It’s so tempting right now to give up on social niceties and pretty shoes and cultured conversation.
With the humorless people and their fascist politics and tacky fashion imposing their oppressive garbage on the rest of us, we might feel subsumed by their bad taste, resigning ourselves to eating chicken fingers and streaming Marvel drivel while wearing the same pair of raggedy jean shorts for weeks on end.
But then an invitation arrives. Not one of those flashing emails with their clickable envelopes but an actual missive on nice cardstock delivered by the postperson, emblazoned with a royal crest and a very specific dress code. The times may be sucking away at decorum and decency, but HRH The Duchess of State is having none of it.
“Civility is still alive, thank you very much!” announced the Duchess when I showed up to the door of her Starland Victorian a few weeks ago, clad in a requisite hat and my best attempt at “high drama” attire for an afternoon tea party.
Also known as Alexandra Trujillo de Taylor, Savannah’s original influencer is legendary for her exquisite gatherings, where the only thing she asks of her guests is that they adhere to what were once common codes of courtesy but have all but melted away like basic human rights under a fragile democracy: RSVP promptly, don the directed apparel, and do not question the hostess. Follow the rules or else get disinvited!
Some might scoff over their red Solo cups, but I relish and respect the Duchess’ fidelity to propriety. Playing by her rules seems a tiny price to pay to be included in her mise-en-scéne, where the decor and refreshments are always exquisite, a genteel bellwether for a world we all deserve. And though the guest list can be unexpected, the talk is never small.
It’s been almost nine years since I attended my first Duchess soirée, and somehow with my big mouth and questionable wardrobe choices I’ve continued to curry favor. Not everyone has been so fortunate, their names crossed off for various transgressions, and I was interested to see who else had made the cut.
Apparently a few days before, one invitee had the nerve to ask who else was attending this first post-Covid fête, declaring that they simply would not be in the room with a certain person.
“Can you believe the gall?” the Duchess asked me with a sniff, followed by a peal of laughter. “I rescinded the invitation!”
Resplendent in orange taffeta and a feathered fuschia chapeau, the cherished hostess led me around the high-ceilinged living room to greet art writer and still life painter Beth Logan, a first-timer to this marvelous milieu.
“I wasn’t sure I’d be invited again, I couldn’t come to the last two parties,” confided Beth, bedecked in citrus tones and a chic straw hat. “I knew if I missed a third, that would be it!”
Also making her debut was SCAD professor and multi-dimensional anthropologist Susan Falls, whose young daughter, Talullah, had constructed a sensational floral headpiece with a brim so wide it could have sheltered an entire Girl Scout troop. With a broad smile, Susan told me she was surprised and delighted to receive an invitation to tea after living across the street for 15 years.
The Duchess shrugged. “When we moved in, there was an incident with someone else down the block. I decided, ‘No neighbors!’ But Susan is very lovely, so I’ve made an exception.”
Other newcomers were newer to Savannah: Around the silver-laid tablescape brimming with exotic cheeses and a tureen of chilled pea soup I met Alyse Clavijo, who the Duchess met while real-estate hunting, and Columbian architectural grad student Nicolas Barrera, part of the team that designed the captivating interiors of Ukiyo restaurant down the street.
I suppressed an indecorous squeal when I spotted Linette Dubois, the lead researcher on a veterans PTSD study I wrote about in 2014 that’s still going strong, as well as restaurant marketing maven and roller skate queen Carey Ferrera, both seasoned HRH party guests showing off glorious vintage ensembles.
“Why is it that we only air kiss when we’re here?” Carey wondered with a giggle as we touched cheeks.
In front of a cockatiel-topped tray of perfectly piled pears, I shared more side smooches with designer and bon vivant Anthony Saavedra VanDerdys and fashion maven Carmela Spinelli, who in a reversal of trend recently sold her manse on 37th Street to move back to New York.
Speaking of those who’ve decamped North, the dust of Brooklyn still clung to the soles of Savannah's favorite literary son (well, of the living ones, anyway) George Dawes Green as he lounged on a leather settee. He confessed he had to borrow a sportcoat for the party from Daniel, the Duchess’ husband, but as a NYT bestselling author and 20-plus year friend of Her Royal Highness, George gets a little more leeway than most.
George’s latest book, Kingdoms of Savannah, will be released July 18 with a launch hosted by E. Shaver Booksellers and featuring Savannah-born raconteur and podcast darling Edgar Oliver, the international poet and local treasure Aberjhani, and a whole host of other interesting storytellers, and you can bet that’s going to be wild.
I had the amazing fortune to get my hands on an advance copy of Kingdoms and ate it up in two days. Crisp and thrilling, it’s bound to bounce straight to the top of the bestseller lists for its tight plot and vivid characters—but only true Savannahians will appreciate the homegrown details tucked into paragraphs like carefully placed Easter eggs.
The 95-degree weather had made my swamp hair more dramatic than usual, and I ducked into the Duchess’ newly remodeled water closet under the stairs to freshen up. Curtained from floor to ceiling in pink gingham, the little bathroom gave the impression of being inside a camellia, reminding me of the Duchess’ charming interior displays in the Chocolat by Adam Turoni shops, of which she is a founding partner.
Adam the chocolatier himself was in the living room when I returned, joining in the never-ending conversation about how much Savannah has changed, especially since the years the Duchess hosted the symphony musicians, starving artists, and maudlin eccentrics who lived downtown for a song. Talk turned to the recent passing of Alvin Neely, the city’s unofficial social godfather and George’s cousin who inhabited the turreted Romanesque mansion near the Kroger for almost 50 years (when you read Kingdoms of Savannah, you’ll recognize it.)
Alvin provided the blueprint for inclusive hospitality and threw plenty of legendary parties of his own, long before social media took all the fun out of behaving badly.
“All we could talk about at his wake is how there’s no one left to gossip about,” lamented the Duchess.
Still, in her esteemed opinion, our Hostess City remains superior to Charleston, where the Duchess and Daniel did not enjoy their stint while overseeing the opening of Chocolat by Adam Turoni’s newest location on King Street.
“Everyone was the same—rich, white, and bored,” she reported with a head shake. “I like variety.”
Looking around the room, that preference was evident, each guest unique in their occupations, opinions, and expression of wardrobe directive, all willing to acquiesce to rapidly disappearing social mores. The result was an afternoon out of time, a beautiful alcove of respite from an unraveling world.
Hoping I’d once again passed enough muster to be invited back again, I thanked my hostess for including me, admitting that I hadn’t much felt like a part of a civilized society as of late, that politesse and courtesy seem insufficient in the face of boorishness and weaponized ignorance.
“I know, honey,” conferred the Duchess gently, handing me a crystal goblet of hibiscus tea.
“But sometimes you have to put on a hat and some lipstick and celebrate life!”
Excellent counsel for the times upon us—and perhaps our best defense against the bad taste of the oppressors.
Always write a thank you note ~ JLL
One of your best. You still didn't mention my name.
Dahhling, thank you for such a generous story. Your wit and story telling style is incomparable!
Bravo!