Falling in love again

(SAVANNAH, Ga.) — You know that moment when you meet someone, and you feel a spark of electricity? You two are introduced, and you shake hands, and you look into that person’s face and you know, just know, that there is something important going on. This simply feels right, and you’re smitten. Minutes or hours or days later, you may find out this person is dating someone else or is not attracted to your gender or is a little racist. But the memory of your first interaction is still there, still pure, and I think, still important. It’s that first second of surprise and delight in which anything seems possible. You’re transported from the real world, and you love it.

I haven’t felt that way about anyone in a long time. But that was my experience of Charleston.

I had my little dalliance with South Carolina the other day, when I was feeling antsy and decided to run up the coast. I was tired and had very little time to spare, but I had this sense that I was going to like Charleston. Or maybe I just decided to. At any rate, by the time I arrived in that old, Southern city, I was ready for something magical.

Mind you, Savannah, the town I ditched for the day, is lovely and comfortable. I have been here for nearly three weeks, and they have been some of the best of my trip. Steve and Cindy Meguiar, the pastor and his wife who have let me park outside their church, are amazing people. They’ve given me more support and love than I ever imagined anyone would on this trip. Here, I have become a small part of the Aldersgate Methodist Church community, and people know me by name. When I go to the church’s nearby gym to take a shower, folks chat me up, and when a recent church breakfast was held, I was invited. Because of this mostly, I have a relationship now with Savannah. I would have never have guessed this was possible, but it feels a little bit like my home.

On Thursday, like so often in my past, I felt like running away from home, if only for a day. I wanted something new and dramatic. I wanted to be swept off my feet. And you know what? I got my wish.

Looking back, it’s hard to even pick out what made Charleston seem so incredibly romantic to me. But when I was there, it was heady stuff. Set on a peninsula, the historic section feels tiny, though it’s actually a decent-sized maze of old, wooden houses, high-end shops and an occasional cobblestone street. Spanish moss drips from everything, which makes the place seem like a movie set. I’ve been in the East so long now that I hardly even notice when I walk past a home with a placard that reads 1802 or something, but it should be noted that Charleston is chock full of those romantic, pastel-colored, antique buildings. For the most part, they’ve got deep porches and working shutters and elegant railings and fences crafted out of iron. Some have opulent gardens behind them, and all are far too rich for my blood. As I rode a tour bus through the area, I said, “Wow,” under my breath at the fanciness, as did many of my white-haired counterparts. As my spry, dry-witted, senior citizen tour guide explained in his drawl, these are antebellum structures. Then I kicked myself for completely forgetting what that meant.

“I hope everyone can understand my accent,” the guide said, grinning. “I do speak it the way God intended around these parts.”

He was a funny, crowd-pleasing, proud Southerner, and while he wasn’t raised in the city, you would never have known it. He talked about Charleston as though it was a family heirloom. To hear him tell it, this wasn’t just the where Stephen Colbert and the Civil War got their start. No, Charleston was basically the birthplace of America. As someone who enjoys a state with a big, healthy ego, I was eating this enthusiasm up.

After the tour, I did what any love struck person would — nothing. I just drank the city in with my eyes and strolled the small, scattered streets while half-heartedly trying to find various landmarks. I took pictures. I wrote down little thoughts in my journal. I people watched. As the sun began to set and the city started to sink into darkness, I stood by the ocean, just happy to be exactly where I was. I felt like I was on vacation, vacation from whatever this trip has become and will turn out to be. My eyes fixed on the pier in front of me, and I saw a guy in his 20s sitting with his dog. Each was looking out to opposite ends of the horizon. The boy had his hand on his pooch, and the tableau was so sweet that it was as though I had fallen into a Norman Rockwell painting. It felt good to have the time to notice it.

Dinner was what you would expect — fatty and meaty and delicious at a soul food place called Jestine’s Kitchen. The only big surprise was my reading material. As soon as I walked in, the manager handed me a copy of skirt!, a Southeastern free women’s newspaper. I had seen this monthly collection of non-fiction essays in stands on the street before but hadn’t yet sat down with one. But as I read and ate, I found myself giving it my complete attention. Taking in those short, deadly honest stories started to make me feel something. This was real stuff. I was internalizing essays about affairs and college admissions and miscarriages, and right there, alone, I nearly started to cry. Was it the subject matter? Maybe. But more so, I think that was my response to seeing people put their vulnerability into words. I kind of like that it made me almost cry.

Pruned trees near the ocean in Charleston.

With this bout of emotion fresh in my body, I walked through the mile of silent stillness back to my truck, parked along the ocean. Feeling a bit solitary in all that quiet, I called a friend, a Coloradoan who used to live in Charleston, in fact. I thanked him for all the tips he had already given me about the city and told him about my day. As he replied, I could hear some softness and affection in his voice. And while I enjoyed it, I don’t think that was for me, really. He was sending out love to his former city.

“God, you’re making me homesick,” he said.

For that moment, as I sat in my car, parked between the Atlantic and a row of beautiful homes probably older than my home state of California, I understood.

If I were to have slept the night in Charleston or stayed a week or tried to find a job there, I’m sure the romance would have rolled right off that sweet little city. But I wasn’t about to. I didn’t have any desire to see Charleston as a layered, textured thing. I didn’t want the reality of it to spoil my enjoyable little crush.

And besides, I didn’t have the time. Onward to Florida.

Nikki Hardin founded the newspaper skirt! when she was broke, middle aged and looking for some meaning in her life. Now the paper is all over the Southeast. Amazing. I saw this portrait of Nikki at Jestine's Kitchen, a restaurant in Charleston, S.C.

I wonder how many Laurens walked by this?

When someone grabs you and says, "Let's take a picture in front of this painting," sometimes you do. Charleston, S.C.

All that's left of an old factory. Charleston, S.C.