My Solo Road Trip

I set my car’s mileage tracker back to zero and pull out of my driveway as planned at 8am sharp eight days ago, Thursday, June 7. Waves of pure joy and images of unbounded freedom wash over me as I head for the highway: Savannah bound.

I left nothing to chance. Called my friend, Joyce, who knows everything. Told me where to stop for lunch – a sleepy little river town: St. Mary’s, Georgia. And where to stay in Savannah: the Ballastone Inn in the historic downtown area.

All goes seamlessly. I pass roadside stands and markets so popular in the south

Getting dressed, I heard massive amounts of sirens in close proximity. I paid little attention. Emerging details of Anthony Bourdain’s suicide being broadcast on TV kept me captivated while I brushed my lashes with mascara and highlighted my cheekbones with powdered rouge. Still the sirens blasted away.

Plugging in walking directions in my Google maps on my iPhone, I merrily proceed on the route. My leisurely strolling is harshly interrupted when I witness a crowd of people clustered behind that bright yellow tape that signifies an emergency.

I approach a younger woman standing with a group of four. “What’s going on?” I ask hesitantly.

“Oh, you know the Painted Lady Restaurant? Well an unaccompanied driver apparently had a heart attack, around 7:25 PM,” she relates. “He lost control of his car, hitting something that set off a gas leak right in front of the restaurant. They’ve cordoned off the area in case of a gas explosion.”

Potential disaster averted, I find a small cafe, order a Moscow Mule and ponder the randomness of life.

On Friday, I shop the galleries and owner-operated boutiques. Walk the plethora of historic squares highlighting Savannah’s war heroes and founders. Indulge in a little retail therapy and sample local specialties like waffles coupled with crispy fried chicken. And walk the side streets lined with row houses.

I sail off in high spirits for Jazz’d Tapas Bar to spend the remaining evening hours listening to a three-piece jazz band. Alone.

It didn’t turn out quite like I anticipated. The trio played folk music and country, not jazz. And I ended up not alone, but with unexpected companionship.

As the hostess seats me at a table top with four stools, she cheerily announces that the trio plays in an hour. Immediately, I’m ill at ease. How can I stretch out my food and drink order to last over an hour so I can hear the music? And then, how can I sit in a crowded place taking up a table with three empty stools?

I begin with a Moscow Mule to quiet my apprehension.

8:15: my drink arrives.

8:30: I order a Caesar salad.

8:45: I order Crawfish Mac & Cheese.

9 pm: Finished eating, I look around. I’m the lone unaccompanied woman in the entire bar, which is filled to capacity.

9:03: Against my better judgment, I order a second Moscow Mule as the trio warms up.

9:15: A tall woman, about my age, clad in layers of tie-dyed materials, is cruising the bar looking for a seat. Totally impulsively, I beckon her over. And offer her a seat at my table – thinking that at least her presence will alleviate my uncomfortable feeling of taking up a whole table.

Beaming with pleasure, she nods affirmatively and goes off to get her companion. Seconds later, the two sit down. Music blaring, it’s impossible to hear much but their names: Robyn and Misty Iris.

A chill runs though me. How serendipitous. She has “Iris” as a last name; I have “Iris” as a first.

“Actually,” she confides above the din of the music, “Iris is my middle name. My last name was too hard to pronounce and spell, so I dropped it.”

At the next break in the music, I learn they are two very close friends from Colorado who haven’t seen each other for eighteen months. Robyn has been living with her adult daughter in Atlanta, who is on dialysis and waiting for a kidney donor. Robyn and Misty traveled to Savannah for a little “girl time.”

We immediately hit it off. Misty and I both remark that the music is so loud it reminds us of bar and bat mitzvah celebrations where conversation is virtually impossible due to the noise level. We share stories. We exchange business cards. We ask the waiter to snap our picture.

I am speechless. My rational mind says, “Are you crazy, Iris? Though we seemingly have lots in common, these two are literally strangers. Are they planning on robbing me? Plotting to dump me overboard after weighting me down with rocks? On the other hand, Misty is a nice Jewish woman born and raised on Long Island. How wacky can she be?”

I envision my mom jumping out of her coffin, screaming, “No, no, no, Iris. Haven’t I taught you to be cautious?”

In spite of vividly imagined admonitions from the grave, I hear my addled brain – awash with two Moscow Mules – send a signal to my mouth and I answer affirmatively.

Off we go.

In retrospect, my intuition – though impaired – must still have been working. After unlocking the hatch, Robyn and Misty eagerly show me their quarters and then usher me back up to the boat’s deck for a little wine. The warm night and the gentle lapping of the water induces more storytelling. Forty-five minutes later, I call Lyft and they walk me back to the parking lot abutting the marina. We hug hard and promise to keep in touch.

At the inn, I fall asleep immediately – part of me enthralled with meeting two such delightful women – and part of me astonished at my recklessness.

Next week: Calamity on the Road

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris