truly an art form, and the price reflects it; when I asked how much a thimble-sized basket was, the craftswoman grinned and launched into an explanation of how the smallest ones are the hardest to make. 

We ate dinner at Toast, a cheery but quiet restaurant off the busier streets that didn’t require such refined attire.  I decided to continue my breakfast kick with the peach French toast that my mom had had for lunch, but wished I had gone for the crab cake sandwich after I tried hers, it was so good.

We took a long route back to the hotel.  Heat lightening cracked open the sky as we passed a verdant street; it illuminated the giant clock face on the cathedral in the distance.  Passing a lovely back alley whose tropical plants were backlit, I felt like we were at an exclusive Floridian resort instead of in a city. 

My mom told me with a crooked grin that the hotel had a “sherry nightcap” hour.  WHAT.  We made our way over to the back room and sure enough, there was a decanter of dark red liquid and crystal glasses awaiting enjoyment.  One sip of hers was enough to send me pucker-faced away!

I have never been surrounded by such gentility in my whole life.  This city is not merely charming, it’s refined, elegant.  Its French architectural influence and steamy climate are reminiscent of New Orleans, but the atmosphere is completely different. 

If New Orleans quit partying, moved out of its parents' house, and went to charm school – that’s Charleston.

Recommended Eating: Toast

Recommended Walking: French Quarter

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FRIDAY, JULY 9.

Today was a day to hide under a rock.  Unfortunately, it was also the last day to see Richmond.  Research waits for no melancholy, so my grandpa and I drove over for a museum marathon. 

We started with the Wickham house, one of my first house museum loves.  It’s a Federal beauty with a curved flying staircase to die for.  Our tour guide was the most Virginian man I’ve ever met; his name was Wyndham Anderson and his drawl was unbelievable.  I thought he and my grandpa were going to chat for the entire day, but eventually we were released and had lunch in the café behind the building, along with the entire faculty of VCU’s medical school.

The Marshall House was good, until my grandpa totally ruined the objectivity of the tour by mocking something related to the presentation of slavery as “politically correct.”  *sigh*

We drove up Cary Street to get to the last stop, past tons of funky shops and restaurants.  I’d like to hang out in Richmond for a while to experience all of its cool stuff.  So many haters be hatin’ on Richmond for no good reason!

The Wilton House was lovely, and our tour was given by the most adorable ginger high school girl in the whole world.  Guaranteed smiles all around.  And it was really nice inside, with the prettiest robin’s egg blue bedroom.

Back in Williamsburg, I went to Jamestown Beach with Pretlow and his friend Michael for a game of Frisbee-in-the-water.  I just do not understand the appeal of the flying disk, and therefore am really not good at it, but they were forgiving and taught me how to throw a “flick.”  We finished the afternoon by sitting on the grassy knoll and watching the waves lap in.       

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MONDAY, JUNE 5.

Today, I ventured behind Confederate lines. 

There's no better place to kick off a Southern tour than Richmond, which served as the capital of the Confederacy for the majority of American Civil War.  Since it's a Federal holiday, not many museums were open, but what does The White House of the Confederacy care about union observances?  So off to Jefferson Davis' house I went.

Clearly, I'm having a little trouble remaining unbiased.  Not good research practice.  As this summer has shown, no region of the country is exempt from the stain of slavery...but at least the North has the decency to be ashamed!

My 10:30 am tour was well attended; there were about fifteen guests in addition to my grandfather and me.  It was an excellent tour, well-paced and very informative.  Too bad there was no mention of the fact that slaves lived and worked in the mansion until my grandpa raised the question at the very end.  *Breathes* That's been the case at several other institutions too, though.

I had lunch back in Williamsburg, where I'm staying with my grandparents.  Rachel, Pretlow, Mustacheod Mitch, and I trolled Richmond Road for a breakfast restaurant; for those of you unfamiliar with the 'burg, this is like looking for coal in a coalmine.  The options were overwhelming, but just as hunger peaked we spotted a place called "The Astronomical Pancake House." 

Irresitible.  We found a table and tried to decide what to order; menu items included "Astronmical Waffles," an "Astrononmical Burger," and the suspicious "Mellow Pancakes."  We all wanted omlettes but once I spotted the kid across the room eating a pancake that was the size of a dinner plate, I knew we had to test out the name of the place.  So one larger-than-legal Astronomical Pancake accompanied our meal, and it took the four of us to finish it.

After lunch my grandparents drove me to Christopher Newport University, where I was meeting coolest-girl-ever Kim.  We toured her unbelievably nice college apartment, where she has her own room and bathroom and shares a full kitchen, living room, and laundry machines with three of her friends; I was ready to move into her walk-in closet.  Then the two of us drove to VIRGINIA BEACH and spent the late afternoon in the ocean.

Hours later, we had dinner with her family at their home, then saw The A-Team at Lynnhaven Mall. 

Richmond, Williamsburg, Newport News, Virginia Beach all in one day...summer is sweet. 

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Stay tuned for the videos!

Annual Williamsburg Hosptial Ladies Auxiliary Ice Cream Social: 

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I had a great time in Nashville.  A lot of that had to do with the excellent company I kept, but the city itself was charming, at the least the narrow slice of it I experienced. 

Before I arrived, I expected Nashville to be like a scene out of a country music video, with bleached blondes in denim and boots and their male urban cowboy counterparts.  What I found instead was a Southern outpost of indie culture thriving amid boutiques and coffeehouses.  Katie came to Belmont a country music lover, but told me that she and the friends she’s made attend lots of indie shows and that she doesn’t even listen to country anymore.  The people I passed were more likely to be wearing skinny jeans than ten-gallon hats.  I spent most of my time near the campuses of Belmont and Vanderbilt rather than downtown or in the tourist areas, and, granted, the night I spent along Broadway I passed many boot stores and country bars, but the city is definitely more complex and interesting than its stereotypes suggest. 

I wish I had had the opportunity to experience live music while in town.  Nashville is known as Music City, and evidence of its deep connection to the aural art form was everywhere: on Music Row, a street lined with tiny recording studios, on signs for weekly bluegrass performances, even in the airport, where a three-piece band was setting up in a restaurant.  One of the city’s most famous icons is the Grand Ole Opry.  Even though Nashville offers more than just twangy cowboy stuff, I feel like I missed an essential part of the culture by not listening to a live country set.  We did try the night we arrived, but no bar with live music was admitting people under 21 years of age.     

Experiencing a city more as a local student than as a tourist was a nice change of pace.  I have no understanding of the public transportation system and didn’t see many of the most-hyped attractions, but I got to sample restaurants and stores and clubs that “real” Nashville citizens enjoy.

Unrelated to the city itself, my time with Katie and her friends motivated me to reevaluate my attitude toward college and how I spend my time while there.  No concrete thoughts yet, but I’m excited to think more about it.

I would love to go back to Nashville, and I recommend it to every traveler.  It’s more laid-back than Northeastern cities, has a less-hyped but no less interesting history, and is charming in a more unpolished, real way.  And, if you just gotta, you will not be out of place wearing your cowboy boots.

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THURSDAY, JULY 1.

It was hard waking up this morning, but it was my last day in Nashville and there was no time to waste.  I dropped Katie at work, then packed up my stuff and went back to 21^st Street in search of lunch.  I was extremely tempted to go back inside Pancake Pantry, despite my determination not to repeat experiences, and I probably would have done it had the line to get in not been out the door and around the corner. 

Instead, I patronized Jackson’s, which Daniel had recommended.  It was only 11 am and I was the first one there, and it was fun to watch the heavily tattooed wait staff tease each other behind the bar.  I had a good guacamole BLT, and, though intrigued, passed on the fried Twinkies and cookie dough “eggrolls” I had heard praised.

Picked up a sandwich for dinner later at Provence, the bakery that no longer employs Daniel, then drove out to Belle Meade Mansion.  It was one of the best museum experiences I’ve had all summer.  There was a slave quarters building from 1830 with a thoroughly researched text-and-photograph exhibit inside, and the house tour was exemplary, given by an articulate guide who provided balanced information about the furnishings, the family, the thoroughbred horse racing history, the slaves, and also made sure to answer guests’ questions.  The weather was glorious, which made sitting on a rocking chair on the big front porch lovely.  There are also free wine tastings in a little building on the grounds, since the non-profit has started making wine as the family did a century ago.  Anyone visiting Nashville MUST stop by Belle Meade; it provides a great context for the city besides being a beautiful home and having an interesting history and horse racing association. 

Back to Katie’s, where I finished packing.  We braved rush hour traffic to get to the airport, where I thanked her and said goodbye.  My flight was uneventful, and somewhere between central and eastern time I watched the sunset from above the clouds.

Recommended Eating: Jackson’s, Provence

Recommended Visiting: Belle Meade Mansion

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