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We were walking in the Charleston City Market when I thought of them. Ben and Diana were among our closest friends, often our companions on vacations such as this one. Ben became ill on a cruise to Bermuda, a vacation in which we didn’t accompany them. He was eventually flown to a hospital here in Philadelphia and never awoke from an induced coma. Diana simply could not survive without him. Her health deteriorated soon after Ben passed, and she died while confined to a nursing home, much before her time.
There was no one more enthusiastic than Ben when he was on vacation or at a ballpark. Diana viewed his boyish fervor with a twinkle in her eyes. As I looked around at the rows of stands containing T-shirts, regional food items and arts and crafts, I joked to my wife that Ben would have viewed each concession with the eyes of an explorer discovering the new world. Ben owned a T-shirt or sweatshirt for every place he ever visited.
Both of our friends loved good food, and they would’ve enjoyed our visits to some of Charleston’s top restaurants. Southern cooking isn’t only about fried chicken or grits anymore. Youthful chefs are using the region’s ingredients to make their own food statement at places such as FIG and Husk. I could just picture Ben’s ritual. After eating a good meal, he’d pat his belly and a broad smile would cross his face as if to say what a great life.
The day my wife and I rode a tram car through Magnolia Plantation, a cold, damp wind blew causing the leaves of the magnolia and giant oak trees to scatter in our path. The unseasonable weather didn’t seem to bother the birds feeding in the marsh or the gators that were clearly visible. I almost felt Ben and Diana’s presence next to us on the wobbling tram seat, Ben all bug-eyed in wonderment and Diana cracking jokes at his expense.
We left Charleston for Savannah after four nights. Savannah is a city on the comeback. A decade ago, “The Jewel of the South” was becoming just another decaying wasteland, its buildings on once-proud Broughton Street abandoned to crime and despair. In stepped the Savannah College of Arts and Design, which the residents of Savannah call SCAD. Quite simply, SCAD rescued Savannah. I don’t know of another area where an educational institution has been more important to a city. SCAD began a process that thus far has resulted in the rehab of 17 buildings, with more on the way.
Unlike Charleston where the shops and elegant dining spots are concentrated in the downtown area, Savannah’s Broughton Street is a mixed bag of new attractions sitting side by side with run-down remnants of its past. To this Philadelphian, Broughton Street reminded him of Market Street in old city — funky and hip, but with a feeling that one wouldn’t want to dismiss the hint of danger in the area at night.
Many tourists who go to Savannah flock to the riverfront with its narrow streets and multitude of shops and restaurants. It’s a festive place with live music and buzzing with large crowds that barely fit on the sidewalks. The riverfront is just another reminder of how Philadelphia has yet to realize its own potential along its waterfront.
This is not to say that Savannah has lost the Southern charm of its origins. The city is laid out in squares. Horse-drawn carriages and tour buses traverse historic Savannah. The history is fine, but the most striking sight are the old, stately trees, many with Spanish moss hanging from the branches that beckon to people with a hint of sadness buried within them like a blues song.
Among the historic sites is the Johnny Mercer House. Mercer, a son of Savannah, is one of America’s great composers of popular music. While we often pay homage to the witty Cole Porter, the genius of George Gershwin, and the urbane Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart, the Great American Songbook would be incomplete without the music of Mercer. He teamed up to write the lyrics to such songs as “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” “Come Rain Or Come Shine” and “One For My Baby.” But what I didn’t realize is that Mercer joined Henry Mancini to compose “Moon River.” I guess I should mention that it was Ben and Diana’s song. My wife and I can’t hear that song without thinking of them.
Savannah, like Charleston, has its share of exciting new dining spots mixed with the old familiar places such as Mrs. Wilkes. We dined at The Grey, so-named for being located inside a renovated old bus terminal, and The Florence, located in part of town hitherto populated only by old warehouses.
On our last day, we sat in the lounge of the Desoto Hilton Hotel, waiting to leave for the airport. We could hear the sounds of live piano music coming from the lounge. The lobby was nearly empty, it being a Sunday afternoon with most tourists already off discovering Savannah. The old standards seemed to echo through the lobby, seemingly unnoticed. Then I looked up from my book and my wife from her newspaper as we heard the first notes of “Moon River.”
Our “huckleberry friends” were waiting ‘round the bend.’ Ben and Diana were smiling.
Contact the South Philly Review at editor@southphillyreview.com.
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