A Savannah Bonaventure

So, we went to Savannah. And I have to say I didn’t fall into mad and unconditional love with the city, but I’m positive I could have if I’d had more than two days in December at my disposal. I definitely came close, though, so I’d say Savannah and I have some unresolved feelings to sort through.

I always feel a little unsettled in the South. Once I get past northern Virginia honestly. I do know that the majority of people are good (I’ve found that Southerners are often much politer than those in the North) and that no one is plotting any crazy antebellum or even ante-Civil Rights Act plot against me, but Confederate flags (and Freedom Party flags – a new discovery) tend to unsettle me a bit. Understandable, I think.

It’s a funny thing to walk ten miles through a city, ogling and drooling over its intensely beautiful history but understand that right below the surface lurks an ugly story. Beautiful squares, twenty-two in total, decorated liberally with old, twisted, and looming oak trees that are shrouded in Spanish moss so thick that when you step on to the brick paths you feel like you’ve entered a forest. And then you spot the grand marble statue at the square’s center and it’s dedicated to a Confederate general. But of course, right? What did I expect? I don’t believe in erasing history, everyone should know who that general was and the rebellious Confederate states he fought for, but I’m not sure I want to see him commemorated valiantly in marble during my morning walk.

Another instance happened when exploring the Bonaventure Cemetery. A strange and hauntingly beautiful attraction. More than a good handful of the men, women and children buried there had death dates stretching back well into the 19th century. Some even had confederate crosses propped up against their tombs. This time, very unsettling. But again, what’s one to expect?

We were in Savannah briefly and spent the majority of our time walking and eating. The most rewarding excursion was our self-guided walking tour through the historic parts of the city. Easily, I scouted out several homes on Bull Street that were just to my liking, any of which I’d gladly take on as my own as soon as I’m able. True standouts, without a question, were the Mercer House and the Armstrong House, but the homes I most desperately wanted to make my own were on sleepy residential streets with orange trees peeking from behind their iron fences. These homes were something else, and I do think I’m someone who can generally appreciate architecture and landscaping as art, but these homes put those crafts into another perspective. True pieces of craftsmanship from the marble steps, to the rod iron gates, to the wonderfully manicured side yards. Coming from a world of suburban housing developments, the attention to detail on these homes was not only immaculate but obscenely romantic. It felt like I was walking through a Pinterest spread. The homes alone let me know that Savannah was alright.

Then the food. Where else can you get dressed up for one of the best and most historic restaurants in town to simultaneously sip on wine and devour a big platter of fried chicken? Cue the Olde Pink House which made all of my dining dreams come true. There were other newer establishments, too, like Collins Quarter, an Australian eatery where we went for a super yummy brunch. Or The Grey, where we sat in at the diner bar the night before sipping on old school cocktails and devouring the chef’s more acidic and mustardy take on the chicken and biscuit. Even so, the overwhelming vibe I got from Savannah was old and established. Certainly, there was vibrancy and life, but it was a sort of gentile neighborly hospitality, even in the midst of the very hip and youthful SCAD residents. Her streets and homes were aged, and you could feel it.

I think what I found most interesting was the almost tangible weight and understanding that we were in an old, old city with old, old history. Strangely, I’ve never gathered that feeling in D.C., but I have in other places like Colorado or across the globe in cities like Rome. Savannah had a personality and a story that leapt out from her streets which I was able to gather in the less than 72 hours we were there. It made for a very personal, and at times strange, encounter that undoubtedly will draw me back over and over again.