Haunting Savannah

I've been to Savannah a few times over the decades, and each time I visit, it is as if I see a completely different, yet recognizable town. Savannah certainly hasn't changed all that much. The architecture is the same, The Mercer House, The Telfair, The River Street Inn, SCAD, and the many squares with historic statues. Perhaps it is the company that I keep which changes my perspective. 

I first visited as a teenager, seeing Savannah from the backseat of my parents' Buick. I gasped at the beautiful avenues lined with live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss. I've visited with Darryl and was overcome with the romance of walking the streets and having candlelit dinners. A prospective employer flew me into town once and assigned a real estate agent to show me all the lovely neighborhoods I would be able to afford should I get the job.

This week, Joelle and I drove into town from the south. It was raining buckets. Our first destination was Bonaventure Cemetery, located in Thunderbolt, which is a few miles southeast of the historic district. Overlooking the Wilmington River and tucked into a quaint and thankfully non-HOA neighborhood, one enters the cemetery complex from twisty turny side streets.

More of a family compound that singular gravesite for Johnny Mercer.

We may not have been on a Mission from God, but we were on a Mission from Claire, Joelle's mother. We promised to visit the grave of Johnny Mercer, founder of Capitol Records, who penned mid-century classics like "Moon River" for the movie Breakfast at Tiffany's.

What could be better than visiting a cemetery on a dark and dreary day? Having a picnic while you are there, of course. 

After packing up the old blue cooler (I can never part with her now.), we headed into town and our next stop. How can the Gypsy Sisters not visit a vintage clothing store called Gypsy World? Impossible.

There we met and instantly befriended the owner, Lisa. We spent ages comparing van life stories, and laughed about our favorite high school clothes that are now considered vintage. 

Her green eyes watch you walk through the store.

We tore ourselves away and ventured toward the historic district. Oh Savannah, I love your quirkiness and your appreciation for characters and stories told with that southern culture hyperbole. We did not get to spend enough time wandering down your back streets, eavesdropping on tour guides, and admiring your wabi sabi splendor. I'll be back shortly.

Shhh. Don't tell anybody.

We liked the way it looked on the map, practically walking distance from St. Augustine. It has affordable motels on the beach. Every trip we take must include some nature time, whether we are hiking, camping, or swimming. So, although our ultimate destination was to arrive in St. Augustine, we decided to make Vilano Beach our basecamp.

We spent hours on the beach, walking, watching the surfers, chasing my hat in the wind, and camped out in our brightly colored chairs.

We actually stayed in a motel on this trip, instead of sleeping on the beach or under the trees. Indoor plumbing is nice, and our Spanish styled residence was tucked behind a wall, within feet of the sand.

Everything we could want is within walking distance in Vilano Beach, so we set out on foot to find dinner our first night there.

The food was marginal bar fare, but the sunset was spectacular. 

 The walk back to our motel took us directly through the 50s and 60s.

And while there were signs of human activity, we saw very few people. The streets were empty.

The sign read "Home Cooked Italian," and of course we were skeptical. We tried it anyway on our second night in town. Course after course, hours later, we were the last people in the restaurant. Joelle certified it "authentic Sicilian." We waddled back to our hotel happy and full, with enough leftovers to feed us the next night. 

Real New York Home Cooked Italian Specialties

Quiet, convenient, and affordable. We strongly suspect magical Vilano Beach was a Twilight Zone experience. If we were to drive back there next month, it may no longer exist. 

Quick, Jump In

We drove a car. We stayed in a hotel. No sleeping in a van down by the river this time.

Before we even set off, Joelle had already travelled from Dallas to Baltimore, run a 10K, worked a full day, then flew into Charleston.

We loaded the car with essentials: the old blue cooler and our fluorescent camp chairs. Joelle loves to drive, so she slipped behind the wheel first. She must have really had the pedal to the metal; the next thing I knew, we were in Switzerland. 

Stop the car! We need a selfie!

Yes, we are constantly entertained by town names, like Paris, Texas and Switzerland, South Carolina. 

Since we both work while traveling, we take turns on the computer and the phone. I took over the wheel so Joelle could communicate with the office.

The onboard GPS in my trusty Beemer has learned the Gypsy Sisters travel style. She directs us on circuitous routes and down sand packed roads. Why drive down 95 when you can travel on a ferry? Why face the asphalt, when your car can point directly at a swiftly flowing current?

So we cruised south on A1A and drove aboard the St.John's River Ferry, connecting  Mayport Village and Fort George Island, near Jacksonville, Florida.

Joelle is the more adventurous of the two of us, and she hopped out of the car instantly. I think she had some Titanic bow-like visions.

I, on the other hand, was eventually able to pry my fingers loose from the steering wheel, and venture outside of the car … but had to have a body part touching it at all times. And let's face it, it was only because if the ferry sunk, I was afraid of getting trapped in my seatbelt.

OMG, we cut right in front of this guy!

Gonzalez-Alvarez house and grounds.

Next stop: St.Augustine, Florida, where we spent a full day wandering the side streets, and I practiced using my new Olympus camera. Joelle is so very patient with me, and just laughs when I say for the third time, "That's it; I broke it. I touched something and now it doesn't work."

Memorial Presbyterian Church

 No alley goes unwandered by the Gypsy Sisters.

Where should we go now?