Wonder x Jungle: Tybee Island and Savannah, GA (Part 2/2)

Fried chicken and philosophical questions

Not all bike lanes are created equal.

Tybee is only 16 miles from downtown Savannah, but it’s not possible to ride a bike safely from one place to the other. What they call “bike lanes” is a 2-foot shoulder along a busy highway where one’s heart gets a workout not because of the actual cardio exercise but because of the close calls with cars traveling at high speeds. For random stretches on the road to Savannah, the shoulder actually disappears — especially above the many bridges over creeks and rivers — whereupon it seems safer to swim across the body of water with one’s bike on one’s back than to actually believe that the cars will, as admonished by several road signs, “Share the Road”.

So we took our Bromptons around Tybee Island instead. There was indeed a marked bike lane, some of it exclusive, some of it sharing with cars on residential streets. Unfortunately, the day we decided to bike around the island was the day when temperatures dropped significantly, and the winds picked up. The island was giving off the vibe that clever people were inside their homes and RV’s while the not-so-clever people were riding their bikes.

We arrived at an almost empty pier at Tybee Beach. The whipping wind seemed to be punishing our decision-making, but they say misery loves company: there were a few people fishing at the end of the pier, and a small crowd had gathered in one corner to watch a man in a wetsuit braving the frigid waters with a surfboard. This was obviously not the North Shore of Hawaii, for no matter how hard the winds blew, the waves refused to carry him. As he missed a ride, he slapped the waves in frustration. N. and I were desperate to do something that would mean the day had not been wasted, so we went into a bar and had a couple of beers and the worst fried pickles and burnt pretzels in recent memory. Then, we had to bike back in the same cold and windy weather.

***

On Tuesday, we headed to downtown Savannah for lunch. We turned the corner of a quiet street lined with majestic oak trees and there it was, a line of about 35-people deep staring at the door. Open Sesame! The smells wafting every time the door opened made us hungrier by the minute. Hopefully, the online hoopla was not unwarranted; given our last food experience with crowd-sourced reviews, N. and I tried to temper our expectations.

We were admitted in groups of 10 diners to share a meal at a large table served family style. There was no menu to look at, no decision to make, which was its own blessing since the tyranny of meaningless choice makes me grumpy. There was an already-laden table full of dishes: cornbread and biscuits, black-eyed peas, fried okra, cucumber salad, coleslaw, beef stew, green beans, collard greens, creamed corn, wild rice, corn salad, and sweet iced tea. N. and I were eating and trading stories about the different things we’d seen and done in Savannah with a couple from Washington state, when we were suddenly — but not rudely! — interrupted by a server who brought us fried chicken.

Now, we’ve had our share of fried chicken, from fast food to fancy restaurants. I even take pride in the fact that I make a wicked Asian-style fried chicken that was one of the dishes our kids used to request whenever they came home during their college years. I do admit, though, that this was one of the best fried chickens I’ve ever tasted: perfectly seasoned, tender chicken in a light and crispy batter that was — even ten minutes later! —still steaming hot once we took a bite. Proof that the chicken was delicious: we completely forgot to snap a photo! N. had three pieces and I had two. We could not eat anymore, and it was time to get up from the table: they would set up for another round of diners waiting in line outside. So I’ll admit it: the online crowd got this one right.

***

In our family, I’m notorious for dragging everyone into museums and historical sites and playing docent by reading all the placards outloud. So, to Fort Pulaski National Monument on Cockspur Island. (Spellcheck did not like the name: it was quite insistent that it was supposed to be “Cocksure”. The “I” in “A.I.” obviously still needs work.)

During the Civil War, the fort was being defended by a Confederacy certain that Union cannons could not strike it from their positions more than a mile away. The evidence on the outside walls of the fort — huge gouges in the brickwork — obviously points to the technological advancements unknown to Confederate leaders. The site was now a peaceful haven from the hustle-and-bustle of Savannah, with quiet memorials and trails to a lighthouse. It made us wonder — as such monuments always do — what the world would look like if an equivalent of the lives and treasure devoted to the business of death were instead devoted to the business of life.

***

Back to the concrete jungle.

A visit to the Telfair Academy Museum gave us a glimpse of the lifestyle of the old “rich and famous” in Savannah. They had a restored dining room — from the chandeliers to the dinnerware to the carpets — that would not have looked out of place in a scene on “Gone with the Wind.” Most of the other rooms had been transformed into exhibit halls that contained paintings and sculptures.

Coincidentally, we discovered one of the most iconic pieces of Savannah’s tourist circles in the top floor of this museum. The novel Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt was published in 1994. (I confess I haven’t read it, but it must have been super-popular because I do remember the book itself.) Its cover, a photograph of the sculpture “Bird Girl” by Silvia Shaw Judson, became iconic and supposedly drew crowds of readers to its location at the Bonaventure Cemetery. Concerns about the damage caused by tourists – darn them! – led to the removal of the sculpture. When we visited Telfair, “Bird Girl” was part of a special exhibit.

The Academy also had several other sculptures, most of them copies of Ancient Greek and Roman statues. Reading the little explanatory placards, the only words that jumped out at me were “plaster cast.” I had the same question I always have when I see artificial flowers: is it better to at least have the artificial item rather than not have anything at all?

I’m sure that for the artists at the Telfair Academy, having such copies — rather than simply photographs — helped them get a sense of the form, scale and details of the classical statues. Perhaps the noble goal is to do the same for us.

Coming to think of it, the same could be said of photographs, or videos, or online journal entries too — the quality in each medium will dictate how successfully those looking, watching, or reading will experience the original. The question for me remains the same: is that better than not having anything at all?

Afterward we strolled along River Street where stores were doing brisk business. There was a group of kids on a field trip on a massive sugar high (heaven help their chaperones!) in a candy shop that also sold pralines, which should be illegal for excessive sweetness!

***

On our last day in Tybee, we had a lovely walk on the sand from the North Beach to the main pier.

One nice thing about Tybee is the fact that the big corporate hotels seem to have been prevented from muscling out the smaller, local outfits. On the stretches we’ve walked, I could not see a single large big-name hotel. The beachfront had a quiet vibe with colorful small houses that sat far back from the beach, which, as a result, looked expansive and generous. (In contrast, I will add fighting words here: I don’t care much for the Outer Banks, least of which because attempts to prevent the narrow beaches from disappearing altogether by trucking in sand to make dunes the height of small buildings give off desperation vibes. So no, dear N., I most definitely do not want a beach house in the OBX! It’s a sore point between us.)

All the other people we saw on the beach were doing the same thing we were doing: enjoying these last days of fall, trying to take advantage of a sunny windless day, even though it was hard to feel any warmth. Like sunflowers, everyone lounging on beach chairs was facing away from the waves and into the sun. We stopped from time to time to collect seashells and take pictures.

Once we got back to the campground, our last night in Tybee was again interrupted — as it had been for the last three days and nights — by the sounds coming from the water tower next to the campground. The thing was covered top to bottom by sheets that would fit a giant’s bed; some weapons-grade sandblasting was going on; in the fading light, we could see plumes of some mystery powder wafting into the sky. Getting into our van and closing all doors and windows were no match for the noise.