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    Comedy of Errors

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    Abbeville to Savannah

    October 4, 2016

    I drove out of Abbeville on 28 heading west then south.  

     

    The stretch of road leading my way into Augusta was serene.  

     

    Rows and rows of trees on either side.

     

    A smattering of cars.

     

    The Sumter National Forest hugged the right side; later, I crossed a lake surrounded by red and orange clay.

     

    I continued for another few miles before joining 221 -- which is 28 South.  

     

    Within the hour, I had reached Augusta.  

     

    Here, it got a bit tricky because I had not planned out the rest of my route.

     

    I jumped on some river parkway and ended up in a marina on the Savannah River.  

     

    I parked my bike and walked to a picnic table.  Taking out my map and phone to navigate, I examined my best options for reaching Savannah.

     

    Take 125.  

     

    At Fairfax, take 321.

     

    Then, follow signs for Savannah.

     

    And... that's what I did.

    Along 125 and 321, there was very little traffic. 

     

    I did, however, experience some furious head wind that Tuesday afternoon.

     

    The route found me crossing paths with tractor trailers, logging trucks, horses, and fields of trees and wildflowers.  

     

    I passed a longhorn cattle ranch; I passed small parcels of cotton.

     

    Every 25 miles or so, I would run into a small town, and the speed limit would fall from 55 to 35.

     

    Gas stations with names like Brenda's Place.

     

    At one of those stations -- where I purchased a Payday bar and a water -- the attendant made sure I mentioned his town by name.

     

    Allendale.

     

    Then, more serious headwind.

     

    On 321, the road offered plenty of rough spots; it desperately needed a resurfacing job.

     

    Later, I would hit some smooth stretches.  

     

    It was as if South Carolina heard me.

     

    I stayed on the South Carolina for most of my trip to Savannah.

     

    I liked the state:  its people were friendly and curious; plus, it has some of the prettiest road signs in the country.    

     

    Not only are the signs blue -- many of them have the states's outline along with its signature palmetto tree and crescent moon.  

     

    Along 321, signs for Savannah popped up.

     

    I followed those signs until I reached stretches of commercialism followed by rural areas; then, a large bridge could be seen on my left; I took it towards downtown Savannah.

     

    When I drove into Savannah, I was funneled onto Oglethorpe and saw SCAD -- SCAD everywhere.

     

    I finally found a place to park at the intersection of Broad and Oglethorpe.  I got off the bike and checked the time.  

     

    It was just after 1 p.m.

     

    Time to look for a place to stay, so I checked airbnb.

     

    I booked a spot less than two-miles away; check-in was 2 p.m.

     

    I navigated my way to the airbnb (on Anderson) before exploring downtown.

     

    I found the house; I met a young woman named Kate who told me where to park my motorcycle. 

     

    I parked, unloaded, and left.

     

    Walking along Broad Street, I saw where Clarence Thomas attended Catholic School; I found a SCAD alumni-owned business; I made a left onto a busy looking street called Broughton.

    I had done very little research on Savannah, so every twist and turn lead me to a new discovery.

     

    Large oak trees curtained the city's canvas:  the Spanish moss dripped like perfectly placed candle wax.

     

    For nearly three-hours, I traversed the lush and manicured Savannah.

     

    Then, hunger struck.

     

    I found a restaurant called The Grey located in an old Greyhound bus station.  

     

    I walked into the bar located on my right and ordered a gin cocktail called the Old Estonian.

     

    Then, I realized that I could not have dinner there; I had to eat in a different bar located in the center of the restaurant.

     

    I was seated in the far left of the u-shaped bar.

     

    There, I met my bartender/server named Scott; later, I met a pleasant and unadventurous diner named Mike.

     

    Mike was here on business.  

     

    Unfortunately, he was bland in conversation and bland in his willingness to experiment.

     

    Why eat at a James Beard nominated restaurant if you're unwilling to take any risks?  

     

    Sure, he had a shellfish allergy, but there was plenty more to try.

     

    I ended up trying something like seven dishes -- nine if you include the two bites that Mike shared with me.  

     

    He shared the two dishes (appetizer and main course) he ordered; I shared four.  He could have tried more, but his allergy prevented him from doing so.

     

    I had a chance to try a Lebanese red.

     

    Apparently, 6000-year old vines.  

     

    Some might call it a Jesus wine.

     

    It was close to 9 p.m. when I left the restaurant.

     

    Hours and hours of gorging.

     

    Before leaving, Scott instructed me to take Broughton to Bull to Anderson.

     

    Oysters, clams, lamb, duck, pork, and mullet.

     

    I had to stop in one of the mysterious squares because I thought I was going to vomit -- that's how much food I put away.

     

    Way too much -- far too much.

     

    I was a glutton.

     

    When I arrived at the airbnb, I laid down in my room and rubbed my belly until I fell asleep.

     

    Luckily, I did not hurl.

     

    Why did I eat so much?  

    Until we meet again, my friend.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

      

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

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