Petit Riz

We snack on pecans, brownies, and sip sherry by a fake fireplace. We walk through most of the twenty-two squares in Savannah, stumbling upon each green patch with surprise until the trees and their hanging Spanish moss grow familiar. Walking through Savannah is like gliding beneath green curtains, their edges brushing the tops of our heads. It’s difficult to think of Savannah as belonging to this part of the world. There’s a dreamy, ghostly quality to the shaded streets through which light filters erratically.

We are told that this city was built upon its dead. If one were to dig beneath the pavement millions of bones would sprout. The soil is fertile. The air is warmer in Savannah, but it is still cool and humid in early March. We walk up and down Forsyth Park, passing by grand mansions and afternoon runners. My bones are cold from New York. There is a restaurant with floor to ceiling windows where we devour an Andouille and butternut squash soup followed by shrimps and ground beef swimming in thick gravy. Beneath the stew we uncover the creamiest grits. On Friday afternoon, we continue our walk through the squares. I stand by the Savannah River looking at the muddy water and I turn my face to the sun. I could stay there for hours. We taste honey at the Savannah Bee Company, pumping droplets onto cardboard spoons. I am reminded of a man who killed bumblebee in New Zealand. I was young and traveling with my parents. We were in a bus with many tourists and there was a giant bumblebee buzzing around the bus. A man slammed down his shoe, squashing it flat. My mother screamed, How could you! She may as well have yelled murder. We all stared at him.

At night we ride a hearse with lunatic Laura, as she calls herself. She tells us stories of the Savannah ghosts. The hearse crawls slowly through the dark streets and we are cold as there are no windows. I suck in my cheeks and hold my hands tightly on my lap to stay warm. As Laura feeds us spooky stories she tells us about the family that returns every fall to Savannah and rents the entire hearse for pizza and ghost tales. Only a few blocks away from our bed & breakfast, Laura returns home to her apartment’s ghost, Ted, a man who was stabbed six months before she moved there.

In the morning the alarm is blinking. There is a power outage and we remember Laura’s parting words: Tell me if the ghosts visit you tonight, if anything strange happens.

At the Farmer’s Market we buy a bag of pecans toasted in butter, sugar, and cinnamon. The vendor tells us these pecans will make us dance. He throws back his head and laughs. I use a spoon to taste the pecans. The sign says: Yummy… yummy for my tummy!

We venture north of Forsyth Park through quiet streets, away from the historic district. The row houses remind me of Philadelphia and there are low-concrete buildings that might be abandoned. We drink hot horchata and scoop at an affogato with a miniature spoon. I think of Juliette Binoche in Blue, sitting at the same café day after day, pouring coffee over a large vanilla ice-cream bowl.

We swallow hot dogs as we listen to Dirk give us a thorough exposé of Savannah architecture. He wears a brilliant red polo and a baseball cap with the tour’s logo. He forgets about the time and we bid him goodbye in a hurry. We could stay there forever with Dirk and his endless knowledge of streets and houses, of the elaborate iron-work that decorates many of the Savannah homes, and Oglethorpe the visionary founder of Georgia, but I want to see the cemetery before it closes at dusk.

Mark, our cab driver, asks if visiting the Bonaventure Cemetery makes us feel grateful to be alive. He speaks with kindness and melancholy, recounting the story of how he moved to Savannah from New York for a business prospect that never materialized. We rest on the low walls and stare at the old graves. The cemetery is empty and it shimmers with late-afternoon sunlight. The stillness makes it feel strangely alive, with those familiar curtains of Spanish moss draping over our heads.

Most men and women seem to have arrived to Savannah later in life. Few of those we speak to were born and raised in Savannah. They chose this city. They come from up north, Michigan, Ohio, New York… they didn’t love the places they were from. We listen as they tell us about Savannah, they know the city’s history intimately, and each person tells us a different story. I imagine they’ve been washed up on the Savannah River shores, more willing to brave a steaming summer than six months of northern winter.

We walk along Forsyth Park and eat free brownies from the bed & breakfast. They’re kept under a glass dome in the entrance. We wander through City Market among tourists and families with young children. We taste warm praline pulled off a marble slab. It crunches so softly in my mouth, like almond butter at the bottom of a jar. Girls practice gymnastics on the grass with their hair tied in perfect buns, and fully clothed boys run through the fountain. The girls cartwheel through the air and the boys sit with their mothers, wrapped in towels. The sun begins to set and I’m cold again.

We snack on more brownies and walk to the Olde Pink House. The host graciously leads us downstairs to the tavern and the forty-minute wait turns into a ten-minute wait, and soon we are seated in a dimly lit corner. Live piano music tinkles in the background but we are distracted by our meal of flounder lathered in apricot sauce, delicate cornbread fried oysters, crab cake topped with a fried green tomato and chicken breast covered in pecan crust, served with more grits and collard greens. The grits remind me of millet porridge I ate as a kid in Australia and I’m transported to the retreat where my mother and I spent our summers, a five-hour drive from Melbourne. The retreat burned down since then. Dinner is late and we eat without pausing. We finish with a warm pecan pie. The custard inside wobbles with syrup and butter. Later, at midnight, we prowl around the historic house peeking into the rooms on the second floor. The tables are set for dinner but the rooms are empty. I think of Laura’s warning about the restrooms at the Pink House. Those ghosts will lock you in the toilet stalls even when there are no locks! On our walk through Forsyth Park we steal a handful of moss to bring back to New York.

What to see and eat in Savannah:

Park Avenue Manor Bed & Breakfast
http://parkavenuemanor.com/
107-109 West Park Avenue

Savannah Rambles
Walking Architecture Tour
http://www.savannahrambles.com/

Hearse Ghost Tours
(Note: Ask for “Lunatic” Laura)
http://www.hearseghosttours.com/

Bonaventure Cemetery
http://www.bonaventurehistorical.org/
(Note: closes at 5pm)

The Public Kitchen & Bar
1 W Liberty St, Savannah, GA 31401
Tel: 912 200 4045

Olde Pink House
http://www.plantersinnsavannah.com/the-olde-pink-house/
(Note: Eat at the Tavern in the basement)
Reynolds Square
23 Abercorn Street
Tel: 912 232 4286

Savannah Bee Company
https://www.savannahbee.com/cgi-bin/commerce.cgi?display=home
104 W Broughton St
Open 10am-7pm

Leopold’s Ice Cream
http://www.leopoldsicecream.com/
212 E Broughton St.
Open 11am-10pm

Foxy Loxy Print Gallery Café
1919 Bull St., Savannah, GA, 31401
https://foxyloxycafe.com/
(Note: This place is a beautiful cottage and ideal for reading, writing, working, lazing…)

photos by Geoffroy Bablon