“Social Irrigation”: Thursday Night Cocktails at The Atlanta Botanical Gardens

“And that’s what we call ‘Sex in the Garden.’” My head jerks in surprise; then I realize I’ve just overheard a grinning bartender suggest a drink recipe to a couple on my right. David and I are standing on a brick pathway in the Edible Garden, noses appreciatively sniffing at an air scented with fresh tomatoes, bell peppers, herbs, and the juicy catch of hangar steak curled in lettuce leaves and dolloped with a scoop of kimchi so spicy that my sinuses are howling ten yards away. It’s a Thursday night, part of the Botanical Gardens’ “Cocktails in the Garden,” and tonight’s alliteratively liquor-based theme is Shots in the Shade. Just ahead of us, under a black and white canopy, another bartender sits surrounded by Mason jars filled with vodka and various fruits and vegetables, explaining the difference between infused vodkas and flavored vodkas. For a dollar each, David and I purchase tastes of two different vodkas—I the sweet smelling pineapple vodka, and he the botanical vodka. A second later we swap. The pineapple is too cloying for my taste, and the botanical, David cites, isn’t sweet enough. That may be, but even my untrained nose can detect the hints of mint and rose in the tiny tasting cup. Delicious.

But we didn’t purchase our tickets simply to come and sip vodka. This find, one of my favorites on Atlanta Groupon, cost me $9, a hair of the price of regular admission ($18.95). Before moving, David and I did research and created a list of things we knew we wanted to check out in our future city. Upon arrival, we quickly had to scratch a number of them off, due to the steep prices of local attractions (over $20 to visit the zoo!) But by keeping a close eye on local deal sites, I’d finagled us in for cheap.

The gardens are plush and wildly colorful. One of my favorite sections are the greenhouses, which host whole rooms of various orchids and hot-house plants, as well as vertical greenery that makes the walls look soft and colorful. The humid air and colorful blooms make us instantly nostalgic for our time in Thailand, where every Saturday, merchants filled the sidewalks hawking the speckled flowers, and every yard had a tree hung with coconut planters filled with orchids.

A section of the greenhouses is home to an active amphibian conservation program with live displays in the Fuqua Conservatory. The collaborative amphibian conservation efforts between the Atlanta Botanical Garden and Zoo Atlanta can be seen here. We spend several minutes peeking into glass tanks to spot the tiny, neon frogs.

Outside, hidden in the foliage, are different sculptures and glassworks, part of the Garden’s efforts to marry natural art with fine art. We sip a second beverage while seated on a comfortable wooden bench in front of a frog pond bedecked in lilies, contemplating whether the “Frog Baby” sculpture in front of us is male or female. From the center of the gardens come the first strains of Lethal Rhythms Atlanta DJs. As we meander closer, we see bar tables set with roses and hydrangeas (bit of a wedding feel) surrounded by a gorgeous blown glass fountain—apparently the residing piece from Dale Chihuly’s exhibition back in 2004 (the Botanical Gardens do a fair share of art exhibitions and special events—more than I’d’ve guessed for a Garden). It is definitely whimsical, almost amphibious.

Another high point of our visit was strolling along the Canopy Walk, a 600-foot-long skywalk that allows the visitors to stroll through the treetops of the Storza Woods from around 40 feet in the air. The vantage was definitely unique, and apparently, no other city boasts such a treetop sidewalk.

Cocktails in the Garden is set to run until the end of September. Check out the Botanical Gardens website here for more info: http://www.atlantabotanicalgarden.org/events-classes/events/cocktails-garden.

“Singing ‘What Kinda Gone’: David is Appalled” : Friday Night at America’s Largest Dance Hall

Being from the South, David has done a great many things that I have not. This includes, but is not limited to: catching fireflies, sipping water from Mason jars, shooting rifles, using “mater” and “tater” to describe vegetables…the list goes on. In fact, he has a pretty healthy appreciation for most things associated with the American South, barring, of course, ignorance, racial intolerance, teenage parenthood, and apparently, most country music.

This past weekend we got a full-on education not just in country music, but country dancin’ too. Our good friend from Boston and recent Nashville transplant, Dana, came to visit. And as Dana is always down for a “G with an O, O with a D, T with an I and an M and an E” (that spells Good Time for all of you unfamiliar with Alan Jackson), we were more than happy to let her plan our evening. Turns out that a band she follows in Nashville was having a concert just outside of Atlanta at a venue called Wild Bill’s (http://www.wildbillsatlanta.com/), “America’s largest dance club and concert hall.” We agreed to go, if for no other reason than to see if that claim was truthful.

The club was large (though it is still dubious whether it is, in fact, the largest), the drinks were good, the band played well. But what really fascinated me was the dancing. I’ve never been to a nightclub where people aren’t dancing in pairs, or really even solo, but line-dancing together. Granted, I earned my Girl Scout square-dancing badge, but that was many moons ago, and my cowboy boots had forgotten pretty much everything beyond the Electric Slide. After an hour or two, I hit the floor and start following along. Heel toe, heel toe, rock step, kick… it was quick and exhausting, but I found myself laughing like crazy as I tried to keep up. Closer inspection of my fellow dancers revealed stylistic quirks, and one couple broke the mold and began to freestyle in a corner. It was surprisingly graceful. I asked David if he wanted to dance with me, and received an emphatic head shake no (he changed his mind when the music shifted from Honky Tonk Badonkadonk* to more mainstream pop; even I was slightly put off by Trace Adkin’s attempt at a rap video).

At a break in the dancing, Dana, David, our roommate Michael and I sat around a bar table catching up. Over the speakers suddenly came Chris Cagle’s “What Kinda Gone” and three of us (guess which three) burst into song. The look on my dear boyfriend’s face was hysterical—shock mingled with mild perturbation. Dana translated it into “appalled.” She then turned to me in surprise. “I didn’t know you liked country music.” It’s a statement I’ve heard quite a bit. In Boston and California, my immediate response is almost defensive—“It’s my guilty pleasure.” As in, I don’t listen to it all the time, isn’t it silly of me?

But down here, where it just makes me one with the rest of ‘em, I finally had the guts to reply, “Yeah, I love it!”

**Also, you're going to need to watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vNVguvNE7qc

"Will Cure All Ailments (For A Time)": Savannah, GA

Trees draped in Spanish moss. Soft, buttery sunshine slipping through branches to frolic on cobblestone streets. A green and yellow trolley, slipping up the street on shining metal tracks. A three-tiered steamboat, strung with lights. The hint of jazz and blues filtered through glass windows. The crisp, sweet taste of a handmade praline dissolving on your tongue.

Savannah welcomed us in the early afternoon. We were fresh from the beaches of Hilton Head Island, South Carolina—an enjoyable two-day stint that kept us busy (and in the water) in near-melting temperatures. The drive from South Carolina back into Georgia was riddled with country music radio, towering pines, and small peach stands (South Carolina actually outranks Georgia in terms of peach production). Our first exposure to Savannah was a-typical. We’d booked a room at the Thunderbird Inn, a delightfully retro joint right off the highway. With its iconic looming neon sign, fresh-faced staff, and boutique interiors, we knew we’d gotten a steal-of-a-deal (thanks Half Off Depot!) the moment we walked in. But as groovy as our temporary crib was, it was a far cry from the straight-laced, mysteriously graceful and elegant Southern city most people know Savannah to be.

As soon as we crossed Martin Luther King, Jr. Blvd into the heart of the city, we found what the postcards had been heralding. Despite the sticky heat and the nearly overwhelming humidity, David and I strolled up and down the River Street shopping area, poking our heads into curio shops that sold shells, T-shirts, knick-knacks and bric-a-brac. We stopped for dinner at Spanky’s Galley and Saloon, which provided us with some excellent chicken strips and fat-cut French fries. Following our munching, we journeyed upriver, enjoying the sight of the steamboat dinner cruise, chugging along beside us, and glowing softly in the twilight.

We caught up with the statue of Savannah’s Waving Girl, whose story was told to us by another couple. According to the couple, the Waving Girl was the daughter of a local merchant. She was deeply in love with a boy who’s ill-fate it was to be drafted into war. The night he embarked, she ran to the wharf, waving a scarf to let him know she would be waiting for him. Of course, in the tragic way of Southern Gothic love stories, the boy died at war. His broken-hearted young lover never recovered, and spent the rest of her nights at the wharves, waiting for him, waving for him.

I asked David if he’d known the tale. “I’d heard she just liked waving at ships,” he replied with a shrug. Truly a romantic.

Our night ended with drinks at the Shrimp Factory. Granted, we were in the mood for a little fun, but we wound up spending over two hours at the bar, held hostage by an incredible thunderstorm and driving rain. We made friends with several of the patrons, and tried the Artillery Punch, “guaranteed to cure all ailments (at least for a time).” Concocted with gin, brandy, whiskey, vodka, and a champagne cap, the drink came with a complimentary souvenir glass—after a few sips, I realized the souvenir glass could well function as a necessary reminder of where you’d spent the previous night.

The next day brought us relief from the heat. We nabbed two Krispy Kreme donuts, complimentary from the hotel, and headed out into the sunshine. The morning was spent exploring Savannah’s multitude of historic squares, visiting the Pirate House (where Robert Louis Stevenson set part of Treasure Island), and playing Frisbee at Forsyth Park, where the national Porche parade was assembling (good thing we’re pretty handy with a Frisbee...imagine if the disk went astray and knocked into one of those cars…).

Overall, it was a low-key, down-home sort of place, and we fell right in love with it. It’s true that Atlanta holds all the excitement and adventure of the big city, but as Mammy says in the movie, Gone With the Wind, “Savannah would be better for ya. You'd just get in trouble in Atlanta.”