I was in Savannah and on my Mongoose, bicycling very carefully around a crazy lady talking to herself. Bitch was nuts. I mean she was having a full on conversation.. I started out in the industrial section, went through the ghetto, couldn’t steer out of it, wanted to interlope, wanted to take pictures of the fiscal blight. I also wanted a drink from Wet Willies off of River Street. The pictures. The pictures? Eh. I roamed and absorbed the ghetto, full of gas guzzling luxury cars, and poor poor people, set pieces form a sixties movie. I never made it into Savannah proper, i briefly mingled with bicyclist and photographers who stayed closer to the safe zone and i think it turned me off. There is no line, but there is a line, you cross it and you feel it. I feel no kinship to either place, one spot makes me comfortable, but it’s a violent comfort, the other one puts me in the moood for drinking, you decided which place is which though; i’m not sure i know anymore…
I rode 25 miles to clear my palette. Came back later in the coupe, cruised the ghetto for crab and bbq, but again didn’t go to river street. Couldn’t bring myself to cross that life picket line. Get drunk and meander around fudge and panama caps, I can eat with the people, i can’t walk over them to get a drink though.