It’s sometime past 1:30am and I’m driving over the bridge that separates Folly Beach from the mainland. My boxers are soaked through and there’s sand in my shoes. The whole car smells like the ocean, but there’s cool air passing through the top of my window and I look out across the bay and see the lights of a house reflecting on the water. Happy birthday to me.
The move wasn’t that bad actually. It was about 9 hours of loading everything out of my house in East Nashville, 9 hours of driving a healthy trailer behind my car (okay 12), and 9 hours of unloading, organizing, and getting everything into its right place. The new apartment is beautiful by the way. I have these grand, old mossy oaky trees all around my apartment complex—real trees with real presence; the type that you expect to whisper things to you late at night as you walk from your car to your apartment. There is so much history in Charleston. That is for sure. Holy City they call it, and rightly so. It is if a bit of fairy dust has been left over, around the corner and down that old, cobblestone street.
At least there is some appreciation of history here—how I felt so starved of that since living in Berlin; Nashville’s history seems, for the most part, to have been obfuscated by the new, glamorous blanket of “NashVegas” that’s descended upon the city. What does a honky tonk mean to be anymore? (much more on this in an upcoming blog post).
But Charleston does hold you a bit closer—so it seems. I ’ve already played 7 shows this month and it feels welcoming. People appreciate my music here (and no more pop-country hits, thank God).
Of course, it has rained every day since I’ve moved here, except for yesterday. And not light rain; real tropical downpours, sometimes for 20 minutes, sometimes for 5 hours. Charleston is the first city where I’ve felt owning a JEEP actually makes a lot of sense (sorry “hot girl summer” girls). Oftentimes, the roads puddle up with 40% visibility through your windshield and the rain is pounding hard onto your car roof. It’s quite dramatic and and it’s exhilarating.
I’ve been out on a boat here; it’s beautiful—do I even need to say that? It reminds me of the charm of New England, the salt in your hair and all. The pizza is better here too, sorry Nashville.
And then it was my birthday. The fist night I was here, I drove 45 minutes through a tropical storm to Royal American (shoutout to Josef + Ariel). It was a lovely evening and, subsequently, I was invited out to the one and only Chico Feo. It sort of reminds me of Kindl Stuben (see blog post #1) —but a tropical version: string lights, sundresses, and some old surfers that just came off the beach. There’s some magic there.
And then of course, on my way out—30 minutes until my midnight birthday—a table pulls me over by the exit: it’s a big group of Austrians. I recognized their accent immediately. So we finished our drinks together as the clock struck midnight. Then we got naked and went swimming in the ocean.
