Why I love Charleston

No one honks when you take yourself a dog’s age fishing at the stoplight.  We all got nothing but time.

Trading recipes with the clerk and other people in line at the grocery.

Saying heya and how are you to everyone you pass on the sidewalk, meaning it.  Both of you slowing down to smile & wave as you go by.

Porch life.

Bumping into friends, everywhere, all the time.  

The beaches.

The unblinking acceptance of eccentrics and quirks; the embracing thereof.

Dirty bars.

Fancy bars.

Old trees.  Puppies.

The constant, delicious frisson of high and low culture, lushness & decay, wealth & poverty.  We live in the richest, most fragile of soils.  Charleston is a hothouse flower indeed.

My gorgeous, lustful, hothouse flower Holy City.  Give us our sins again.