January 25, 2019
On the train to Savannah, we leave the breezy comforts of the Francis Marion and it’s festive walk down King and Meeting Streets. The southern charm with its dark shutters, soft hue painted walls, and the rhythmic hooves that gallop down these cobblestone paths. Hand in hand, cheek by cheek, we posed ourselves against the loving arms of the southern oaks, skipping, laughing, and dancing into each other’s arms under that golden hour that can only be found against the southern sky. Magnolia’s shrimp and grits filled our bellies to a sprung, as Le Creuset pot seems to be the ideal cradle for a local seafood stew at the local Fig. A ride with Lincoln, some incredible biscuits from Callie’s, and the comfort food of Poogan’s to round out our day. A “slave market” now splits Meeting Street, to share the local art and craft, while just a short walk to the Gibb’s Museum to keep the pace on going. Visits to the houses that lined Battery Park and Charleston’s iron clad walls that outlooked Fort Sumpter like homes of Nathaniel Russell, The Edmonston-Alston, and Heyward-Washington houses kept us gazing and amazed at the lavishing lifestyles and decorative parties that celebrated millionaires’ row. French Chandeliers, Spanish wallpaper, fine China, and lavish silver and gold anointed each property. We continued to the Aiken-Rhett house, where the great governor once not only flipped and flopped between his allegiance to the Union and Confederates, but also built his wealth on the bloody, sweat and tears of eight hundred slaves that still bears not even a name into the history books. The spiral staircase and chandelier foyer reminded us of our beloved Touchard, whilst out walk through the Joseph Manigault house, and we settled for a final stop at The Charleston Museum to complete our first adventure here in Charleston. Hominy Grill off the 213 bus and while we sacrificed the 211 to cross Washington Square for the final time to get some missed Asian cuisines, we joined an adventurous Uber dude that boasted his visits to Asia and accompanied our ride to the tracks to bid farewell to the home of Hootie and where my standards for grit has peaked bar none. Choo-choo, Choo-choo, into the darkness and into Savannah atlas.
