A Newcomer's Guide to Savannah (And We’re All Newcomers)

Let me just start off by saying I’m not from around here either. 

I arrived for the first time in Savannah from the San Francisco Bay Area in the mid-1990s in my mid-20s, all huckleberry-eyed for a nice Jewish Southern boy who invited me home to meet his mama. The gracious good fortune of marrying into this mysterious, moss-draped society granted me entrée to some of its stateliest parlors and seediest afterhours secrets, even though I stood out like a tie-dyed toad on an azalea bush.

So I took a lot of notes. Which was awkward, since it’s hard to sip a drink while scribbling on a cocktail napkin. That boozy scholarship was put to use first as the editor for the now-defunct skirt! magazine, then for almost seven years as the community editor and Civil Society Columnist at the city’s formerly alternative newsweekly. In 2018 I published a book, Savannah Sideways, chronicling what it’s like to be an outsider finding my way into this city of guarded gardens and never ending stories. 

My husband and I bought a house in his childhood neighborhood and raised two kids through the public schools, where they learned Common Core math and how to raise a chinchilla. We collected our friends’ art and dined in their restaurants and danced to their music. Unable to stay away from local boutiques, I acquired a ridiculous number of sundresses. 

While there were still some who remained impervious to my outlander charms, I found my tribe in Savannah’s beloved community, an evolving human tapestry of old-timers, transplants, artists, activists, entrepreneurs, dreamers and weirdos who showed up and showed out for Savannah and each other. Even as opinions and politics differed, there was always enough room as long as there was respect—we just made the circle wider. 

This past year has damaged so many of those threads that connect us, like tearing a spider web from the inside. After so many months of baking bad bread and talking to the backyard lizards, many of us are just now emerging blinky-eyed from our COVID cocoons to a Savannah we hardly recognize. Sure, the shady oaks and godforsaken sand gnats are still here, but there’s a sense of disorientation: Who are all these people? Where did this microbrewery come from? If our house is now suddenly worth double what we paid for it, do we have to fix the fence?

And yet it’s all very exciting! National news articles burble about the exodus of New Yorkers and Californians to more affordable climes, and our little oasis in the midst of a rapidly purpling state appears to be at the top of everyone’s dance card. That’s fabulous. Welcome to Savannah, get yourself a drink, tip your server, and register to vote. 

The rest of us post-pandemic Rumplestilskins have the choice of complaining about the crowds or contributing to what’s next. Even if your granddaddy’s daddy’s daddy stepped off the boat with General Oglethorpe and a bag of boiled peanuts, we’re all newcomers to this sparkling Southern skyline of flying dinosaurs, weekend hordes, and fresh opportunities for economic and cultural progress.  

Still, some of us need to learn, or perhaps relearn, how to act right. 

The other day I overheard a woman in sculpted leggings hissing through her mask at the cashier about the length of time it was taking to prepare her non-dairy latte. To the amusement of onlookers, she actually stamped her foot in frustration. I said nicely—which I admit is not the same as kindly—“You’re in ‘Slowvannah’ now. Everything takes a little longer.”

She turned her angry eyes on me and seethed “I LIVE here,” grabbed her finally-ready beverage and spun out the door, huffing and puffing like a Lululemon big bad wolf. 

Since I struggle mightily on most days with being nice or kind, I called after her, “Oh, but do you, honey?” 

I felt bad as soon as I said it. I have no idea what could be happening in her life, and lawd knows I have pitched my share of ugly fits in public. (Sorry not sorry, Parking Services Lady.) But the exchange made me start thinking again about what it means to live in Savannah, versus simply occupying a remodeled Victorian where your Amazon packages are delivered. 

The old-timers will still shoot a gimlet side-eye at anyone who claims to be “from” here if they didn’t arrive nekkid at Candler Hospital. Thankfully, that kind of exclusive provinciality has (mostly) faded like Scarlett O’Hara’s drapes. But if you’re at brunch bragging loudly about how you “discovered” Savannah before some dummy called it the “new Brooklyn,” don’t act surprised when your oat cappuccino arrives cold.

All I know is this, y’all: If you want to say you’re from here, you gotta act like it. Or else Savannah becomes just anywhere else full of mediocre franchises and spoon-fed narratives.

As we put away the sweatpants and step away from our screens, the time has come to introduce ourselves to Savannah and each other—whether it’s for the first time or as the changed citizens we’ve become. 

With those sundresses finally back in rotation, here’s what I’m relearning myself: 

• Go slow. Savannah is a tangled warren of one-way streets, narrow lanes and rounded corners popping with wide-eyed tourists, drunk pedestrians, senior citizens wearing inappropriate footwear, children looking at dogs, dogs darting at squirrels, squirrels with no fear, and all kinds of folx on bicycles, in wheelchairs, on roller skates and maybe a unicycle or two. Second gear is your friend. Yield when entering a square. If you’re passed by a pedicab, you’re doing it right. Better yet, ride a bike. 

• Return greetings from strangers. In case your social skills have atrophied as much as mine, talking to people you don’t know is how you make friends. It’s also how your neighbors know you’re one of them, as opposed to a serial killer just passing through, or worse, a real estate appraiser. A brief “How y’all doin” and a nod with eye contact is the universal Savannah salutation. Advanced practitioners may add: “How’s your momma and them?” 

• Reach past the basics. No doubt, Savannah’s got history. In fact, you’re probably stepping in it right now. (Mind those horse-drawn carriages.) Trolley tours might present the highlights, but even if those sound bites are accurate, the last 300 years contain more than lacy architecture and ghost stories. Patronize lesser known historic institutions, explore unknown neighborhoods, read between the lines. Understand that for every monument, there are thousands of stories that will never be told.

• Respect the elders. What’s ironic about institutional knowledge is that its best repositories are people. The great news is the heroes and heroines of Savannah’s modern history can easily be found in classrooms and cafés—you can even hire some of them to show you around. Anyone who rolls their eyes when you try to claim Ardsley Park includes Habersham Village is legit. But take heed that the ones who remember Savannah as it was won’t be around forever, so do it now—and not via Snapchat.

• Know the boundaries. Yes, there is life west of MLK Blvd. No, the new arena isn’t really near anything. The Starland District stops hard at Victory. Ardsley Park ends on 56th Lane. The southside is anything past Derenne. “Midtown” can mean anywhere between downtown and the southside. But also further. And sometimes not. And listen here: Whoever started calling the eastside the “Bonaventure District” needs a spanking. If you live on an island, you don’t vote in city elections and best not opine about them. 

• Shop local. Clicking on the cheapest version of anything is a hard habit to break, but almost anything on Amazon can be picked up curbside within the city limits or delivered. Savannah’s small businesses depend on you—cultivate your favorites and spread the word. Even shopping in person at the big box baddies that employ our neighbors and friends feeds our local economy, with the bonus opportunity of practicing our rusty greeting skills. 

• Eat out often. Frequent locally-owned spots that serve well-prepared food at fair price points—and avoid the ones that don’t. The restaurant industry is experiencing a cataclysmic shift everywhere, and it’s going to take some time to build back quality. If your food isn’t perfect, don’t stiff Savannah’s service industry veterans, who deserve your humble respect and generous tips. Even if you have a bad experience, posting nasty Yelp reviews is not a good look; it’s much classier to just tell everyone you know.

• Support the arts. You can’t walk three feet around here without tripping over a working artist; that’s what gives this city color and context. But don’t just look at the pretty things: Start a collection of local works. Attend gallery openings (as safety permits.) Subscribe to independent writers. Enjoy amazing community theater. Follow the Instagram feeds. Buy season passes to music. Adorn yourself with local jewelry. Give gifts purchased at maker pop-ups. When you recognize your favorite artist at the coffeeshop, treat them like the celebrity they are.  

• Protect our vulnerable citizens. In spite of the influx of big city money, Savannah’s systemic poverty, overwhelmed justice system and lack of affordable housing remain as intractable as ever. Skyrocketing real estate and food prices are pushing out the elders, artists and longtime residents who enrich the city. Afterschool enrichment programs operate on shoestring budgets. Donate to local non-profits that bring services and direct relief. Better yet, join the board. 

• Don’t fight the ecology. The gnats were here before all of us, and they’ll survive long after humanity has gone by way of the handbasket. Same goes for the weather. Yes, it’s a suffocatingly humid, flesh-eating hellscape here for several months out of the year and that’s why you could afford to move here in the first place. We have all experienced the frustratingly accurate axiom that the more bugs swarming around your hair, the more likely that it is that you forgot bug spray. Also, for those who exalt flip flops as all-occasion footwear, I have two words: Fire ants.

• Accept change. This one is the hardest for me. The city I met in the mid-1990s, with its sultry milieu of magnolia-scented dilapidation and artsy leisure, has moved on. I get a little sniffly about my favorite restaurants closed, the best bars now shuttered, my kids grown and flown. I console myself knowing the soul of Savannah is eternal, ever fed by the people who live here, really live here—pouring their sweat and blood and love into making it more beautiful and equitable for all. If you’re lucky to be here long enough, you’ll join the ranks of those who remember how it used to be and feel proud of how, together, we’ve made it better, even just a little. 

Until then, don’t you worry, honey, we’ll wait to bless your heart until you’re out of earshot. 

—Jessica Leigh Lebos

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