Our Weekend in Savannah: Part I

We arrived in Warner Robins Friday afternoon, and dropped off the kids. We just about left skid marks on my parents after setting up the pack'n'play and saying hello to my grandfather. We took Mom's Honda Pilot, which drives great and is much nicer than our Honda Odyssey. Todd and I have decided that 75 South to Florida is far more boring than driving 16 to Savannah; 16 contains nothing of great interest to look at, but 75 contains a continuous string of eyesores.

We arrived in Savannah around six or so, and had to be at the cocktail party at 7:30, but the trolley (ding ding ding) was picking us up at 7:00, so no shower. You might think that I could get ready in one hour, but I wear it so rarely that I am nearly incapable of putting on makeup by myself. You can ask Todd; It really does take me that long. I would show you how horrible I am at it, but we deleted all the pictures for fear that they would give the children nightmares. Todd, however, looked great. (That's him at the left.) In fact, he looked so good that the groom's mother, upon seeing him, asked the bride's mother, "Who is that handsome man?" We are now working a scheme to knock off the groom's father, wed my husband to the widow, and put the kids and I up in a Savannah apartment until she kicks the bucket. I promise I am not going to end each paragraph in this post with someone dying off.

The cocktail party was held at The Harper-Fowlkes house, which is owned by The Society of the Cincinnati. I had no idea what this thing was, and I actually really dig genealogy and history: Seems that to be a member of the SOC, you have to be a first-born male descendant of an American or French Revolutionary war officer. Each officer can only have one descendant at a time represent them, so in order for a son to take his father's place, the father must kick the bucket first. (Left: The Harper-Fowlkes from the enclosed garden in the back.) The house was gorgeous and the food rocked. It was pretty cold, so people pretty much stayed inside, but the smokers (and me) spent a good deal of time on the back porch and in the garden.

At one point, I went to find a bathroom and entered the "off limits" upstairs of the three-story house. There was a really cool open area in the center of the 2nd floor hall that looked down on the entrance hall to the house. I was able to stand in this dimly-lit area and overhear everyone's conversations; unfortunately, it was mostly old people talking about boring stuff. I wandered around, looking at the oil paintings and weird Society "stuff" - old medals, books, and pins enclosed in glass cases. There were two bedrooms, impeccably furnished, with their own fireplaces, and a society library. The hallway was lit, but the rooms were not. I ventured into them, but frankly, I was a little creeped out. I also went to the landing halfway up the stairs to the third story, but could not see a thing further, and did not want to draw attention to myself by turning on a light. (Note to self: When going to parties in creepy old houses, make like Nancy Drew and bring along a spare flashlight in my clutch purse.) This was all even more disappointing when I spoke with a teenage boy, son of the host and hostess, who told me that he has explored the third floors, attics, and basements of every old house in Savannah - evidently, he has been dragged to a hell of a lot of boring society parties. (That's a picture of the bride and groom above.)

After the party, we went back to the hotel to change, then met other wedding guests in the lobby. We were kind of hoping to hit some off-the-beaten-path watering holes, but of course we ended up going to some "Irish" bar on River Street, because it was just plain easier than convincing people to go somewhere else and then getting them there. It ended up being pretty fun, and we had a whole upstairs bar to ourselves. (That's us on the left.) There were probably 15 to 20 of us. We knew two of them, but as the evening wore on, we met every Rhett and Scarlett in the place.

B.T. and Kate, with Todd. The only other two people we knew at the party.
No, I'm not kidding, one of them was really named Rhett. Okay, no Scarletts, but any other family name you can think of, there was someone with that name in the room: I met Rhett and Reeve, Dallon and Porter. Even the women with regular names had another name appended to the first, so that they became Kimberly Gay or Mary Ellen or Emma George. I felt so plain when I had to tell people my name: "Anne." They looked expectantly at me until they realized it was just that one syllable. I guess I should have been sticking that middle name on the end the whole time, just to not mess with their world.
I am joking, of course - they were all lovely people. One of the wonderful things about a wedding where you don't know anyone is that you get to meet so many great people, and learn such interesting things about them. (Geologists! Creative Writing PhDs! Lawyers! Insurance Salesmen!) As the evening wore on, we lost most of our party to sleep, and they closed the upper bar, so we headed downstairs for one more drink at that bar. On the way down, I met an audiologist (read: Hearing Aid Salesman) and his two coworkers, who were in Savannah for a convention. They were from Montreal, but one of them was a Frenchman from Lilles. I wowed him with my incredibly terrible French; No, all the alcohol in the world could not give me the gift of comprehensible French. He turned up his nose at my pronunciation until we finally hit upon a common bond - Our children are the same age and it seems that in any language, kids are a pain in the ass, and parents will compare pictures of them anyway.

While talking to the Quebecois and Monsieur Lilles, I overheard the guy on my other side saying into his cellphone, "No, I'm in Georgia." He sounded like he wanted to blow his brains out. I said, in my bitchiest drunk voice: "Is it really that bad?" He met my eyes and looked like he was about to cry. I said, "Oh my God, are you okay?" Turns out that he and his sister were in Savannah for his sister's wedding, which isn't that odd, except that it is his half-sister, whom he had never met before. They have the same father, and they found each other on the internet. While he was at the wedding, he received a phone call from his home town of Portland, and was informed that one of his best friends was killed in a car wreck. So, he was sitting beside me at the bar, drinking to his dead friend, when he received a call that the whole thing had been a horrible mix-up; The friend was not dead at all. He was so relieved he was about to cry. I was drunk and gave him a ridiculously huge hug. He hugged back. Ah, the friendships I have made in bars. He ended up walking back to the hotel with us (he was staying there, too) and bitching about how Savannah didn't know their cocaine. We bid him farewell in the lobby, and he looked like a lost little boy. (That's him at the left.)
Anyway, perfect example of the fun and interesting conversations you have when you go to a wedding and hang with people you don't know. I should point out here that his sister who was married in Savannah is not the same as Todd's friend Kate's sister, Emily, whose wedding we were attending. That is how rumors get started.

All in all, a wonderfully fun evening, and did I mention that I felt terrible on Saturday? I felt terrible. Part II to come tomorrow!