“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, ‘Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evil’

Our time in Savannah was coming to its bittersweet close, as all magical things must. We hesitated as we made our way through square after square. Some were spookier than others, but the spirits here seemed for the most part benevolent. We stopped for one final glimpse of Mercer House, all sinister elegance and gargoyle grace. 

I never much believed in ghosts. I remember there was a small corner of the McNulty School library that housed books on the paranormal and occult. Whenever I was bored, I’d find that corner and open up a ghost book, reading of especially terrifying hauntings and eye-witness accounts of spirits and mysterious, unexplainable activity. It was fascinating, and a little frightening. 

I’m still doubtful as to the existence of ghosts, but if such entities are real, surely they reside in Savannah. They could slip among the Spanish moss, disappear into cracked plaster, or swoop into the murky swamp. They could drown themselves in sweet tea or waltz along the thick Southern accent of any charming local. 

I never saw any ghosts or spirits, but something was at work that night. We made our way back along to Forsyth Park. The fountain was lit, but the park was mostly empty. At least, it was empty to our eyes. 

Back at the Mansion on Forsyth, an angel rested her head on her arm, her gaze downward, lost in her beauty, lost in her prayers. 

A coda of solitude. My last late afternoon in Savannah was spent prowling the charming stores and restaurants on my own. A Sunday cocktail at the Public Kitchen & Bar was followed by a charming visit to E. Shaver Bookseller, which, like yours truly, has been local and independent since 1975. 

Two cats slinked through the rooms, the first one a rich shade of orange with the faintest tiger striping, and the second a smoky grey thing that seemed to disappear and reappear as if by apparition. Room after room, filled to the brim with books and little reading nooks, I disappeared into the maze that was Savannah. Like most shops here, this would be tinged with enchantment and fleeting magic. Gone as soon as you tried to get it within your grasp.

That sort of fleetingness carries its own appeal, the way the wind can gently lift a silk scarf around your neck in gossamer glory, then disappear before anyone else gets to see the whimsy. 

Savannah had worked its enchantment on me. In this special city, where the lions had wings and the camellias continued to bloom into December, I breathed in some of its magic, hoping that it would stay with me. 

We had one more night here…

Along the Savannah River there stands a sculpture of a woman waving in the wind. The story goes that she was based on a real-life woman whose beau set sail out of Savannah, and for whom she waited faithfully to return, devotedly running out to the bank when all the ships would pass, waving a small sheet or towel and seeking out her lost love. She was said to have done this for over 40 years. That’s the kind of dedication that has, thankfully in many ways, disappeared largely from the world. But there’s a certain sad and undying love in that, and a faith and hope in something bigger than our individual selves. I hope she found other happiness in her life.

To get the grandest scope of the city while not exhausting ourselves, we opted for an old Savannah Trolley Tour. It’s always the easiest and quickest way to see the highlights of any historical city, and we plotted it out so that we would begin and end nearest to Mercer House, which we would tour afterward. We stopped by the river to see an immense cargo ship pass, looking like an entire city in motion and afloat. We sat and ate ice cream as we watched the people go by. It was a perfectly lovely day, the kind you don’t often get in November, and we held onto the moment. As we ambled off the trolley after the final stop, we headed back through Forsyth Park to Mercer House – the sight of the infamous killing that set ‘Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil’ into motion.

It began on the veranda. Such a lovely word, such a lovely space. Certain words perfectly conjure the prettiness of what they are meant to describe. Moss and water plants played among the brick inlay of a sunken garden, while mirrors filigreed with wrought iron stood sentry at each side of the back door. A breeze blew somewhat harshly on this Sunday in November, but the sun was still strong, and the house was resplendent in the light. Our tour guide filled in the history of the house; despite its namesake no Mercer ever lived here.

Upon entering, the righteous focal in my eyes was the floor: a harlequin of alternating dark and light ceramic tiles that dated from the origin of the house – miraculously surviving all sorts of mischief and mayhem, and still shining as if just laid.

The artwork was an eclectic and judiciously-edited wonder, grouped in that uncannily gorgeous manner of the most distinguished and revered collectors.

From the dining room we made our way past the stairs, looking upward to the stained-glass dome that was the first thing Jim Williams renovated when he purchased the place and began its revitalization. He put it on the map in more gruesome ways, which we touched upon as we entered the study – where the infamous killing occurred. I tried to imagine that night, and the players involved – then we were back across the hall into the sitting room. It was my favorite space in the house – an exquisite room that looked gloriously onto one of the only real front yards in all of Savannah. Shades of soothing sage called from elegant sofas and chairs, and I wanted to stay there and take it all in. Soon, though, the rest of the house beckoned – the music room with its grand piano, then the eggplant-tinted smoking room, with its tufted couch topped with a leopard pelt, head still intact. More than one dead body still inhabited the place, as a glass aviary housed a number of stuffed birds, frozen in mid-flight, frozen in time. Too quickly, our tour was over and it was time to leave Mercer House. We walked through the lush squares again, and the trees took on new meaning.

There were spirits and ghosts here; it was almost tangible. Even in the bright light of day, some of the squares hung thick with history – hangings and murders and countless yellow-fever deaths. That sort of stench doesn’t wash away with rain or wind or even the passing of time. It stains the surroundings, like the brick that bled through the walls of The Pink House no matter how many times they tried to whitewash it.

I found it fascinating and intriguing, though if I’d been in a more vulnerable mood I could easily find myself scared out of my mind. We never did do any of the ghost tours, and places like the Sorrel Weed House were left for another, braver day.

Savannah was revealing itself, slowly and seductively, with more than a hint of deadly danger. There was something beautiful in ruin, something gorgeous in deterioration. It showed in the plaster that was crumbling all around us, gradually uncovering the brick that was beneath the faux-stone. 

Nothing lasts forever, but still beauty remained here. 

JoAnn and I parted ways in Forsyth Park – she headed back to the hotel while I took one last stroll around the historic district…

“For me, Savannah’s resistance to change was its saving grace. The city looked inward, sealed off from the noises and distractions of the world at large. It grew inward, too, and in such a way that its people flourished like hothouse plants tended by an indulgent gardener. The ordinary became extraordinary. Eccentrics thrived. Every nuance and quirk of personality achieved greater brilliance in that lush enclosure than would have been possible anywhere else in the world.”~ John Berendt, ‘Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil’

What few memories I had of Savannah were framed by the misty Spanish moss hanging on all of its trees. Such beauty and charm faded eloquently over the years, and in the ensuing two decades much of that first trip slipped into the tricky borders between dreams and fairy tales and surreal reality. Mostly I recalled the moss, the gaslight lamps, and the horse-trodden cobblestone percussion of carriages rolling through the night. Back then I was timid and afraid to do much walking beyond the safe immediate surroundings by my hotel, and at the time it was probably a wise decision. Savannah has come a long way since 1997.

JoAnn and I had been planning a trip here for at least a decade. She had never been, and I wanted to revisit the charming city with a better sense of self. Captivated by stories such as ‘Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil’ and the haunting (and haunted) magic of the environs, we were both entranced by the idea of what this beautiful city might hold for us. The time was right.

We arrived to a charm and prettiness I’d almost forgotten could exist in this country. Easing into the afternoon, we set up house at the Mansion on Forsyth. Our room looked out onto Forsyth Park, steps away from that magnificent fountain, which, it turned out, was actually procured from a mail-order catalog from New York in the 1800’s. A quiet dinner on the river was followed by an early night. I find it best to ease into a city like Savannah, to allow it gently in rather than greeting it with bombast and possible oblivion. We tucked in for the evening, planning a full day of shopping and walking ahead.

The hours passed and the sun crept over Forsyth Park. Beset by a cough and cold, JoAnn slept a while longer as I explored our first full morning in Savannah. The sprawling park proved a fertile starting point for beauty and visual feasting. Spanish moss hung on all the trees, and everything was so verdant and green that November suddenly took on new meaning. The Park fills over thirty acres and I meandered through its pathways, taking my time and breathing in the air. The large white fountain there was actually procured from a mail-order catalog in the 1800’s direct from New York. (And I thought the White Flower Farm catalog was fancy.)

On the breeze was the scent of something I’d noticed from the time I’d touched down at the airport ~ a pungent, earthy aroma ~ that seemed to come from the swamp and the sea, with a sharp accent of something slightly more sinister. Savannah had its dark corners, as most places do. These just went back a little further.

There were other fragrances here – the sweet camellias still in bloom, holding their perfume close to their petals, refusing to travel on the wind. The mouthwatering smoke of fried treats coming from a food truck. Yet it was that animalistic accent from deep within the earth that would surface throughout our time in Savannah.

There was music as well, pouring forth from all stops. The trumpeter playing a plaintive melody in the park, the singer offering a standard by the river, the band in the corner of the restaurant ~ there was music everywhere. It matched the vibrancy of the surroundings, lending a soundtrack and a memory plane to everything we did.

Beauty, too, overflowed with historical majesty and might, gleaming off the perfectly-kept Victorian homes, the delightfully-manicured squares, the natural wonders of Spanish moss and hedges of winking camellias. It was a beauty that demanded a slower pace. Slow down, it whispered. Sit for a spell. Cool yourself in the shade of a tree with a glass of Sweet Georgia Peach Tea.

Only when your heart is calm should you carry on. I paused in the middle of that day and took it all in. That’s a luxury I don’t often afford myself, and I’m poorer for not doing so. On this afternoon, when all of Savannah was in a rapturous state of 75 degree weather, and the world felt bright and light and balmy and good, I soaked it in.

JoAnn joined me for some shopping, then we walked back to the hotel to get ready for dinner. The city’s historic district was perfectly manageable on foot, each square opening up to another, the houses beckoning you to take a few more steps toward something just as beautiful from where you come.

The sun had shifted by the time we returned to the fountain. A wind was kicking up as well. The spirits of Savannah had been roused. A restless sense of excitement permeated the atmosphere. We dressed for dinner and had a lovely time at a.Lure, where I tried my first Low Country Boil (given an elegant spin). That famous Southern charm was in full effect with every person we spoke to, and even if it’s skin deep there’s something to be said for such consistent niceties. We went to bed floating on that feeling, and filled with delicious food…