"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.”