Jack goes to Charleston

History smells like stone and settled dust, but in Charleston it’s mixed with sea salt and a little bourbon.

Jack likes bourbon. And food. And fun.

A deep sniff of the air confirmed that Jack was in the right place. With a head full of ideas and an empty stomach, it was time to navigate cobble stone streets and grandiose mansions to spend a few days of summertime in the Low Country.

Toast, which resides on Meeting St in Downtown Charleston, stuck a slab of bacon in Jack’s Bloody Mary. Followed up by a massive bowl of Shrimp and Grits, the belly is satisfied and the mind cleared. Jack’s fuel tank was full of savory, salty calories. Luckily, as Charleston is a walking city, he set out to discover some fun.

The mansion is always defined most by it’s garden. Charleston mansions like to tuck their horticulture away in alleyways. For Jack, the nooks and crannies between each ancient home served as a surprise. Hey, look at that statue of a little angel peeing in the courtyard! Each alcove holds a secret, protected between the Queen Anne porches and the thick pillars of the Greek Revival.

Jack walked south past these porches, hearing an occasional clink of ice cold glasses resonating inside. He reached the tip of Charleston’s peninsula, where the waters skimmed across the stone, and found shade in Battery Park. Under a line of Oak trees, bigger than elephants on pedestals, Jack wondered how old the wooden ogres might be, and how they stayed quiet for so long.

What Charleston lacks in square footage, it makes up for in story. A tiny slip of land, jutting out into an estuary, pushing history and proud southern roots out into the salty water. 15 minutes north, Jack was under different sets of oaks and palmettos, with much grimmer stories to whisper. The Magnolia Cemetery is home to every cricket in South Carolina, or at least that’s how it sounded to Jack. There was no silence for the dead in the summer heat, because the chirp of life kept on keeping on. Somehow, it seemed, the neighbors did not seem to mind.

Down the Cooper river, to find some eats. Fleet Landing sits on the water looking like an old Naval dock, because that’s what it is. Off Concord St, stretching out in to the sea air, Fleet Landing had two distinctive things that Jack was in serious need of. “Bar” and “Restaurant.”

The bar at Fleet Landing wrapped around into a dock, so that Jack could sit on the water and enjoy a beer. He thought himself, only thing that could make this better would be sitting in a pool.

But, it’s not Vegas, Jack. It’s Charleston. Plus, the desert doesn’t have very good oysters. Jack sipped and slurped, enjoying the end of the day with hush puppies and horseradish.

There is no saying goodbye in Charleston, because a farewell implies change. Charleston will always be there, salty and carefree, waiting for you to come back.

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