For some of us particular places hold special weight and significance– the beach where you learned to surf the summer you turned 16, the bar where you took your first (legal) shot on your 21st birthday or maybe the backseat of the car where you kissed the first boy you ever loved. One of those places for me is the town I spent my college years: Charleston, South Carolina.
I regretted moving away from Charleston the moment I unpacked the first box. I missed tripping on the charmingly disjointed sidewalks, walking from my studio apartment down King Street past chic boutiques to the farmer’s market on Saturdays, even stumbling home after a wild night down on Market Street. I missed running down by the Battery in the warm afternoons, taking in the grandeur of antebellum homes south of Broad Street and, of course, I missed the culinary destination that is Charleston. Jacksonville, Fla. just could not compare.
Friday I officially bid farewell to Florida and moved myself back to Charleston. I could not be happier to be here, to be back. It doesn’t feel like home. It is no more my home than Paris was to Hemingway– it is far better. Better because Paris, its lifestyle, its culture and people, for Hemingway, were sources of inspiration. Charleston is no different for me.
I’m ready to do the Charleston.