You can't plan perfection. You prepare for the moments; pass through them; let them come. But even if you go searching, it never looks like you expect.
I left the annual family trip in South Carolina and headed to Savannah, which felt familiar after years of visiting Charleston. A Southern city, beautiful and full of strange history.
Normally, exploring a new town's bars and restaurants is my thing, but instead I retreated into the quiet of Skidaway Island State Park. I spent three days in perfect 68-degree weather. No humidity, almost no one around. I ran and hiked and read and slept.
It was absolutely perfect. Not at all what I'd expected or come looking for. The moss hanging from trees helped create a cool shade. There was always a breeze and sunsets were flawless. Someone far off practiced the banjo, always stuck on the same chords.
I'd expected to spend time in the city, but instead rested. Settled into a pace where nothing needed to be accomplished.
In a barbershop, locals talked about their kids and joked about the rising price of haircuts. I saw a man in a fantastic purple shirt and matching fedora. The art and design school gives Savannah an young, vibrant feel.
At night, raccoons stole my food. "They only take the good stuff," a ranger said. Somehow they got bacon off the bottom of a cooler under 10 pounds of ice.
Damn opposable thumbs.