Some blogs need no words.
And so I get sicker. Well kind of. Because I have a diagnosis. They think it’s pharyngocunjunctival fever. (I’m waiting for the result of swabs but that’s what I’m being treated for). Stomach, gross eyes, headache, sore throat. My doc says I’m not contagious. Google might disagree. (It does disagree). Anyway, I’ve been kitted out with antibiotics for my eyes, a nose spray, plus some medicine to gargle. Fun times for spring.
I did make it down to Charleston for the weekend, though, where my symptoms were momentarily relieved. Though not enough for me to drink anything all weekend much to my travelling companion, Mike’s horror.
Regardless, Charleston was a sight for my sore sore eyes. I find New York to be a pretty mad, bad, cross place a lot of the time – just like any big city. But Charleston isn’t like that. Charleston is like coming home, if your home is full of good food, wide smiles and an over active central heating system. It’s warm in every sense of the word.
I think most service in NYC is either rude or transparent. In Charleston, the servers are either bloody good actors or they love a good chat. They all wanted to know what I thought of the town, where I was from and what I was doing in New York. Even the guy in airport security was friendly. They weren’t interested in Mike though. Joke, Mike.
The town is so beautiful we wowed our way around it and the beach filled me with so much childlike joy that Mike managed to get a pic of me dancing in the waves. (Admittedly not an unusual sight but I haven’t been well.)
We ate shrimp and grits at the Hominy Grill and the tallest burgers you’ve ever seen at Poe’s Tavern. To finish we scoffed pecan pie and ice cream at Kaminskys. On both days.
It does have an ugly past, though – we toured one of the old plantation houses, Boone Hall, and were horrified by the stories of the slaves who lived there. Perhaps unsurprisingly given that the Civil Rights Bill was signed less than 50 years ago, it is still a pretty socially segregated place. But an episcopalian pastor I met told me that things are changing. Blacks and whites are worshipping together in his church for the first time. And the stories are being told, to tourists, to schoolchildren. I hope I come back in a few years time, and I will come back, at least to visit Savannah, to find that thins have changed.