We flew into Charleston late Saturday night, and stayed in a hotel on the south side of the city, because we were planning on driving down to Savannah the next morning. The best thing I can say about that hotel is that it wasn't dangerous. The worst is that I refused to take my shoes off the entire time we were there- as in, walk over to the bed in my pajamas and shoes, slide my feet out of my shoes and into the bed; the next morning, swing my legs over the side of the bed and put my feet right back into those shoes before shuffling off for my ante meridian ablutions.
This was my, and Derek's, first trip to the oldest city in Georgia, and can I just say: Savannah, you are lovely, all soaking heat, dripping Spanish moss, and green, shaded squares. I had a delectable cone of Honey Almond-flavored ice cream (made with local honey, which means it was practically health food, because local honey is, like, good for allergies and stuff) and Derek got to come in physical contact with a piece of history. (Derek watching
One of the good things about being married to a history buff is that he doesn't mind you stopping to read every single historic plaque you see (I'm a bear to visit museums with, I admit), and will indulge your whims- even when those whims are going up and down steep, crumbly, semi-dangerous staircases. (I don't know why I loved those things. I just did.)
The Iowa summer we've been enjoying this year has been rather cool, with just a day here and there above 90, and most days barely reaching above 80. This means that when we walked around Savannah, with its high temps and heavy, smothering humidity, even sitting on a lovely bench in a lush square, surrounded by historic houses, it was incredibly sweat inducing. I'm talking the kind of perspiration where, when you try to cross your legs, they can't find any purchase and slide right off of each other, so even though you're trying to be a freaking lady and wearing a skirt, you end up sitting with your limbs all splayed out, more something you'd find as a cautionary warning in an Emily Post guide than anything like genteel Southern femininity. Oh, well. Scarlett O'Hara would've been eaten alive in the midwest anyway: We don't truck with drama and rich, entitled debutantes need not apply.
We were only in Savannah for three hours, just long enough to get a feel for the flavor of the city. We walked by a gorgeous B&B (which I just checked out online, and while the interior photos look equally impressive, at $300 per night, I think we'll content ourselves with trotting past, oooh'ing and aaah'ing) and a number of small museums we would have enjoyed ducking into, had we had more time. The problem is, with our beloved Charleston so close, it's hard to spend any time anywhere else. Boohoo, poor us.