I did not stay at the Foley House, but just about all of Savannah looks like this.

When one of my castmates suggested I take a vacation all by myself, I chose Savannah almost at random.  ”Go someplace you’ve never gone before,” she advised.  ”Someplace you’ve always wanted to go.”  I considered the places I had yet to visit:  Yellowstone would be too far, New Orleans would be too lonely.  So Savannah was it.

I had two free nights at any Marriott property, and the company would reimburse me for my plane ticket.  So at 4 AM I found myself in the lobby of the San Antonio Residence Inn, waiting to split a cab with Mary Poppins [Rachel Wallace].  She and I were both catching pre-dawn flights out of Texas– me to Atlanta, where I would rent a car and drive the rest of the way, and she to LA, where she would rendezvous with Mr. Poppins.

Airports are particularly hellish at 5 in the morning.  We barely made it through with in time, and as I sat waiting for the plane to depart, I ruminated on why I’d chosen Savannah.  I had always been fascinated by the Old South.  As a child I spent some serious time trying to decide whether I wanted to be more like Scarlett or Melanie.  I wanted to indulge my history-geek impulses, visiting restored period houses and famous literary birthplaces.  My husband has limited patience for such things.  (Although overall let it be known that he is a great travel partner.)

But as soon as the plane touched down, I didn’t find myself contemplating cinematic heroines or literary greats.  I was overwhelmed with the most incredible sense of freedom.  I have always traveled with a large group of people– an entourage, if you will, ranging from my mom and three sisters to a cast of 40.  When I got off the plane, I needed to pee, put in my contacts, collect my luggage and claim my rental car.  But I was on no one’s schedule.  If I wanted to sit and have an omelet before moseying down to the baggage terminal, I could do that.  If I wanted to poke around the airport till noon, I wouldn’t inconvenience anybody.  I could do whatever the hell I wanted.

Such is the genius of the solo vacation.  ”You’re going on a loser vacation,” my friend Lisa teased days before she was to jet off to London with her brother, husband and both parents.

“Yep,” I said proudly.  And when I finally made it to Hertz and met Shelby, my lime green rental car, I felt certain I had made the right choice.

As a devoted Steel Magnolias fan, I about freaked when I saw that the car I had rented for my southern vacation was from Shelby County.

After a four-hour joyride through Georgia, I arrived in Savannah looking a total mess.  The city, however, was undeniably gorgeous.  Rain fell softly through the Spanish moss that canopies the city’s old homes.  (The humidity, however, was not so kind to my hair.)  I checked into the hotel and was elated when I discovered a Jacuzzi tub in my wallpapered boudoir.  I was too wired to nap.  I didn’t even check my email.  I burst onto the streets of Savannah and began taking photos of everything.  Within 30 minutes I had dropped hundreds at the irresistible boutique The Red Clover.   Within 60 minutes I was wolfing down both the pumpkin spice AND the honey almond ice cream at Leopold’s.   The town made me giddy and carefree.   A longer stay there would have definitely made me fat.

On the way back to my Jacuzzi tub, I picked up a copy of the local real estate listings.  I had only fallen this hard for a city once before, when I had been on tour and embarked on a full day of “to-hell-with-everyone-else-I’m-going-to-do-what-I-want-t0-do” in Traverse City, Michigan.  (Go there.)  In both places, I discovered communities chock full of independent cafes and arty boutiques.  Each city took pride in its beautiful homes and (sensational) past.  Each city thrilled me.

For dinner I headed to Lady and Sons, Paula Deen’s delicious, not-even-remotely-overrated restaurant in Savannah’s downtown district.  My somewhat reserved demeanor fell away as I conversed voluntarily with the tattooed bartender and the agricultural chemist seated beside me.  The bartender turned out not to be a fan of his hometown, and the chemist clearly preferred other states to Georgia.  But as I stumbled out into the pouring rain, stuffed to the gills with fried chicken and hoecakes, I couldn’t help but fantasize about what Savannah still had in store for me.

The trees

The doorways

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