When waiting for the sun to come up in Savannah, Georgia, the ocean flutters with sounds. Sounds of seagulls, leaving fishing crafts and basically sea touching everything that surrounds it.
These little voices you can only hear at the wake of a new day. As I have called it before, this “heaven on earth” has many vices. I leave these to travel writers, for me Savannah is a criss-cross beauty of streets and stately houses and ocean and surely the food.
As you drive down I-95, it all comes to a halt when you reach suburban Savannah. Southern charm takes you to her arms and nurture you with the best that corner of our world has to offer. And a local diner is always ready to serve you with your pre-day meal. And I hate to leave the convention and would like to order some pancakes, bacon’n eggs and of course grits. We are in the south aren’t we? If pancakes will soothe you and bacon and eggs will add flavor to your palate, grits will be the real soul searcher. I don’t remember when it was the first time I ever ate grits. But since this first encounter, they became one of the pillar stones for me that represent Americana. A Native American food, grits are basically coarsely ground corn; a maize cereal. But so far the best form of corn I’ve consumed.
From the olden corner diners of Tennessee country land, to busy and crowded IHOP in Orlando city, grits are served all day to greet the occasional newbie southern style. It never gets cold in the south but if I have to quote a restaurateur from Luisiana, “hot and spicy takes the warmth out of your body, it cools your feelings”. Same goes for grits for me. Before the dawn breaks, on this beautiful Savannah autumn day, a full serving of grits reminds me of a lazy spring breeze down here at the harbor.
The view proves me right. There are poor people in Savannah like everywhere in the States. But everyone in Savannah are stately. There is still time for the music. There is still time for the early Sunday crowds to fill the streets in their prettiest garments. On my table outdoors, a little bit of morning frost, and a big helping of grits vapor. A few seagulls around. And an occasional fishy smell from the docks. A perfect picture.
Soon, morning dwellers will surround me in this tiny forlorn diner. I’ll hear cheerful children’s voices with a familiar twang which I’ve grown to adore whenever I hear it. They will be forgetting their financial blues for a few hours of Savannah morn. They will not count the bills when they ask for the receipt. Orleans music will fill the loudspeakers that stand silently for now. The sea will go back to its silent murmur. People will be the voice of Savannah once more.
I will stay. With grits on my plate. To remind me the real taste of life where the dreams are true just an arm’s length away. Only if we stop whining about past and eat grits and catch a merry moment in life.