Vacation Travelog (or a Drunkards Guide to Savannah)
Saturday - May30:
Up early with Aimee - she has a client on Saturday morning’s so no more sleeping in. After breakfast with Seinfeld, I walk the dog, run the neighborhood and hit the shower. During the dog walk another neighbor walker stops to ask what’s happened to Aimee - that she’s not seen her in months. While considering playing up the idea of being a psycho killer who’s chopped up his wife and placed her remains in the burn pit out back, I confess the truth instead and outline her new direction on becoming a personal trainer. Seemingly disappointed with my true story, Carol wishes me well with my walk and probably creates her own ideas of where Aimee’s body has been hauled off to.
After running to the post office to stop mail and heading home to pack quickly, we are off to the Cape for a day with the family and a night of great Tapas for dinner. The Cape house is simply stunning - see pix. Every Summer we make a pact to enjoy the house even more since, given Aimee’s Grandfather’s ripe old age of 90, we are never certain how much longer this gem will be available to us. Her aunts have done simply amazing things with the landscaping and the house is in full bloom - along with the pine pollen. We arrive to find Grandpa outback painting the fence between the family house and his own private residence that he build for his new wife. The man still looks amazing given his years and makes me rethink my ideas of old age.
After a cocktail or two at the house - called “dressers” for those keeping track at home, we head off for dinner. Not remembering that Embargo had outdoor dining we take a booth near the bar and promptly have a half-dozen dishes brought to our table with a very steady supply of liquids as well. A $22 tip to the waitress and an extra $20 to the bus boy who was clearly the hardest working guy in the bunch and we’re back to the Cape house in time for ice cream deserts with the family and their friends. Off to bed early for the 4am alarm.
Sunday - May 31:
Aimee’s alarm goes off at three fucking something. My cell alarm goes off at a more reasonable four fucking fifteen. A quick shower, shave and repack of the basics. Let Mr. Joe pee on a few trees and we wish him well as we depart Osterville MA just shortly after 5AM. A quick trip to the Providence Airport - not really Providence a sign inside tells me - actually Warwick RI - can’t recall the airport name; GI Joe something or other. P.T. Barnum… ? no. The flight from RI to Charlotte goes off with out a hitch. Lots of Nascar stuff within the Charlotte airport reminds me of Jim and why he should be moving his family to NC. I’ll take some pix on the way back through to help convince him -since the odds of him flying again are slim. We don’t miss a beat on the 30 min trip from Charlotte to Savannah airport. As you might imagine, the Savannah GA airport is all about southern charm and quaint out the ass. They stole the rocking chairs idea from Charlotte - or was it vice-versa? Who cares. Aimee’s friend is there to pick us up - and she’s obviously disappointed about the no alcohol until 12:30 on Sundays law in Georgia - it was 12:15 when we landed.
After a bit of bad navigation we find Savannah with both hands and even get lucky enough to find our house for the week. We show up early and our host is actually in the unit doing wedding planning with some clients. We are none too discrete as we drop off our bags two hours early, mix ourselves cocktails for the road and set off to find some lunch on the river walk a few blocks away.
The Savannah river walk is none too impressive: Very similar to the river walk in San Antone - but not nearly as much fun or as scenic. There simply aren’t enough bars. We run into a psychzophrenic who seems to silently mimic everything Aimee is saying to a friend on the phone. The friend, who had lived in the Midwest, now lives 30 miles outside Savannah - so we are seeking some local advice. We try his first suggestion - margaritas at the Slippery Frog or something. Every god-damned drink comes from a Slurpee machine - nothing on the rocks - no hard stuff. And the crap tequila they use combined with being all ice, delivers some evil combination of brain-freeze and hang over headaches without the benefit of actually being drunk. Who was this guy and why exactly were we listening to him?
We get the call from our house host/wedding planner dude that our “house is clean”. After another couple stops for drinks, and coffee and muffins for the next morning, we head back. The bad tequila takes its toll, and combined with a bit of sleep deprivation, the three of us crash for nearly three hours. Gathering our senses in time for dinner, we decide to take the car over to the City Market. After peeking in on a few different restaurants, “we” decide on another Tapas restaurant. Not a real Tapas restaurant according to my definition, just one actually called Tapas. My definition comes from the UK TV show called The IT Crowd: Tapas = Tiny food from Spain. My Cajun Chicken Tortellini dish is enough to give a guy my size heart seizure - but beyond some over cooked noodles - it was very tasty. Our waitress, who could also double as a bouncer in case things get crazy at Tapas, gives us some great tips on where to go and what to do while in town. She also tells us the story of someone who borrowed her car, left a note and let her dogs in from the rain and yet they went to jail for three years thanks to her. Backing away from the restaurant carefully, we head off for some late night shopping and whiling at Kroger before returning home for the night.
Monday - June 1:
The misses forces me into a work out, after a breakfast of coffee and a blueberry muffin with cinnamon crusties on top. And while we planned ahead for coffee and creamer and Splenda and muffins - who’s thinking about filters? Luckily, a paper towel sufficed nicely and didn’t catch fire - much to my disappointment. After a sweaty work out and shower, all three of us were off to Tybee Island for a Monday in the sun.
Tybee Island is only about 20 minutes east from our north-easterly Savannah house. After a stop at the Tybee post office to pay a bill and another stop at the local Waves for an umbrella and some flip-flops we hit South Beach on Tybee just after 1pm. A few Margarittas and a bad cheeseburger was all we needed to clear the webs for another fun-sun day. For anyone not familiar with Tybee - it’s like a very quaint version of Myrtle Beach with plenty of bad food joints, dusty beach bars and cool people you’ll be better off to have met. I cant wait to return.
Though the bartender at the beach bar had it in for me I believe - or at least in for my wallet. Bitches. That must be something they teach you at bar-keep school; how to soak people. Keep them drunk enough that they tip heavily, but not so drunk they pass-out. Or maybe she learned that while dancing her way through college. Maybe both. I barely remember packing things up off the beach, but I guess we did. Would hate to think I blew $30 for an umbrella and $10 for an umbrella auger only to leave them both behind for the gulls to pick at.
Some of the locals in the downtown Tybee bar suggested CJ’s or AJ’s - BJ’s? Anyway, we were there for dinner. Aimee was asked politely to put on some clothes since the owner noticed her wearing only a bikini top. While I don’t recall the name of the joint- we did snap off some nice pictures that will help me later and we all look pretty happy. And as we left, Aimee slid some European looking dude her friend’s number - at least I hope it was her friend’s number…
Tuesday - June 2:
Aimee and friend head off early for a run. An incident at Kroger’s has established itself as a meme with our group; “Y’all must be sisters” recurs frequently as Aimee and friend seem to have the exact same taste in clothes, shoes, bikini’s, workout gear - just about everything. Including two “fancy” red dresses that they both choose to wear to dinner tonight. With me, looking more like Don Johnson than Don Juan, many Savinnians (?) cast unapproving glances at the three of us as we moved from streets to shops.
I now believe there is a lot more merit to this idea of soaking. Maybe it’s not just something taught in strip clubs or barkeep schools, maybe it’s a trait that is acquired or developed. It certainly could be learned by both sexes. It’s a very subtle art. Maybe it’s a gene that is passed from generation… Or maybe I’m just bitter about a $200 dinner tab. Yep - that’s probably it.
Following our fancy dinner in their fancy dresses, we once again miss the mark trying to find the Six Pence Pub where our guide for the night is waiting patiently for us to fill our new glow-in-the-dark cups for a true Savannah Haunted Pub Crawl. While I had imagine a grey-haired lady, native to Savannah, or at least Georgia, instead we were led fearlessly through the night by a red-haired native long-islander. While she transplanted herself here over a decade ago, she’s still very clearly a Yankee, but the rest of us tourist don’t seem to care much as we all point out idiosyncrasies for our own dialects.
The Ghost Pub Tour was great fun, but probably should have required a bit more drinking and maybe a bit more socialization amongst the group. Highlights included visiting the 17 Hundred 90 Inn and hearing the story of how the young female ghost there took her life when he much older husband would not allow her to leave on the ship with a young naval captain who was heading off to sea. The Pirate House pub/restaurant also holds a place in history where Captain Flint died, along with hundreds of other souls who were being shanghaied to be placed on a pirate ship and set off to sea, when their drug wore off and they awoke in the midst of a secret tunnel. Death was said to be immediate and probably not very pretty either. Discussion about the Savannah graveyard was also significant, so much so that I ended up purchasing a book about the yard the next day. Our tour concluded at the Moon River brew-pub on East Bay - or as we’ve been referring to this main corridor that runs adjacent to the river walk; eBay. The Moon River has a handful of it’s own stories and certainly had a creepy upstairs are where most of the public is not allowed to go. We walked on to a movie set for some independent film of a guy who makes a doll come to life and then does bad things to her. Sounds like Weird Science of the Lambs. The building is really creepy and our group begins snapping more pictures in a desperate search of strange orbs, objects or faces within the frame. Nothing seems to develop, but a good time was had by all. All except the tortured souls who have to play host to us roaming, rambling bunch of drunken misfit idiots nightly.
Despite some drama at the Irish pub on River street following the tour – some of which apparently required one of our tour friends to press her breasts together so other people could get photographic evidence of her cleavage – it became somewhat clear to me that walking the streets of Savannah after Midnight with two ladies in red who were well in the bag was probably not the most sound of ideas. Our tour guide gladly guided us to a taxi stand just off eBay street. When I walked up to the window, the driver was clearly sleeping. When I announced our destination through the open passenger window he awoke and seemed to go from zero to 10 in about 45 seconds. After we were all aboard, I notice an oxygen tube attached to our drivers face, which combined with his rough gravelly voice clearly indicated a long-time smoker. As he put his van in drive, and made exiting very difficult or at least dangerous, he grabbed a Swisher Sweet and unwrapped it quickly. I watched in horror as the guy put the thing in his mouth – he was not going to light this, was he? Envisioning exploding taxi vans in the dark Savannah night sky, I was relieved to see that this was his remaining (final?) vice. Check off one more night in Savannah with one more full day to go.
Wednesday - June 3:
Knowing that today will be our final full day in Savannah I nix the return to the beaches and bitches of Tybee idea and I start our small group off early in quest of some true BBQ. After having read about Walls BBQ on a variety of website and guides, and seeing from a website that it was open Wed-Sunday, we walk the few blocks that separates our rental home for the week from Walls. While their address was 515 E York, we walk down York and see only some older small homes - including one at 515 which is very clearly not a restaurant. As we turn a corner we see an alley that runs behind the York street homes and sure enough, there’s a sign for Wall’s at the corner. The three of us meander down this alley, complete with feral cats, over-flowing garbage cans and cars on blocks. What an ideal setting for lunch in beautiful Savannah! This is the historic district, however, so maybe history trumps beauty in this neighborhood. As we come upon the… building, I am expecting to smell the place before seeing it - but no such luck. Walls, my friends is open on Thursday’s through Sunday, not Wednesday, and I am totally disappointed. And yes, my female accompaniment reminded me to phone first for future reference.
Not giving up easily, and with Savannah guide book tightly in hand, I reconvene our group to find another BBQ target. I remember reading about another place called Angels BBQ, and even though they aren’t listed in my handy book, I am at least now well aware of the power of phoning first. My call reveals that the owners of Angels are away and will not be returning until June 10th. We page through the book and find another place called Sticky Fingers in Savannah on Abercorn. Abercorn street was just two blocks over from where we currently stood like tourists waiting for guidance. I call to confirm and sure enough Sticky Fingers is open! I could almost smell the smoke from where we stood. Or so I thought. As we reach Abercorn and start to make our way south, I notice the street numbers were in the low hundreds. That doesn’t seem right. I open my guide book again and see that Sticky Fingers is listed at seven thousand something Abercorn… Another call reveals that they are in SOUTH Savannah. I had no idea there even was a South Savannah - seems a bit redundant, but what do I know. Three missed targets and three hungry and slightly hung-over tourists now have a mission. We are not stopping until we find BBQ in this damned town. Asking some locals on the street, they each mentioned Walls, which clearly even they didn’t realize wasn’t open on Wednesday’s. I feel justified in my original goal and now wish we had an extra day to enjoy this magical smoked meat palace. Someone, who looks to be just moving in suggests Tony Roma’s. Really? I am going to fly into Savannah Georgia and go to a rib franchise for lunch? Don’t think so. You must not be from around these parts.
A few more quick page flips and I stumble upon BBQ Express on Whitaker - over a few more blocks and north towards the City Market. At the same time my wife gets a lead on a place called Blowin’ Smoke even further west on MLK. We call both and they are open. We choose to target BBQ Express first because it’s closer and we are getting damned hungry by now. Before arriving we all agree that if there is no beer or alcohol we would move on to the next (last) option. Amazingly, the BBQ Express smells great from the outside, is buzzing with activity inside and thankfully owns a liquor license as well. We settle into the last four-top available and a few minutes later our much sought after BBQ arrives. As is usual with bad food, everything was super tasty, everything went well with beer and beyond missing out on what looked to be some legendary onion rings, I would highly recommend venturing south to the BBQ Express for any other SAV tourists near the City Market.
Following lunch, we decided to do a bit of trinket shopping and drinking (of course). A vacation without drunken shopping simply isn’t a vacation, so we started our shopping trip with two rounds of top-shelf margaritas from a Wild Wings franchise within the City Market. After getting primed, the ladies set off in one direction for shopping and I set off in another. The first stop for me was the cigar store (priorities). While paying $9 for a Romeo Y Julietta Reserva Real seems unreasonable, I am on vacation and figure what the hell -the glory of drunken shopping. “It’s just money - I’ll make more” will likely be my final dying words.
Next stop for me, a very hip, slick and trendy art studio called AT Hun. The owner, Chuck Hamilton, is messing with songs on a keyboard he has in the store, singing love songs to his wife, worker, girlfriend - not really sure. What attracts me most is a large picture of The Big Lebowski hanging outside the door - near a sign that reads “Your welcome to bring your drinks, your food and your dog. Really!”. Hey - an independent retail store that is actually open and welcoming to their customers - what a concept. The studio owner offers me a warm welcome and points out a few of the artists on the wall - including himself (clearly a technician suffering from an entrepreneurial seizure). But Chuck IS the artist responsible for “His Dudeness”. If you haven’t seen the Big Lebowski yet - a Cohen Brothers movie featuring Jeff Bridges in his most ideal role since The Fisher King, you need to stop reading this drivel now, quit your job and go watch. Chuck was very cool, and much to my luck, both his posters and framed works are on sale. $105 later, I am now the proud owner of “His Dudeness” personally signed by the artist himself, complete with an obscene F-word quote from the movie on back. On the way out, I encouraged Chuck to see True Romance since our conversations led me to believe he would love that movie. Hopefully, if I’m ever back this way again, I can walk in and see some large renderings of Clarence and Alabama.
After spending some time talking with a friend on the phone about his dad having some pretty serious heart issues, I uncovered a Candy Factory of some type and purchased a handful of caramel creams (called bulls-eyes by some) and also found a jar full of Zotz by the checkout. Zotz! I haven’t seen Zotz in many years - so I bought a strand. Zotz are hard candies that have some major fizz chemicals inside so as the candy dissolves in your mouth, you end up with an alka-seltzer on your tongue. It’s not nearly as pleasurable as I remember and I probably should have just let that childhood memory stand as it was. It also didn’t help my wife’s already gaseous situation one bit.
On our way home we remember the Farmers Market already in progress at the Trustees Garden next door to our house. I purchase a wedge of some really tasty Thai Pepper Cheese made with raw milk, while the ladies buy some home-made baked goods. We retreat home where I enjoy my cheese, my cigar and three and half Rolling Rocks alone before it’s time to leave for our dinner date with the local friends. The cigar - by the way - worth every CENT of $9. One of the best experiences on this trip was sitting on the second floor balcony savoring the cheese and cigar while watching all the greenies get out of their V8 pick-ups and V6 SUVs with their “recycle now” shopping bags in hand, heading for the farmers market. Almost as entertaining as watching the feral cats that were below me chasing birds and foraging for their own organic foods.
After having blocked the patio doors for fear of cigar smoke intruding on their own wine tasting session, the ladies unblock the doors in time for me to realize I have about 10 minutes to shower before our dinner date with the local couple from the Midwest - yes, the same ones who recommended the damned Slurpee bar (called Wet Willies actually - not Slippery Frog, honest mistake). There were a series of events that night - alcohol related of course - that I will try to summarize below, but keep in mind, we have had drinks in hand pretty much since our BBQ lunch, with the exception of an hour or two of shopping.
First stop of the night, the same Irish Pub from the night before, along the river walk to get drinks to… well, to walk the river front and select a place to eat. Not sure if we picked our restaurant because of the food options (cheap oysters) or because our drinks were getting low, but we end up at a Raw Bar -more drinks for all! It’s clear from the dinner conversation that someone within our party, let’s call her drunk friend #1(or DF#1), may have not had enough to eat today. Beyond getting pretty obnoxious and resentful, DF#1 knocks her half-full drink over. Dousing me nicely, but luckily nothing that requires me to buy, borrow or steal a new shirt for the night. After a few Red Stripes and bad jerk chicken, we head up the street looking for more trouble. We discover a “Cheap Coldest Beer in Town” sign and decide to test the theory – the power of advertising. Another round for all (with wheels) and we quickly decide that the live entertainment here is worse than no entertainment so we move on yet again. DF#1 continues to insult people and generally, either be loud or sulking, oscillating quickly between those two extreme points. The entire party is growing weary of her comments and lack of tact.
Last stop of the night – Smiles, a dueling piano bar. A bouncer at the door let us all know that we cannot enter with drinks in hand. So we all stand outside the doors and enjoy the remainder of our refreshments, taking in the night air and clearly audible music from inside. While waiting, a bevy of Savannah’s Best Sorority Sisters arrived with a clearly pleased and proud single gentlemen acting as chaperone for the ladies. “James” was how he introduced himself, but since he explained to me that he was from Chicago originally, I’ll refer to him simply as Jim. Jim was so clearly on the make. Attempting to charm, coerce and cuddle his way into the Savannah society circles of influence that these ladies apparently / probably could allow him access to. While we made small talk, DF#1 made it abundantly clear that she wanted to be introduced to my suave new friend from Chicago, which I grudgingly did. On the inside more drinks flowed, songs were sung and dancing ensued.
Unfortunately, that’s where our happy tale turns. Things started off fine for DF#1. While I had actually bet that it would take her at least two drinks before we found her on-stage singing, I had underestimated her prior drink-to-food ratio, as well as her overarching need to be heard as the next fucking Mariah Carey. With barely a half a drink down, she sat next to the slimmer of the two piano players. They started off with her on one song, but when that was clearly not a winner with her vocal range, they switched quickly to something else – something about Earl? No idea. She did pull it off and, with a little help from my wife, once again ended up giving yet another guy her phone number (the piano player). Meanwhile, as her reward for participating on stage, she has bumper sticker for Smiles slapped on her… bumper.
An hour or so later, DF#1 is attempting to dance with Savannah’s Sorority Sisters – which doesn’t take them too long to figure out just how drunk she is. Then she’s dancing – and pointing? Some very strange and obvious call for attention that says “Hey, look at me – I think I’m hot and I think I can dance and sing too!! Yaaay!” At one point Jim from Chicago is running toward the Sorority Sisters and DF#1 seems to thinks he’s finally come to his senses and is running toward her. Just like in the movies, he runs right past her and she frowns for almost a full second before letting the alcohol guide her back to happy, pointing, dancey-singy land. Yaaaay! Twenty minutes later Jim from Chicago is planning something and leans over to whisper in DF#1’s ear – she envelopes the poor guy. It was something like a praying mantis or venus fly trap or some damned freak of nature thing. Never saw a man be enveloped by such a horny drunk woman in my life, but there it was.
Around Midnight, DF#1 is now onstage with my wife as they attempt to dance with one another. From the video evidence, it’s clear that my wife is the more active of the two. And it’s now obvious to me why so many lesbians seem to flock to my wife at a wide variety of events (three or four within the past year that I can think of). But what’s also clear from the video, is that DF#1 is now seriously slowing down for a reason. The pointing is still there, but its not as obvious or attention getting as it was 30 minutes earlier. The song ends and the ladies magically disappear.
By this point, I’m frustrated. I had paid good money, okay $5, to hear Warren Zevon’s Lawyers, Guns and Money on piano, and it had been almost an hour since that request was submitted (on the convenient napkins ideal for song requests (and tips)). At one point, my wife was on-stage with the piano player hassling him about not playing the song. He admitted not knowing the words and could they play “Werewolves” instead. I concurred. Meanwhile, my wife returns from the ladies room, sans DF#1. “She’s getting sick.” Apparently not to bothered by this, my wife, having gone through many years of this before with DF#1, continues to sing, dance and party. Every five or ten minutes, one of the ladies from our party goes in to check on the DF#1. Eventually, the Piano player begins the opening melody to Werewolves. To my chagrin, my wife retreats back to the bathroom, right around the same time the Werewolf was “Drinking a Pina Colada at Trader Vics”. A few seconds later, both ladies exit the ladies room, one requiring heavy assistance in order to exit without falling down. Our group needs to go -now– right in the middle of MY fucking Warren Zevon request.
Thursday – June 4
While the ladies were up half the night with their bathroom tea party, I got some pretty sound sleep. The next morning was a bit awkward as DF#1 made excuses about why Kettle One was so bad for her and so forth. Our time had come. It was time to get the hell out of this town and time to let this Georgia “Peach” get back to ATL.
There are two simple morals to this lengthy story;
1. Be very careful about who you spend your vacation with.
2. If your career path leads you to become a dueling piano player, please learn the fucking lyrics to Zevon’s “Lawyers, Guns and Money.”
-pjc