sweet lady, savannah
We arrived on the low horizon and the first views of this old place called Savannah were of wide, flat rivers leading out to bigger waters. Once on the ground, the hand-laid rock and cobblestone roads, the converted cotton mills and the beautiful grand dames of homes swept us up like a friend gently grabbing your hand. A comfort. Like it was always a place we would one day see. Without knowing it.
We ate boiled seafood with our hands. We craned our necks to see the beauty of the stringy Spanish moss that draped itself over every tree. We watched shipping barges and riverboats share the river outside our window. We rode a trolley. We found out where the locals got coffee.
Our arrival in low country could not have been more warm than the one we got from that sweet lady, Savannah.