Savannah is a pretty special place. The historic district is built on a grid that is filled with shady piazzas, tree covered boulevards, and architectural amalgamations that do not exist anywhere else in the world. In contrast to Charleston, the houses of Savannah are often densely framed with trees, foliage, and gardens that are elegant, but at the same time look homey and untamed. It is the neighborhoods, not the downtown or waterfront, that are special in Savannah. I’m not really sure when the bulk of the downtown area was constructed, but from a city planning point of view, it doesn’t really fit in with the expansive historical district, which if I was in charge, it would.

The timing of the Savannah visit was slightly tricky because The Savannah Jazz Festival was taking place in the middle of the city, and nearly every hotel was booked solid. Lea and I were forced to stay slightly out of the city center, which ended up being fine because the drive into town was a straight shot down a prominent boulevard and provided the opportunity to see areas that would have otherwise gone undetected. Unfortunately, we missed the bulk of the Jazz Festival, but it felt justified because there is just too much to see, and spending all day at the crowded Forsyth Park would have been a waste of our limited, and precious, time. Instead, time was well spent viewing the countless historical sites, walking the shady avenues, and just taking in the southern way of life.

Savannah is definitely a walking city. However, if you’re not into walking, it is a carriage city as well, because there are things to see on every street and corner. You can get from one beautiful plaza to the next without much effort, and in some cases the historical houses of note, such as the Mercer-Williams House, a.k.a. “the house from The Midnight In The Garden of Good and Evil,” and The Owens-Thomas House, are a mere stones-throw from one another. The Owens-Thomas House is one of the most accurately restored houses in the city that can be toured inside and out. It is a very worthwhile activity to tour a house, because not only do you get to see the architecture and interior design of the house, but the tour guides also provide a very thorough history of the city while leading the tour. Our tour guide was a fast talking loon, but she did give a good tour and was filled with profuse amounts of random information. The Mercer-Williams House, perhaps the most well known in Savannah due to the book and film “Midnight in The Garden of Good and Evil,” was unfortunately closed when we were there, but it was nevertheless compelling to see.

A place that does require a drive outside of Savannah, but is well worth the extra time, is the Fort Pulaski National Monument. The Fort, which is named after the Revolutionary War hero Count Cashmir Pulaski, is a remarkably well preserved, restored, and staffed Civil War-era stronghold. The Fort has underground shelters for its magazines and gunpowder, multiple moats, drawbridges, brick spiral staircases, a dungeon, broad ramparts, portcullises, cannons pointing in all direction, and a baseball field. Unlike Fort Sumter, which was remodeled during each World War, Pulaski stands in the same fashion as it did in the late 1800s, with the exception of its rebuilt south-east facing wall. The Fort, which took nearly thirty years to be created from the original idea to its final armament, was the site of the first significant use of rifle-barreled cannons. The new developments in artillery, used in the Battle of Fort Pulaski, rendered the Fort, and other such brick-wall fortifications, practically obsolete. Even without such significant history, the Fort would be an amazing place to visit due to its picturesque location on the South Channel, and the kelly-green fields and swampland surrounding the brick red building. Now that’s good knowledge.

The last night in Savannah, Lea and I went to the Savannah Bistro for some Savannah style cooking. Lea had a whole flounder with apricot marmalade, and I had some amazing pan-fried tilapia with battered and deep-fried crab & onion crisps on top accompanied by garlic mashed potatoes. Mine was amazing, the whole fried flounder was slightly intimidating.

Side note: In the South anything can be deep-fried. While in Florida I heard about deep-fried Coca-Cola Classic. I was unreservedly intrigued and asked a guy who looked about the right weight of someone who would indulge in such an innovation to explain it. As it was described to me: Deep-fried Coca-Cola is a batter similar to funnel cake, but instead of water, Coca-Cola is used in the mixture. The batter is deep-fried until crisp, sprinkled with powdered sugar, and topped with Coca-Cola syrup. You can have it with ice cream, making the end result something close to a Cola float. Wow! Genius! Well, I didn’t have any, but it sounded interesting…

On the way south to Florida, a stop at “The GA Pig” was necessary because I think I somehow had managed to go almost two days without eating bar be que pork, and I needed my fix. The Georgia Pig is what a rural southern bar be que joint should look like. When I dream of pulled pork at night, I dream of it oozing from a building like the one The Georgia Pig is in. It is stationed in a log cabin right off the highway under a shady grove of trees with group of wooden tables scattered about. It reminded me of the kind of place that I always imagined Paul Bunyan, Davey Crocket, or Abraham Lincoln growing up in. Inside are large wooden tables with all the necessary condiments and accessories in the center, including the essential bar be que sauce squirting bottles, hot sauce sidekick, and large rolls of paper towels. All these items are to be used to the point of excess. While ordering, you must throw in some cups of beans and slaw, at 99 cents a pop, and you’re a sleeping bag away from making that log cabin your home. It is such a loveable, and intriguing place that there is a sign on the front door that states, “No photography allowed inside,” or something like that. In short, if you find yourself driving around in south-east Georgia and are in need of some bar be que, don’ think, just do, and stop at The GA Pig.

Jacksonville, Fl. is about as close a modern city can get to being a ghost town. On a warm, sunny, Sunday afternoon, there was hardly a soul out in the downtown streets or at the shops, restaurants, and bars of Jacksonville Landing. I actually felt bad for the people working at the shops that were intended to be tourist stops, because they literally had nothing to do. The busiest place on Jacksonville’s riverfront, which was a very pleasant place, was the ice cream shop, where the line moved slower than growing grass. I would cry if I were forced to move to Jacksonville.

St. Augustine, on the other hand, has it going on, with really nice beaches, Spanish-colonial downtown, and numerous tourist friendly locations in close proximity. The two days I spent in St. Augustine, I lounged in eighty-five degree weather and seventy degree water and I really can’t complain, because although small, St. Augustine has character to spare. For a town with as much history as St. Augustine possesses, the people who live in the city claim that there really isn’t much to do. I personally found plenty to do, but I could definitely see their point. The town had become a tourist trap of the worst kind, where every old building is a pay to see attraction, and areas of the very pleasant downtown were gated off in an amusement park fashion. The whole idea of St. Augustine being a Spanish and Pirate history epicenter was slightly ruined by the over commercialization of interesting places. The best, or perhaps I should say worst, example is the infamous, “Fountain of Youth.”

Oh eeyeah, I just drank from the Fountain of Youth and feel young again. That’s the way I had hoped I would feel, but after choking down the metallic tasting water I felt more like spitting it back up. The mildly entertaining amusement park that is the Fountain of Youth is barely, just barely, worth the $6.50 admission price. The property consists of pathways, peacocks, a severely out-of-date planetarium, and a shack with plaster conquistadors and Indians standing around the supposed fountain itself. It’s essentially a hole in the ground, where water is naturally filtered by the underground caves and comes out relatively pure. The legendary conquistador, Don Juan Ponce de Leon went searching for the underground spring in 1513 and it ended up being the reason that Florida fell under Spanish rule. It’s an insignificant, but awkwardly momentous, landmark in American history. Apparently, Indians in the Caribbean, who were trying to convince the Spanish to leave their island for something better, told the myth of the Fountain of Youth. Ponce de Leon, never one to miss an opportunity to impress the King of Spain, gullibly left the tropical islands and landed in St. Augustine. “Wow,” I thought, “How could something so interesting, be so horribly presented to the public.” It was sad. On the flip side, the Castillo de San Marcos, a fort built in 1695 and run by the National Park System, was spectacular to visit. With knowledgeable staff, and no cost to me to get in, the Castillo is a shining example of why historically significant places in American history should be run by the Nation Park System.

Next stops: Atlanta, Nashville & Memphis, oh my!

The road from Boston to St. Augustine, Florida, the East Coast leg of the trip, has been spectacular. The combination of interesting cities, delectable food, historical stops, transitioning culture, and quality-company has made every mile of the east coast enthralling.

You would think that parking in New York could cause major problems, and it normally does, but due to perfectly aligned connections I was able to achieve VIP status in a conveniently located underground parking facility. Having your car towed in Boston: $110. Having someone scrape against the side of your car while parallel-parked in Boston: $300. Having a protected place to park when you get to New York City: Priceless. A week in New York goes by a lot faster than a week in any other city. There is more than a lifetime of activities, restaurants, sights, and museums to experience, so I had to pick and choose my activities wisely. To be productive, most days I woke up around noon. I figured that I deserved this now, because I had been on the go almost every day since leaving Santa Cruz, and with the changing time zones and various levels of sleep quality, I could use the refueling, after all, I am on vacation. I had the pleasant fortune of having magnificent weather, which made afternoons watching softball in Central Park, a trip to the top of Rockefeller Center, “The Rock,” at sunset, and evenings out in the Greenwich Village, Upper East Side, and Brooklyn, all possible. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, on the edge of Central Park, was very enjoyable afternoon activity. Like the city itself, the museum is also extremely large. With copious amounts of art pieces and exhibits to enjoy, I was forced to speed-walk to all the specific sections and displays that I thought I would enjoy, and essentially skipped everything else. Also like the city, there is just too much to see at “The Met.” Anyway, I’m not too keen on spending large amounts of my days wandering in cavernous museums when I could be watching football and checking out the happy hour scene at neighborhood bars and restaurants. I mean seriously, you only live once.

New York has a great selection of food. I’m not really sure if I remember all that I had to eat, but I do remember that it was bueno. There is plenty to debate when it comes to New York restaurant cuisine, as anyone who has read, or seen, “American Psycho” would know, but I’m pretty sure that I ate at all the best New York City restaurants. Debate over. Well, maybe not all of the upper echelon, but everything was great at the time, and I am on a budget. Everything from Turkish falafel, Jewish deli, sushi and Max Brenner Chocolate By The Bald Man all provided the great meals you would expect from NYC’s smorgasbord of eateries.

If you ever drive south off of Manhattan Island into New Jersey do so in the early evening. The skyline of the city, looking over your left shoulder when you emerge from the tunnel, is absolutely picture-perfect. I was driving at the time in pretty heavy traffic, therefore no picture was taken, and you’ll just have to take my word for it.

Although I have been to Washington D.C. on a number occasions, I feel that each time I go back, my visits just keep getting better. Perhaps as I get older I become more aware and appreciative. Perhaps it’s simply timing and luck. Whatever it is, D.C. is a city that I will never grow tired of visiting.

Walking amongst the monuments of Lincoln, Jefferson, Washington, and Roosevelt and the Vietnam, Korean, and World War II memorials, certainly inspires and mesmerizes. There is something about the layout of the Washington Mall and the size & significance of the monuments that make the whole thing seem out of place. It takes me back to all those hours in American and World history, political science, and government classes and really puts the achievements of great people, the brutal reality of war, and scope of national and individual accomplishment into a new perspective. My personal significance is put into a new perspective as well. And I digress…

The Electric Six concert at The Black Cat was a concert for the ages. With no shortage of showmanship, the E6 rocked through all their dance-rock staples, mixed with some work off their new album. In a room slightly larger than most high school classrooms, the E6 kicked up the tempo with the encouragement of “bailamos,” and played to the crowd’s demands, except for the hit “Synthesizer” off their first album. I can’t even count the amount of times that I have sung along with “Dance Commander,” “”Dance Epidemic,” or “Electric Daemons In Love,” and now I singing and dancing along with the loony front man, in D.C. of all places. The show was great, the beer was good, the Pizza Mart pizza afterwards was everything I had dreamed of.

Honestly, the food in DC matched that of New York. Amsterdam Falafelshop is certainly a must do when one is in DC. Better than many suggestions in “Roadfood,” the Falafelshop provides the precious opportunity to create an over-stuffed pita of joy with your own hands for under six dollars. You can create an edible orb, about the size of a size two soccer ball, filled with incredibly fluffy falafel nuggets, hummus, babaganoosh, chopped garlic, roasted vegetables, other stuff, and more other stuff. Order up some crispy fries, stick one in the top like a fuse, and you got yourself a pretty bomb little feast any hour of the day or night. Right down the street is aforementioned Pizza Mart, another all night eatery of notoriety. The shop serves slices of pizza up lightning quick the size of your torso for like three dollars. Whatever hangover you may have had in the morning is sopped up in the two pounds of pizza dough that you put in your stomach, and the next day you don’t crave breakfast until noon. When you do have breakfast I recommend the pulled pock sandwich at Jesse and Erin’s apartment. Scrumptious and free. Now that’s a good deal. D.C. ended up being the perfect mix of music, nightlife, site-seeing, food, and good people that epitomizes what this trip is all about.

When traveling down the east coast, D.C. feels like the final checkpoint before crossing the imaginary line that separates the “north” from the “south.” I’m not saying that all of Virginia has that distinctive southern feel, but you do start noticing large numbers of cars parked in front of trailers, an increase in the size of the people’s guts, and the infamous “Waffle House” and “Cracker Barrel” combination at every freeway exit. (Explanation to come.) The stop in Virginia Beach was negatively tainted by the mysterious disappearance of Lea’s phone charger, a phone earpiece, and my iPod Nano from our hotel room. While plugged into charge, these items took a walk, never seen by myself, or hotel staff, again. Oh well. I was pissed, but in retrospect I feel that it was a deserved punishment for breaking the cardinal rule of staying in hotels: Never leave valuables in plain site. New travel declaration: I will never stay in a HoJo Hotel again. With long sandy beaches, miles of shops, bars and restaurants, I could imagine Virginia Beach bustling with lobster-red frat guys, glossy girls, and soldiers on military leave, but there really wasn’t much going on in the ol’ VB except for a few beach goers and the typical riff-raff that congregates in beachside communities. A strange thing about Virginia Beach was that all the restaurants, whether independent, chain, or affiliated with a hotel, have fundamentally the same menu. A couple steak options, a couple burger options, some seafood, and perhaps some salads make up the bulk of every restaurant’s offerings for almost identical prices. There was very little diversity, which was disappointing, so Lea and I went to “Rock Fish” twice in one day to take advantage of the ridiculously cheap afternoon Ahi tacos and nightly free crab appetizers. Their marketing scheme was successful & I was in dollar taco heaven. Sadly, like the restaurant menus, the town of Virginia Beach has little diversity or culture to offer. You are limited to the long beachfront, and harbor area that make it a nice, but not exactly stimulating place to visit. Lets move on shall we…

Williams Street Bar B Que, in who-knows-where North Carolina, was a decent introduction to southern-style pulled pork and NC b-b-q sauce, which is vinegar not tomato based. The sauce is watery in consistency, similar to salad dressing, but full in flavor. The strong vinegar presence provides a unique tang, and although it sounds intimidating, the stuff is almost addicting as Moreno’s salsa. This would be the first of oh so many pulled pork experiences.

Now, South Carolina feels like “the south.” There is no mistaking the distinctive southern drawl, the use of ya’ll, and the fact that the excuse for hotels not having wireless internet is, “Uh, well, you’re in the south.” There are aspects of Charleston that are extremely charming and make it a splendid place to visit, but there are some subtle nuances and idiosyncrasies that make Charleston’s atmosphere a little uncomfortable. Well, uncomfortable may not be the best word. How about, eccentric? Well, I can’t think of the right word exactly. The people are very pleasant, and the city seems quite safe and is remarkably beautiful, but there is a denial of the past, mostly pertaining to slavery, and an embracement of succession and confederate pride that composes Charleston white culture. For instance, the Magnolia Plantation and Garden, just outside Charleston proper, is a beautiful expanse of informal, but intricate, English gardens, moss filled trees, murky swamps, well-manicured fields, pastures, and stables. While exploring the grounds it became evident that one key element of southern plantation life had been purposely downplayed, and that was the role of slaves. The slaves’ quarters were described as “antebellum cabins,” and for the most part the slaves were simply referred to as “gardeners,” or “hands.” One of the few references to slavery on the property was the description of how the property owner had risked his own neck to provide the slave children with educational and religious studies, a practice that was outlawed in South Carolina at the time. The depiction of the pre-Civil War plantation came across as some sort of quixotic haven for the slaves, where they could work, learn, and live as if the property owners were doing them a favor by having them there. According to the information given on the tour of Fort Sumter, more slaves were brought into the United States through Charleston Harbor than any other city. Additionally, in the middle of town stands a long wooden-roofed open market that was originally used as a slave-trading market, but today is much like a farmers/crafts market on certain days of the week. Although there is mention of the original use of the facility, the references are quite subtle.

It is quite evident that Charlestonians try to downplay the role of slavery, but they take pride in showcasing their role in the Civil War and succession. In front of elegant bayside southern mansions on the East Battery, “Don’t Tread On Me” and “Stars and Bars,” flags are proudly displayed. “Don’t Tread On Me” was the slogan, and symbol, of South Carolina’s battle of wills to maintain the Southern way of life while facing Union demands on slavery laws. “Stars and Bars” was the original Confederate flag until soldiers realized that looked exactly like the Union’s “Stars and Stripes” when the wind wasn’t blowing. The fact that the Civil War started in Charleston is another source of local pride. Fort Sumter, which sits out on a sandbar in the Charleston Harbor, where the Ashley and Cooper Rivers collide, was the site of the first Civil War clash between Union and Confederate soldiers. I won’t go into detail, but to spare you the suspense, I will tell you that no one died in the bombardment of the Fort, and the Union soldiers who surrendered at Sumner were allowed to travel safely back to New York. Seemed like an awful friendly way to start such a bloody conflict, but nevertheless the Civil War began and to this day it appears that a significant population in the South don’t regret it happening. Perhaps they would if General William T. Sherman had decided to burn Charleston to the ground like every other city in the South, with the exception of Savannah. Another noteworthy factoid from the Fort Sumnter visit and then I’ll quit the history analysis, was the recreational activities of the soldiers stationed there. Abner Doubleday, the credited inventor of baseball, orchestrated some of the first “’formal” baseball games every played on the marching grounds of the Fort. This is interesting to me, because two weeks earlier I learned of this at the Baseball Hall of Fame, and a few days after visiting Charleston I would see the first picture of a baseball game ever taken at Fort Pulaski in Savannah, Georgia.

I may be coming off as having a negative impression of Charleston, but I really don’t. I was amazed at how preserved the original housing was, and the bayside walkways were as beautiful as anywhere on the California coast. The pulled pork was good. Bubba Gump Shrimp Company was fun. There is a lot to be admired in Charleston, even if they would prefer to be apart of another country.