Theresa’s Excellent Charleston, SC Adventure

So, we’re in the taxi on our way to the Isle of Palms, which our driver, Lorenzo, informs us is about 30 minutes from Charleston’s International Airport.

I’m still angling for a rental car. I ask Lorenzo if there are any rental car companies outside of the airport? He says that there are. I ask him to drop us off there instead, but Sherri and Christina are not going for it. So, I sit back and silently praise the Lord that we’ve reached land safely.

Meanwhile, Lorenzo is pointing out a very smelly paper plant. (If only we’d known that this wouldn’t be the worst or the last of Charleston’s interesting aromas.) We ask him why it smells so bad. Lorenzo tells us that it has something to do with the process.

We have a mostly uneventful ride to our resort, Wild Dunes. It’s a gated community framed by a golf course and the ocean. The address is 5757 Palm Boulevard, which is fitting.

It’s a tropical-like, palm-tree-punctuated setting. We proceed to Dunes registration. Sherri and Christina are readily given a map and key cards to their temporary abodes.

I, on the other hand, get a map, but no key card. My room is not ready just yet and I’ll get a call when it is. Meanwhile, we take the trusty shuttle over to Sherri’s place. According to the map, Sherri’s place, Sea Grove, is the closest and within walking distance of the ADEA/BFACA registration.

Sherri’s place is really nice. It’s like a condo, and Sherri admits that it’s nicer than her apartment. Although it was listed as a one-bedroom, it has two bedrooms and baths, a full-size washer/dryer, granite counter tops and stainless steel appliances. Nice.

After a quick freshening up at Sherri’s place, we utilize our map to walk back over and register for the seminar. Our seminar itinerary tells us that our first event, a meet and greet, isn’t until that evening. So, we head over to the Boardwalk Inn for a late lunch. After, we walk the boardwalk out to the beach

The boardwalk is flanked by multi-colored row houses that run its entire length out to the sea. It’s a bit of walk to get to the beach, but it turns out to be worth it.

Sherri and Christina don’t even hesitate to get fully engaged. They’re barefoot and heading out to test the water. I’m left to guard their shoes and take in the lapping ocean along the endless sand.

I take a deep breath and think that this must be what it feels like to relax . . . . Then, the ocean-testers are back, declaring that there will be no swimming. They found the water to be quite chilly.

We head back up the boardwalk. I get the call that my room is ready. So, I pop into guest services and pick up my key card. That done, we spend the rest of our night picking up some seminar freebies, with very little attendant meeting and even less greeting.

Unless, you count the hoard of bugs that didn’t wait for introductions as they swam in our open bar drinks. The bar tender gave us some repellant. Evidently, this bug infestation happens around this time every year. Lucky us.

After being assaulted by what I believe to be boll weevils (just because it sounds cool and they look boll weevil-ish), Christina and I get our luggage from Sherri’s and take the shuttle to my place, Ocean Club. Christina wants to see my place before heading to her place, which is located about halfway between my place and Sherri’s.

Ocean Club happens to be the last of Wild Dunes residences before you hit the golf course. Evidently, we’re making the shuttle driver’s month. As we drive past Christina’s place, Mariner’s Walk, he keeps going on about, how did we get on the top floor of Ocean Club? Do we know someone?

Although Christina and I know quite a few people, we insist that we know no one. He’s not believing it. Christina tells him that it was the only room that was left at my late booking time. He is so still not buying it.

So, Christina and I just settle back and wonder if we should even be taking this somewhat late-night drive with this way-too-exuberant driver.

We finally make it to Ocean Club and he insists on going up to the room. He’s still gushing about our luck. By now, we’re way past ready to get off the Twilight Zone Express.

I open the door. And, wait, hold up! He comes right on in with us. I’m like, what the @?$%? But, he’s not missing a beat, saying, “I’ve always wanted to see one of these units!”

And, OMG! The place is massive. I’m expecting a condo-like set-up like Sherri’s. What I’m seeing is a spectacular, unobstructed ocean view. Christina and I run through the place a la “Extreme Makeover” fashion.

It’s at least 2,500 sq ft. Two levels with two master suites and an additional two bedrooms, each with its own bath and a half-bath. The upper level has its own unobstructed ocean view and a balcony running the length of it. This room has my name written all over it.

Yet, I hear Christina calling for me to come see more of the downstairs. I go down to discover (we’re still running around screaming like we’re the lucky Extreme Makeover family) that one of the smaller bedrooms has a small private, ocean-facing balcony.

I don’t even have time to fully absorb that even this room alone would be nice enough. Christina is on the phone with Sherri whilst simultaneously encouraging me to come out on the lower level’s balcony, which is accessible from the living room and the lower level master.

By now, I’m thinking that for once my luck has taken an interesting turn. Around a bend that I am not familiar with in the least. Like, for real?

I gather my wits long enough to realize that Shuttle Guy is still wandering around gushing. As polite as I am capable of being, I help him to find his way out.

On the way, he insists that we come back out near the elevators so he can point out where he lives (yes, it’s quite dark) and the bridge into Charleston. He tells us that it’s his birthday weekend and he’ll be off for the next few days.

Christina and I exchange a quick glance, silently thanking our lucky stars. Having given us a little fright and a little night-gazing tour, plus way too much information, off he goes.

I believe that Christina just might be spending the night at my place. She’s now on the phone with her Mom. Evidently, she’s found her family’s next vacation abode. As I hear her assigning rooms, I head back up to take a closer look at my chosen digs.

Looking around, I am of the belief that I may have underestimated the square footage. The entire upper level comprises my master suite. I turn the corner to find a large walk-in closet to my right and another closet to my left. Continuing through, I find a Jacuzzi tub, double sinks and a separate double shower.

My head is still spinning. I’m figuring this upper level alone is close to 1,000 sq ft. It’s starting to get late. I need to act like I know. But, the door bell is ringing. And, Christina is calling up to ask me if I see the shuttle driver’s walkie.

I yell down, “No.” I head back down to find the TZ-shuttle guy supposedly looking around for his walkie.

I say, “I don’t remember seeing you bring it up. It’s not upstairs and Christina has already looked.”

TZ-shuttle guy says, “I don’t see it in the van. It must be in here.”

I say, “Well, if we come across it, we’ll call and let you know. Good night.”

He gets the message and leaves. Christina and I exchange relieved looks and lock the door. We agree that he’s not to be allowed back in.

This little second encounter has sobered us up. We’re tired. Christina is definitely staying. Who would take a shuttle alone with that TZ-shuttle guy? Not us.

Next day. We’re gonna skip the details of the seminar and get straight to the good stuff—that trip goal . . . relaxation.

This column’s turning into a long one. Now would be a good time to take a little break. I’ll wait for you . . . .

Back? K, let’s continue.

Since the Isle of Palms is all of a hop, skip and just-over-four jumps (hours) from my hometown, Anderson, SC, my Mom, her friend, Robert, and my brother, Brian, drive down for a quick visit.

Brian offers to give us a guided tour of Charleston. Our trip into the city takes us over a bridge that is reminiscent of Boston’s Zakim. Brian tells us that we’ll be driving along The Battery, taking in Meeting Street and shopping along Market Street.

Sherri decides to sit this one out. So, I invite Dave. I met Dave at last October’s ADEA/BFACA conference in Sante Fe, New Mexico. And, you gotta love these conferences. They are three-and-a- half days in length and every day you’re done by noon.

We pile into Brian’s 135i Bavarian Motor Works convertible. We go over the Zakim-like bridge, the Arthur Ravenel, Jr. Bridge, in fact, that the TZ-shuttle guy pointed out to us (like we could really see it at night).

In the daylight, the bridge is spectacular. Unlike Zakim, pedestrians are allowed to walk/run along the span. Once over the bridge, we quickly get to an area Brian tells us is The Battery.

The Battery runs along Charleston Harbor. It’s so beautiful. Brian enhances our experience by letting the top down. We’re in White Point Gardens. Brian parks and we get out and walk through the park. We’re surrounded by oak trees, cannons and a gazebo. Across from the park, facing the waterway, are lovely gingerbread-covered homes.

Brian tells us that we can either drive over to Market Street, a popular downtown Charleston shopping area, or walk.

Now, I’m always voting for driving vs walking, but something is coming over me. I don’t know what it is. The feeling is quite foreign.

We all agree to walk. We cross the park and start our walk along Meeting Street. Brian tells us that Meeting Street will take us to Market Street. He believes it to be about a mile or so.

We could care less. We’re taking in the grandeur of the homes along Meeting Street. The wrought iron work and architectural details are riveting.

Many of the houses have inner gardens that are hidden from street view. These hidden gardens and romantic wrought iron balconies remind me of New Orleans.

Here it is, an October day in Charleston, the weather is gorgeous, and we’re slowly losing ourselves along Meeting Street. Charleston is working its charms on us. We wander in out of gardens and marvel at a completely cobbled street (they marvel; I trip).

We happen upon Circular Congregational Church’s graveyard. I’ve always found graveyards to be morbidly fascinating. This one is remarkable. Dating back to the late 1600’s, the grave stones awaken our curiosities. The epitaphs range from the straightforward, “Here lies . . .” to mini-biographies.

I linger at the first American-born dentist, Josiah Flagg’s marker. He lived from 1765 to 1816. His metal grave plaque credits him as being “The first to carry to any foreign land evidence of American dental progress.” (Sounds frightening.)

Christina, Brian and Dave are also mesmerized. We keep calling to one another to come see or read this. Check it out for yourself at: www.graveaddiction.com/circulch.html

Thirty minutes or so later, we’re continuing our Meeting Street meander. As we pass Hyman’s Seafood, Brian tells us that we’re really close to Market Street.

Along the way, we’ve been forced to take in gigantic whiffs of Charleston’s not so charming aroma. The city smells like a simmering, rotting swamp. So far, it’s the only thing that distracts from Charleston’s charm.

Brian knows his Charleston tour stuff. We turn onto Market Street and find that our tour is just beginning. Running down the length in the middle of Market Street is a covered, open-air market. On either side are various storefront shops and restaurants.

We don’t know what to do first. I’m ecstatic and start out by sampling and then buying praline candied pecans. OMG! Like for real, you have to try one. It’s heaven with pecans on top. Make sure you ask for a hot one. I’m seriously serious. These things are slap-your-Mama good.

Next, I see Kaminsky’s. It’s a dessert café. We’re all wishing that we hadn’t already had a pre-tour lunch. I suggest that we swing back by and have dessert for dinner. And, to my surprise and delight, everyone agrees.

Market Street’s shops and market vendors are unique and varied. There are arts and crafts, jewelry, T-shirts, and more and more. We spend a couple of hours taking it all in.

We continue and find Philadelphia Alley. Even though it’s nowhere near dusk, peering down the tree- canopied alley, it appears as though nightfall is near. It’s way cool and welcomes entrance with an eerie beckoning.

You know that I’m full of mottos. So, of course, I have one for this particular situation: I am not Caucasian and in a movie; therefore, I will not continue. As in, I will turn around and run (not walk) away.

This maxim has kept me very much alive, which I happen to have gotten used to being. Just saying.

Anyways, even though I am indeed Black, I follow Christina, Dave and Brian (Brian, being my brother, is Black as well) into Philadelphia Alley.

Along the way, we stop to read a plaque telling how the alley got its name. Then, we see a black door that is obviously a back door, even though a sign proclaims it to be the Front Door. And, I’m not going to lie. If this is indeed the front door, I don’t ever want to see the back door.

Once we’re at least halfway through, Philadelphia Alley’s mostly cobblestone walkway seems a weirdly welcoming path—although, I cannot help but silently thank the Lord that we didn’t vanish or get warped back into the 1600’s—definitely not a time I want to visit.

The alley spits us out onto Queen Street (or was it Cumberland?), which is another picturesque, mostly residential street. This leads us to Church Street. We’d seen St. Philips Church’s steeple from Market Street and wanted to see if we could find the church the steeple belonged to.

St. Philips turns out to be another of Charleston’s architectural divinities. It has massive columns seeming to support the steeple. We also learn that Church Street is just as smelly as Meeting and Market streets.

Christina finds a coy pond and sculpture of a ballerina. I find a T-shirt store. By now, Kaminsky’s is calling my name. I remind our tour guide and we circle back round to Market Street.

Kaminsky’s is like an old time Candy Shoppe. There’s a glass case full of decadent desserts. Before being seated, we spend some mouth-watering time gazing at all of our options. It’s a deliciously stressful elimination process.

Feeling delightfully guilty, we order our desserts and drinks and settle in for a relaxing dinner. Dave, ever the gentleman, takes care of the check.

There’s an intoxicating full moon lighting our journey back to the car. We thank Brian profusely for our free ride and tour. We walk partway back down Meeting Street, until the moon beckons us through a cross street over to Charleston’s Harbor, where we walk along the water and back to the park.

As we’re making our way to the car, I realize what this strange feeling is. It is Charleston capturing my heart. The charm, shopping, aromas and all—just Charleston being Charleston.

But, don’t fret, Boston. You’ll always be my first love and the place I come home to (but not by TZ-shuttle).