Blog

Photos:

i. Last spinach, goat cheese, and roasted tomato pie at my favorite spot to eat. The food and the music were french and I spent my 21st birthday there, buying a bottle of french rosé.

ii. The last time I was on this bridge in the light of day. The view always meant we were either leaving town or returning to it.

iii. My stoop the way I left it- watering can and all- the last time I ever saw it. I told the new tenants in a rush to pluck off the pink flowers when they died so new ones would grow back. I hope they’ve been doing it.

In the flurry of vacating our apartment, our gracious and best friends let us into their home and lived with boxes piled all over their house for a week. This house felt like our second home before we ever actually spent the night there. It’s the kind of gathering place where everyone ends up in the kitchen, sitting on counters and the floor. And the people in it were family to us.

Friends who can help you pack are maybe the best kind of people. They see your stuff up close and messy. They see you tired, frustrated, and mean. They tell you they’ll wake up early and help you even though they have their own work to do. They tell you every few hours how they’re getting sad but they don’t dwell on it because they know you’re sad too. They sit and take a break with you when you’ve had enough and you just want a lavender cookie. They lift heavy things while you fret that they are hurting their backs. They take care of the boxes that didn’t fit in your car and the stuff that no one bought at your yard sale. They do all this for you even though you’re leaving them.

And all you can do is be happy you know them and pray there are people like them in California. 

My favorite streets downtown are the little ones in between bigger streets. What you see from their narrow sidewalks are the backs of houses facing each other. I call them secret paths because no one else ever seems to be there. They are usually laden with some bushy overgrown plants and are where everyone pulls their trash cans. When a city is so intent on looking pristine, it ends up being the forgotten parts that I fall in love with. There is no denying that a well manicured garden with a wrought iron fence is charming, but that isn’t where I want to spend all my time.

After living in Savannah for two years I think I am almost numb to the beauty that I first saw here. That may sound like a shame, but I actually love my town more now that I see where the real beauty lies. To those passing through it’s a fountain, a statue, a church steeple, a historic house full of antique furniture. To me it’s weeds growing through bricks, someone’s tiny grill set up under their front stoop, the sunset view from the alleys we pass on our way home, the pot holes I have to jump over when it rains. There are so many tiny details to see here that I think anyone who really loves this place must have their own list of reasons, and I love that.

It’s the time of year when Savannah is the only place I want to be.
Perfect weather and smells and sounds for bike riding, park laying, and balcony sittin’.

photos:

1 & 2 - light dances
3 - growth between bricks
4 - breakfast by the windows
5 - view