Category Archives: Travel

This upcoming weekend marks the first time I’ll have the privilege of staying at The Plaza, despite flirting with the idea every time I’ve planned a trip to New York. The closest I’ve come to its storied decadence has been a cocktail at the Oak Room and one of their famous Afternoon Tea services in the Palm Court (for Mother’s Day). Both were thrilling enough on their own, though I have a feeling they are but appetizers for the main course of a weekend stay in one of their rooms. That’s finally coming to fruition as we head into town to catch the first preview of ‘Plaza Suite’ with Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick. If ever there was a time to splurge on a room at the Plaza, this would be it. (I love a consistent theme.)

To prepare for this once-in-a-lifetime event, I’ve been reading ‘The Swans of Fifth Avenue’ by Melanie Benjamin and ‘The Plaza’ by Julie Satow ~ the latter which tells the tale of the hotel’s history and many of its famous and infamous denizens and guests. There’s something special about a hotel with a past, and the Plaza has a rich history that breathes and pulsates within every gilded hallway. The echoes of Truman Capote’s famous Black and White Party whisper around each corner, while sumptuous bouquets of orchids keep modern-day secrets while wearing glamorous veils. A delicate perfume pervades the place, hinting at decadent shops below, and lending an elegance that touches all the senses. The Plaza is an immersive experience ~ an attitude, a sophistication, a feeling that bridges past, present and future. I can’t wait to step into that history.

“The writer operates at a peculiar crossroads where time and place and eternity somehow meet. His problem is to find that location.” ~ Flannery O’Connor

On our last full day in Savannah we did what tired tourists do ~ hopped on a tour bus and let that do the walking work for us. It’s the easiest way to see the highlights of a city, and when you have elderly parents, and your own legs are in middle-aged fatigue, and your husband has pushed through to be with you this weekend despite his pain and hurt, you get on the bus and do your best to enjoy it. The day was chilly, even in the sun, so it was better to be inside the bus, even after a few riders insisted on raising the plastic windows and letting the wind in. We saw the bulk of Savannah and all of its greatest hits.

The tour brought us to early afternoon, when Andy and our parents retired to the hotel for one last siesta. I went back out and found my way to Forsyth Park, where I sat down on a bench and started writing my friend Alissa a note.

What a silly thing to do ~ to write to a friend who was no longer here. But it was all I knew ~ it’s all I have ever known ~ and as I sat there thinking about our years together, a squirrel hopped onto the bench across from me. A friendly, if skittish, visitor to remind me that life somehow will go on.  It was only the start of how I’m going to process this.

Seeking peace in beauty, I walked to the Telfair Academy, one of the oldest art museums in the Southeast. It was where ‘Bird Girl’ was on display, after the popularity of its original location in Bonaventure Cemetery proved too much for the sacredness of the place. I found her, alone in her room on this last afternoon in Savannah, and I sat with her for a moment, just the two of us, strangely on our own.

“Loneliness is not being alone, it’s loving others to no avail.” ~ John Berendt

For our last dinner in Savannah, we rode to the river, where Andy had the best plate of fried green tomatoes on our last trip here. He wanted to share them with Mom and Dad, and as the Georgia Queen sailed into the night, rows of lights illuminating the river, we enjoyed a dinner of Southern specialties. Mom then delivered the news that for the first time in forty-four years we would not be spending Christmas Eve at my childhood home, but at my brother’s house. It had been an emotionally exhausting week and I didn’t have it in me to question why. Maybe it’s time. The universe was signaling more change. Fighting it is harder than going with the flow. And after all that had happened, a Christmas Eve change of venue seems a silly thing to be hurt about. It’s never too late, or too early, to start new traditions. I may start a few of my own. 

Our flight was early the next morning. An unexpectedly bittersweet trip, Savannah still managed to work its magic. 

In the glossy leaves of a magnolia.

In the sweetness of a praline.

In the perfume of a gardenia.

In the trickle of an unseen fountain, flowing behind a brick wall lined with creeping fig, softened by sprigs of baby ferns…

“Anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information about life to last him the rest of his days.” ~ Flannery O’Connor

“Art never responds to the wish to make it democratic; it is not for everybody; it is only for those who are willing to undergo the effort needed to understand it.” ~ Flannery O’Connor

Andy and I had been wanting to return to Savannah since we first toured the city together a few months ago, so we invited our parents along for a long weekend jaunt for some Southern charm and (ideally) some Southern sun. The latter appeared for a bit, and the former was everywhere we looked. Anything was better than the bit of snow upstate New York had, so we’re counting it a success, albeit a bittersweet one.

Like Boston, Savannah is mostly manageable by foot, but with Andy’s health issues and my Dad’s increasing infirmity, we kept close to our home base, opting for an Uber to get us to all our dining destinations. Luckily, the enchantment that is Savannah can be encapsulated and experienced within just a few of those magical squares, and from the moment we touched down and inhaled the swarthy air of the low country, we felt its spell working to erase the rigidity and regret of the Great Northeast.

Starting things off with some southern food at the Public (too conveniently located across the street from our hotel) we introduced Mom and Dad to the indelible fact that Savannah was, for us, in large part about the food ~ everything else came secondary. When our room was finally ready, everyone but me went back to rest up for dinner. I needed to walk some of that food off, so I ventured toward the river, following Bull Street through the pretty squares along the way. It was warm and sunny and felt so wonderfully far from November’s cold and rain. The camellia bushes were mostly in bud, with only one or two in bloom ~ I preferred it this way, cherishing each blossom like the treasure it was.

“The way to despair is to refuse to have any kind of experience.” ~ Flannery O’Connor

As I reached the river, the sun was just descending and I got a text to call Chris. Sensing it was important, and not good, I called and he told me our friend Alissa had passed away. Chris had introduced me to her way back in 1998, and since that time we’d maintained our own friendship ~ from Boston to San Francisco and even halfway across the world when she moved to South Africa. She left behind a young daughter, Sophia, and my heart suddenly broke.

The sun in Savannah slanted differently then, as every sun every day hereafter would, and the loss would haunt me along every step of the trip.

Warnings of the steep historical steps leading me up away from the river were posted near the ferns and mosses of the crevices of stone as I climbed, wandering in a state of somber shock. I didn’t cry until I came upon a camellia bush in full bloom. I paused and inhaled its aroma. Alissa is one of those friends who truly appreciated the beauty and little pleasures our world has to offer ~ whether it’s a stunning dress, a bouquet of flowers, or a plate of artfully-rendered food. In this beautiful city, I sought solace in the gorgeous green squares, but there was none to be found.

Savannah, which was always haunted, now became haunted in a different way. A sadder way.

The light of the day drained away, sooner than I expected it. By the time I made my way back to the hotel, it was dark out. A volley of church bells pealed nearby.

The world felt lonely, and I was only beginning to process what had happened.

“Where you come from is gone, where you thought you were going to was never there, and where you are is no good unless you can get away from it. Where is there a place for you to be? No place… Nothing outside you can give you any place… In yourself right now is all the place you’ve got.” ~ Flannery O’Connor

According to our schedule, we are due to return from Savannah, Georgia today, and in preparation for the posts that will likely follow from said trip, here’s a linky look back at previous time spent in that magical place. 

The very first time I visited Savannah I was on my own in 1997, having driven down the Eastern coast on a solo trip from my Royal Rainbow World Tour. Savannah was an impromptu stop to save myself when I realized just how far Florida was. I hadn’t yet read ‘Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil’, and I had no idea of the enchantment that Savannah held. Mostly I stayed to the Marriott on the river, venturing out only for a couple of quick walks. There were ghosts there, and I felt their presence to such an extent that I didn’t want to go out at night. Instead, I ordered room service and turned all the lights on. It wasn;’t until the sun came out the next day that I took in the beauty of the city. I drove beneath the Spanish moss and traveled around the historic squares before leaving. I vowed to return, even if it would take two decades. 

That second trip was inspired by the Book and the Movie, and a dear old friend. JoAnn had been wanting to visit for a few years, and I was more than ready to return, so a couple of years ago we booked a trip and touched down in the midst of the magic. It was a beautiful experience, and the ghosts I felt this time were kinder and friendlier, or maybe I was just less scared. When you’ve seen twenty years of life, not a lot can scare you. We had the best time – the only thing missing was Andy, and I vowed to rectify that.

Savannah is, at its heart, a romantic place. Love and passion and the fever of beauty conspire in one glorious mix of sensual indulgence. I wanted to share that with Andy, so earlier this year we made our own trip there, wherein we could indulge in all the treats the city could offer. 

Now we have brought my parents to this enchanted place, and we’ll report back how they – and we – enjoyed it. 

“Never go on trips with anyone you do not love.” – Ernest Hemingway

It’s always risky tampering with a tried and true formula, and when you’ve had enjoyable experiences at a hotel in the past, hearing of a renovation or revamping tends to leave me more skeptical than hopeful. Such was my state of trepidation as we returned to the Dupont Circle Hotel for a quick one-night stay mid-week near the end of October. The city had just been soaked in a deluge of rain, but when we arrived the skies were dry, if a little gray. One of my favorite parts of the hotel on previous stays had been its heated bathroom floor. I’m happy to report that they are still intact, lending a cozy aspect to the modern design – the lighting of which makes anyone look exceptionally good.

There is a daily $25 charge for those mysterious hotel fees that almost everywhere seems to be charging, but they gave us a $10 credit to be used in the bar (or restaurant I believe, but why would I use it in the restaurant when I could put it toward a drink at the bar?) Speaking of which, both restaurant and bar – long-time favorites – have been updated as well, and happily for the better – an almost impossible feat to surpass something great and produce something greater – but they pulled it off. Based on the steady trickle of people on a weather-wise questionable mid-week night, the bar is still very much a destination of its own, and rightly so. It’s more handsome than ever, even if the cocktails are on the small side for their price points. (Maybe I’ve just been away from Washington for too long.)

Our room overlooked DuPont Circle, with a curved window that ran its entire length. The beds were offset at an angle, making unique use of the unconventional shape of the surroundings. It worked well, subverting the traditional linear notion of squares and rectangles. Complimentary bottled water was in plentiful supply, and after a late-night dinner we returned to a turned-down bed and a single pair of bed slippers and one bedtime chocolate. Strange for a room booked for two people (I do not share chocolate), but it was a minor concern for a stay that retained the original luster of the place while adding bits of new sparkle along the way.

That sparkle was most evident in the service, which was more than exemplary. Attentive front desk operators and valets went out of their way to engage and offer help at every turn. It wasn’t just surface service either – it ran all the way through the bar and restaurant on premises, which is the mark of a stellar property. An establishment is only as strong as its weakest link, and there were no such links here. What a happy thing it is to return to a favored place of respite and find it altered for the better.

{Apologies for interrupting our summer story with this forgotten hotel review – I meant to put it up on Trip Advisor but it got away from me. Since I’ve had Savannah on my mind of late, it’s going up here – a bit of hopefully helpful advice for anyone contemplating a Savannah trip – something I highly recommend.}

With its ideal location, and a little (perhaps more than a little) polish, the DeSoto Hotel could take its place as a Savannah gem.

While its structure is rooted in concrete and modern lines that seem at odds with the heart of the historic district, the DeSoto Hotel does its best with its bones, and the relatively recent renovation to the lobby makes for a beautiful and modern space. The rooms, hallways, and elevators leave a bit more to be desired, but we made the most of it and called it character.

Set in the midst of the historic district, the location of this hotel is its main drawing point. Right outside the door are the beautiful squares of Savannah, and the bustling riverfront is just a ten-to-fifteen-minute walk away. For those looking for a quieter place to rest their heads at night, this may prove better than the hotels closer to the action.

The dim hallways and deteriorating elevators make moving through the hotel the worst part of a stay, and a musty scent of old-age continually battled with the room attendant’s cleaning spray in a less-than-pleasant way, but the staff was friendly and accommodating.

There was a modern-day feature of checking in with me via text to see if we needed anything. Not at all unwelcome, it was a nice touch, and one that I tried when our room was still not cleaned from the previous day by 2 PM. A quick text back and someone responded that they would send someone up right away. Though “right away” seems to mean something different in Savannah, we didn’t mind – but if you want to come back to fresh towels after lunch, it might be good to make such a request before leaving for the day.

Though the weather was not quite warm enough to make use of the pool, that looked like the place to be when it got sunny again, with an outside bar area that opens up “when it hits about 75” degrees, according to the loose hours transmitted by one of the hotel employees.

A puzzling shower set up had the shower door opening right next to the toilet, requiring a bit of nimbleness and care, but the water pressure was nice and the shampoo and body wash dispensers were filled. Bed and sheets were exceedingly comfortable and our corner room had a balcony that looked over Savannah. That and the city itself made up for any less-than-perfect odds and ends.

“Savannah was invariably gracious to strangers, but it was immune to their charms. It wanted nothing so much as to be left alone.” ~ John Berendt

It ended in the same way it began ~ at the airport, with a piano player doing what piano players do in a sunny atrium somewhere outside of Savannah. Picking up a last-minute praline for Mom, I immediately went to daydreaming about another visit, perhaps with the parents in tow. Savannah has enough magic for everyone, and with its walkable squares and plentiful historical excursions, along with such excellent food and drink, enough appeal for the most finicky of family members. I made a mental note to plan something in the future.

Part of its charm was no doubt due to the fact that I was vacation with Andy ~ a state in which we rarely find ourselves these days. It’s a happy circumstance that brings a certain peace, especially when separated from the usual burdens and chores of a house and work and political news briefings. We removed ourselves from that stressful world and sunk deep into siestas and slow walks among the pretty squares of the historic district, reviving ourselves with Southern bourbon cocktails and low country food-stuffs. Just as we were easing into an easy-going frame of mind, when the sweet slowness of the Southern pace was finally part of our schedule, it was time to go. That’s ok ~ we will take a bit of it back with us, I thought as I perused a book of Southern recipes and vaguely worked out a brunch or afternoon gathering for a sunny late spring day. Until then, here’s a linky look back at our Savannah Adventures:

• The Savannah Chronicles Part 1
• The Savannah Chronicles Part 2
• The Savannah Chronicles Part 3
• The Savannah Chronicles Part 4
• The Savannah Chronicles Part 5
• The Savannah Chronicles Part 6

“Once upon a time the world was sweeter than we knew. Everything was ours; how happy we were then, but then once upon a time never comes again.” ~ Johnny Mercer

I’ve always found cemeteries to be more than just peaceful places of repose. They are perfect for meditation, for returning to a frame of mind that is both grounded and relieved by mundane concerns. When it comes down to life and death, we are all equal. We each get one. What we do with the former is largely up to us; the latter is confoundingly out of our control, for the most part. Andy and I were dropped off at the entrance to the cemetery, and after a lost pair of sunglasses (I gave them up to Savannah’s ghosts) we began our self-guided walk along trees hung with Spanish moss and blooming camellias around every gravestone.

Little Gracie Watson’s marker ~ a pale sculpture of astounding life-like sadness ~ was surrounded and protected by an iron fence. It had proved too popular to be left open to careless tourists. We passed the cemetery for Conrad Aiken as well ~ I had no idea that he was buried there. Our real quest was for Johnny Mercer, and near the end of our journey we found him and his family. Beside a few palm trees, and marble etched with some of his many lyrics, Mr. Mercer’s site was in the peaceful shade of a few trees, near enough the water to feel its breeze. Nearby, a wayward wisteria wound its way around an iron gate, while camellias bloomed amid the green and gray.

“To understand the living, you got to commune with the dead…”

We paused there for a moment. We lucked out and were the only ones around for a while. Amid the beauty, there was peace. A few birds chirped above us as we made our way out of the cemetery. Our time in Savannah was coming to a close, and much too quickly…

“That old black magic has me in its spell,

That old black magic that you weave so well

Icy fingers up and down my spine

The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine…”

~ Johnny Mercer

Before the cemetery, a few words on food.

Savannah is rightly renowned for its Southern cooking, and while I opted out of another low country boil (I enjoyed one mightily last time) I kept mostly to fish and some stereotypical Southern dishes. (Hello, butter-slathered grits.) I also splurged on this fried chicken and waffle combo, drizzled with a bourbon walnut syrup to soften the Bloody Mary on hand. There’s nothing healthy going on here, and that’s exactly how it should be for a vacation.

Andy enjoyed the food selections as well, being particularly enamored of our meal at Elizabeth’s on 37^th, which had a steak that came with the best sauce he’s ever tasted. He also delved into the bourbon, but the libations of Savannah really deserve their own post. I’ll save that for a summer day. In the meantime, we had a visit to Bonaventure Cemetery. The day was sunny and turning warm. A stroll beneath the oaks sounded divine…

Following our marvelous dinner at Elizabeth’s on 37^th, we headed back to the hotel for a change into more casual clothing for the evening plans. Those in-between moments are often what I recall with the most fondness ~ the warm lights of our hotel room, a brief survey of Savannah from the balcony while a balmy night wind swirled around us, and an extra spritz of Jo Malone all created a sweet memory of safety. Intentionally so, as we were about to visit a place of darkness…

Built atop a pile of soldier bones, the Sorrel-Weed House is one of the most haunted places in all of America. It comes with years of tragic history, and the scandalous doings of its former inhabitants seem to bleed through its very walls. While I chickened out on going into it last time, with Andy in tow I felt emboldened to schedule a night-time tour (with explicit instructions for him not to move more than one foot from my side during the entire duration of the thing).

Mulling around the courtyard, we approached the 10 PM hour that marked the start of the tour. Talk of ghosts ensued, haunting incidents were discussed, and by the time we entered the front door of the house I was thoroughly shook. Andy was amused more than anything and within minutes had violated my strict do-not-move-more-than-12-inches-from-me rule, leaving me to fend for myself against evil spirits and the not-quite-completely-gone.

Most of my sensible side was merely entertained by everything the guide told us, but there was no denying that tragedy had taken place repeatedly in that space, and I do believe that trauma like that leaves a stain. Maybe it’s the mere knowledge of something bad having happened that stirs something in us, and maybe we bring it into being. However it happens, there was a discernible chill when they brought us into the basement (which is how basements usually work).

The tour ended in the square outside the house, where the remaining history of the original tenants was told. We weren’t that far from the Mercer House. As I may have mentioned, every step of Savannah feels haunted.

That night, vivid nightmares marched through my restless sleep. I had not escaped untouched. Though it may sound strange, the idea of visiting Bonaventure Cemetery the next day sounded peaceful. Perhaps the dead sleep better when they’re properly buried…