Here in Savannah

We came through fierce rainstorms between Myrtle Beach and Savannah — Phyllis did a champion driving job. In some spots you literally couldn’t see through the wall of rain, and we did have a half hour delay on Rt. 95 where a car had spun off the road, I’m guessing to avoid a car that the driver came up on too fast and didn’t see until too late.

The drive reminded me of Florida’s alligator alley, with lots of empty space and clumps of trees and spots like the Piney Woods Baptist Church, which on a Monday morning was dead as a doornail in terms of worshippers. As we got closer to Savannah we got off the highway for a quick lunch, and found a small Mexican place with fresh, home made food. Only two other diners, both Anglos, were eating as it was near two o’clock. One of the men asked for diet Coke, which the server — whose English was limited — said she didn’t have. I asked in Spanish for a quesadilla and diet Coke, and she nodded. As she went to put in our orders, I saw her run next door to a small Hispanic market, and come back with a single diet Coke. Speaking Spanish has its advantages.

Our Mexican eatery.

 

 

 

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