It’s springtime in Savannah. The heat is beginning to creep in after mild winter months. The air is already heavy; everything, and everyone, moves idly. The trees even lean lazily, unable to stand tall, seemingly weighed down by the spanish moss covering the city like billowing drapes.
Wandering through the historical district, the scene is breathtaking: gas-lit lamps flicker and illuminate intricate nineteenth century facades, many adorned with porches and small gardens. Most likely, a kitschy horse-drawn carriage carrying tourists on one of the many guided tours (many supernatural) will loll by, the hooves echoing through peaceful evening streets. If one squints, and dreams, the moment may feel like a scene from Woody Allen’s “Midnight in Paris,” Savannah’s own time warp. And if one is as painfully nostalgic and romantic to a fault as I, this is the city for those who yearn for “simpler” times, if only in theory and aesthetic.
In other words, I’m smitten.