Savannah is the kind of place that, after visiting for just four days, feels like we’re best friends. As though it’s a place I’ve known my whole life. Like a familiar friend that I haven’t seen in years, but when we see each other, pick right back up where we left off.
The Spanish moss drips from the trees, making the quant squares feel like a hazy dream from the past. It feels like I stepped into a painting from the 1700s, in my present day clothes with my “New York-ish” attitude; but am welcomed with the notorious southern hospitality all the same. It is as though the sweetness of the place has a scent, a potent fragrance floats across the air, that hangs intertwined and as heavy as the humidity frizzing my hair.
The greenery, like the people, is some of the brightest I’ve seen, visibly joyful that it has never had to endure freezing winters and try to grow back through the melting March snow (also similar to the people). It makes everything glow! I want to capture it and create with the greens, and the pinks and the burnt oranges of the historic buildings. I want to fill my non-existent city yard with the Palmetto trees, and plaster my walls with faded floral wallpaper. I want to refurnish my living room with intricate antiques and old clocks. Was every doll house, ever packaged and gifted to little girls as “the ultimate dream home,” inspired by this city?
History fills all the space around us, the Victoriana charm reminds us of the ghosts buried, quite literally, beneath our feet. The art and artists at every stop make the streets fell electric with creativity. This place is the perfect balance of a charming retreat with an eerie allure. Haunted tales and an open container law make it feel like an adult theme park.
It is as if this city holds too much wonder and bliss to be permitted in the current state of the world; it is too fun, too pure and too perfect. As we arrive at the airport and bid adieu to our fourth wonderful Uber driver, I wonder (note the re-occurring theme): should we move?