Savannah

Cities.

I've been to a lot of them, either passing through or visiting. When I say passing through, I mean going directly through it, not on some beltway that skirts it.

Portland, Bangor, Portsmouth, Boston, Quincy, Worcester, Danbury, New York City, Newark, Scranton, Philadelphia, Wilmington, Baltimore, Washington DC, Richmond, Harrisonburg, Charlotte, Asheville, Spartanburg, Charleston, Atlanta, Macon, Jacksonville, Orlando, Miami, Canton, Denver.

Many more much smaller as well.

I may have been there attending a convention, catching a ballgame or concert, doing the tourist thing. Or maybe just spent the night on the way to somewhere else. I may have been there for years or just a few hours, but I remember them all with varying degrees of opinion as to the experience.

Whether it was seeing the Statue of Liberty or the Washington Monument or hitting Miami Beach or taking in a Braves game at Turner Field, most activities took place under the yellow face of a dayrider sun.

Except for Savannah.

Savannah was all about the night.

Oh, I've been to Savannah during the day, gone to the mall, played mini-golf, eaten at restaurants and so on.

But the night is what I remember most about Savannah.

There were many. They were streaming and rumbling. Promises were made, some kept to this very day, some never intended to be kept.

Music threaded the nights. Music and a strong beat, both external and internal.

There was heat. A lot of heat. The moon and stars glinted off the river as if to highlight the motion of the eventide.

Bearded shadows hung from trees which stood above the river, and connections could be found in the cobblestones of Upper and Lower Factors Walks. Trees along the river were tamer, more decorative, but the old oaks above told stories of long ago.

Oysters and candy, Bailey's and sandals, the nights were rich in flavor and feeling. They were a  decalescent aphrodisiac, a roseate romance. It was easy to revel in the bright lights dotting the night or slip away through its deep umbra.

There was much nighttime in Boston as well, and those memories are as exuberant. But its ambiance was drastically different. Boston was urban with all its amenities. Savannah was history with all its nuances.

I can well understand why General Sherman couldn't bring himself to lay waste to Savannah like he did with Atlanta.

Because once you step inside her boundaries, she envelops you with sultry sweet arms and never lets go.