I never thought I’d say this about any city in the South, but I think I’m in love with Savannah. Or maybe it’s just the moss.
The old part of Savannah is dripping with Spanish moss, which now officially replaces cooked beans as my “most difficult to photograph” subject. In fact, walking or driving around the 21 central squares of the old town, each a little oasis surrounded by beautiful old houses, it’s hard to make any progress at all, the shutterbug instinct replacing any desire to arrive at a given destination.
The vegetation is lush and exotic everywhere you look,
and the streets are lined with huge old trees, giving everything a dappled appearance.
Some streets are made of brick, or like this one, of old ballast stones from Savannah’s shipping past. Some are made of tabby, an ancient building material that combines sand and crushed oyster shells. There were lots of fine old buildings around every corner, and I wanted them all.
There were symbols of Savannah’s traditional commitment to the arts
and to hospitality.
I’m not sure how pineapples came to be a symbol of hospitality, but that tradition is alive and well in Savannah, as are the famous gas lights.
And speaking of hospitality, when we went up to a rooftop bar overlooking the river and its deep sea port
we shared a table with a young couple, because the charming spot was quite full. We chatted, refreshed ourselves after a hot day of sightseeing, and they picked up the check for our drinks on the way out, not something that happens every day.
On our way out of town we stopped by the famed Bonaventure cemetery, undoubtedly the loveliest I’ve ever seen.
These four little graves speak to the hardships of early Savannah life; each child died before the age of two.
From here we were off to a quick family visit in Atlanta, then back to the Pacific North West, where Beppo, Zazou, and cool weather awaited us. It’s been quite a journey, one I’ll be thinking about for a long time to come, and I thank you for joining us.