Almost four decades in the South and still learning.
Folks around here regard Atlanta as north of the
Mason-Dixon line and I think we all know what kind of a slight that is. Savannah is Low country, shrimp and grits country, and the locals I have met tend distinctly towards a sense of fallen nobility. This is actually the furthest eastern district of New Orleans, and everything in between is simply an unfortunate commute.
To visit this town during a period of self-imposed abstinence from the pleasures of fermented grains is bone-headed and wrong. I am having ghost pains at the end of my wrist where the bottle goes and I stare at Pinkie Masters, the bar below my hotel room, with my bottom lip dragging on the balcony rail.
This is a town of spires and steeples and domes. Live Oak lined boulevards and Victorian homes. Tattooed kids with bad emo haircuts are tolerated by tow-headed gentleman in Seersucker suits.
Oglethorpe said, “Don’t change a thing until I get back.”
Savannah is keeping the promise-