Ghosts, shrimp and beer

Three days alone sounded good…REAL Good. I managed to wiggle out of going to Allentown, Pennsylvania with my significant other by the hair of my teeth. She even understood…”I am only going up to see my nephews and give them their Christmas presents.” Deep down inside of her, she knew and she did not want to give me a lot of shit about it. I just needed some ME time. I could have gone anywhere. Things were slow at work, people were taking vacation…projects were entering into a state of hibernation. It was a good time to disappear. I had actually never driven that far…five hours, plus or minus an hour, depending on your speed. RButler told me that he had driven there in 3 hours and 15 minutes one time…half the time normally allotted to the speeding impaired. I would be lucky if I made it in seven. Savannah. The name sounded complete without any verbs, adjectives, adverbs or direct objects. It could stand alone. A beautiful word…mysterious, sexy and as foreign to the Yankee tongue as a Varsity Chili dog, walking through the garden, painted red. Close enough to Atlanta, to be considered a neighbor but far enough away to be a complete stranger. I could go there and melt into the scenery. I could be just one more tourist on River Street. One more target for the pick pockets. I could be just like everyone else.
The drive down was not so bad. It had its boring moments. I stopped off in Macon, to let Duane Allman know that thirty-five years after he ate a peach, someone still thought his guitar work soared like an eagle. Rosehill Cemetery’s carriage sized roads is not exactly easy to traverse in a big old Lincoln Towncar. If H & H Soul Food had not been closed for Christmas, then my trip to Macon would have been complete. I however, had to content myself with a few Krystal burgers, and then I was on my way.
The drive down to Savannah is a boring one. Straight as hell, all the way there, although it crosses crooked across Georgia. I made a single turn into Reynolds’s Square, and jutted my lengthy automobile’s ass out into a side street, assuming a valet would jump to my service. You know what assuming does. The Planters Inn is a nice hotel… three and a half stars according to the Expedia website. However, I have been in cheaper hotels and felt richer. The room was nice and clean but a bit small. The water was hot and the towels clean, and there was no lingering cigarette smoke from 1966, so I guess that things were…suitable. I am not trying to be a snob but for…well as much as I paid for 3 nights…well, I thought I would get my ass kissed.
The hotel room turned out to be the worst part of the trip. I can’t remember anything that it did to harm me, or deliberately annoy me, but the room sucked. Maybe it was Reynolds’s Square sending up some of it’s ghosts. Maybe it was the rude, young Indian male hotel attendant. Whatever it was, nothing could wash the stench of loneliness off of the place. The best part of the room was the TV. I watched episode after episode of banal, Bob Saget crap TV, and loved it. My brain rested…my eyes had candy. I laughed at stupid shit. I was King of the Planter’s Inn trailer park, and I mucked about in my sty.
River Street is really the only reason to go to Savannah. It is not particularly great or special, but you can eat fat shrimp and drink cold beer. Bay Street runs perpendicular to it, and you can do the same…big freaking cargo ships, run as slow as sludge into the river from the sea. I actually saw one from China. It is easy to forget that Savannah is actually a port.
I tried earlier in the month to get some friends to meet me in Savannah, but December is not the best month to drag your buddies away from their families, so I spent my three days alone for the most part. I met a retired Major from the Navy, and a guy that looked like Jim Croce, and his partner, a lady that worked at Lady and Sons (the most popular restaurant in Savannah). She even gave me a box of salty country fried chicken and I did not even wait in line.
By the time that Saturday came around, I was glad to leave my haunted hotel room. It was not haunted because of ghosts; it just suffered from a bad vibe. I was glad to get the fuck out. Savannah is a beautiful place, on the outside. But like a friend of mine said of Edinburgh, Scotland: “underneath the surface, there is always something ugly.” Savannah, certainly felt like that too, but I figured that I would come back again anyway. A little evil can be tolerated if you have enough shrimp and beer.