The Road to Savannah
At 3pm on a brisk November afternoon, Jürgen and I parked a smashed-up car in front of our new Savannah home, and pulled our exhausted bodies up the front steps. We had arrived after a whirlwind trip that had brought us from Oviedo, Spain, to Madrid, Chicago, Denver, Ohio, Kentucky and finally southeastern Georgia.
And our dog, Chucky, had come with us. The flight from Madrid to Chicago had been long, and she had surely spent every minute howling in the dark solitude of the cargo bay. When her crate arrived into Chicago customs, I picked her up for hugs and kisses, realizing too late that she was covered in puke. There’s no evidence for it, but I’ve convinced myself that she must have vomited at the very end of the flight, and that she didn’t spend ten terrifying, turbulent hours rolling around in her own mess.
My parents let us borrow their car for the trip from Kentucky to Savannah. I repaid that small kindness by backing into the fire hydrant across the street from their house, ripping the bumper off and putting a hideous gash into the side of the car. A great way to start off our new 91-day adventure. Otherwise, the drive went smoothly, and we were soon installed in our new home, anxious to get out and explore the city. It had been ten years since I lived in the USA, and neither Jürgen nor I had never spent much time in the South — this was surely going to be a fascinating three months.