Let's Revisit: ‘Savannah Difficult’

Truth be told, I’d already planned to take the next couple of weeks off long before all that’s gone down in the last few days.

I thought I’d catch up on pool time, enjoy the company of dear friends visiting from the other side of the world, help the kids move into new apartments, maybe even take in one of those new-fangled summer ball games.

Instead, the horrendous stomach bug that has held me hostage since last Monday continues to swashbuckle around my gastrointerior like a sadistic pirate, while the world outside—well, you know. I have nothing to add to the frenzied diarrhea of hand-wringing commentary; I shall continue to reflect upon recent events while building back my gut biome with dry toast and kombucha. (Around here, we’re calling it BRAT diet summer.)

However, I must note the passings of Richard Simmons, whose kind, body-positive encouragements helped save me from full-blown bulimia in the 80s, and favorite pretend frenemy Shannon Doherty, who turned out to be cool chick but also kinda helped along the belief back then that a little bit of an eating disorder was probably fine. Also, sexy Jewish bubbe Dr. Ruth Westheimer has left us for the eternal orgasm beyond, as has the lovely, lithe Shelley Duvall. May these cultural luminaries find absolute adoration and everlasting peace.

As for the rest of it, self-care has never seemed so important. In the meantime, I offer one of my most popular past columns below; “Savannah Difficult” still seems applicable, feel free to share it.

And while rage and confusion may tempt us to indulge in the chatter of despair, I hope we can all heed the gentle guidance from one of my favorite poems: Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

And don’t forget to wash your hands ~ JLL

Defining ‘Savannah Difficult’

I’ve always been of the mind that if you really love Savannah, you have to hate it a little bit. 

Sure, the starry-eyed can rent an Airbnb for a few days to gush over the pretty houses and mossy old charm, punchdrunk with the novelty of carrying a watered-down drink in a plastic cup down the street like it’s some peak experience akin to bathing in the fountain at Lourdes.   

Those of us in a long-term relationship with our fair city know it's far more complicated than that, and that splashing in our fountains will most certainly get you arrested.

But until you’ve applied for a building permit or dealt with the public schools or had someone vomit on your shoes on a Tuesday, Savannah is just an adorable meet-cute that can be swiped left on at any time. 

Like any lasting love story, living here means embracing the good with the evil, or rather, accepting the potholes with the provenance. I mean, is it even true devotion if it doesn’t drive you a little bit insane? I think the saints would agree.

My own partner in bad romance recently came up with the phrase “Savannah Difficult” to describe such particular cavils. He ought to know, and he himself embodies a certain sexy stubbornness I still find captivating after all these years. (Emphasis on “captive,” as in the moments when I’d like to duct tape his mouth and leave him to the gators.)

“Savannah Difficult” has quickly morphed into an all-encompassing rubric that can apply to a bevy of municipal frustrations, including:

• Trains that run diagonally through a city full of squares, snarling traffic at all hours and blaring horns at a volume that rattles windows on the islands and scatters birds in South Carolina

• A parking services department located on a busy one-way street with no parking, which is a fun way to receive another ticket while paying the one or three you’ve accrued because you gave up circling and left the car on the sidewalk

• The nightmare on Broughton Street, repaved yet again but still sporting exposed rebar and weedy cracks in the hardscape; who put Freddy Krueger in charge of this glow-up?

The new arena seems to have made significant improvements after its slow rollout, but our civic motto often seems to be summed up by the following, also credited to my bloviating beloved: 

“In Savannah, we don’t know what we’re doing, but we don’t like being told what to do.” The conditional clause “Also, we might be drunk” is optional.

This tracks with the deeply entrenched local attitude of “We don’t like change, but we want everything to be different.” 

Of course, we must invoke what rascally poet Rebecca Herdman calls the original “Savannah Difficult” maxim: “That’s the way we’ve always done it here, and if you don’t like it, there’s a bus waiting for ya.” (Exponentially hilarious if you’ve ever tried taking a CAT bus anywhere.)

In that vein, Sundial Charters captain and megalodon tooth magnet Rene Heidt offers the ultimate Savannah Difficult joke: How many Savannahians does it take to change a lightbulb? One to change the bulb, 49 others to stand around and murmur, “it’s just not as nice as the other one…” 

This has led to an ongoing poll of friends and strangers: What does “Savannah difficult” mean to you?

First and foremost, the majority of y’all mention driving downtown. Not very original, but completely understandable, what with so many yahoos with their out-of-state plates speeding onto the squares and flying up Drayton the wrong way. But they’re not worse than the locals who meander around at 15mph until it’s time to power through a red light, not to mention all these idiots parking wherever they want. (Sidewalks don’t count if they’re not blocking a driveway and you’re only running in for five seconds to pay a ticket, OK?)

Digging into more examples like a diesel bulldozer tearing up a streetscape of historic bricks: Many of you also point to the storied Savannah pastime of not RSVPing for a party or event, then showing up anyway, “usually an hour late,” tsks Service Brewing’s Kevin Ryan.

Local gentleman investor Peter Kusek decries how this is the only place in the world where “might could” is a verb regularly deployed in business meetings, as in “we might could get that contract ready once we get all the lightbulbs changed.” 

Urban planner and Thomas Square Historic Neighborhood Association president Jason Combs just smiles and does his best to stay diplomatic when folks are “opposed to something for no good reason.” (On a related note, follow Savannah Agenda for the latest on the rockin’ midtown resurrection of The Jinx.)

Socially speaking, Location Gallery owner and scissor whiz Peter Roberts deplores a reflexive “nice to meet you,” which sounds polite enough at first—unless you’ve already met someone eleventy-four times at various events and they just don’t remember. As a matter of fact, it is Peter’s husband, the silver fox architect John Deering, who taught me years ago that the proper Savannah greeting is always “good to see you,” thus covering whether or not you’ve previously made their acquaintance or not. (Refer back to the conditional clause, “Also, I might’ve been drunk.”)

Downtown denizen and HGTV fixer Ty Pennington (can we consult him for future civic extreme makeovers?) believes “bad dogs” make Savannah difficult. Though he was talking about his own rowdy chihuahua rescue pup, it’s a sentiment to which I must concur, as my own obnoxious beasts do little but make my life hard. However, all those canines cavorting off leash in squares and other public spaces cannot be blamed for their overly enthusiastic antics—with few exceptions, I maintain there are no bad dogs, just rude owners.

Now, I’m not saying that I might could be a tad “Savannah Difficult” myself. While out to dinner last week, I completely embarrassed my husband by remarking loudly to our server that EDM is a poor soundtrack pairing with scallops. I’m terrible at remembering people’s names, I park wherever I want and I am obviously not stingy with my opinions. I don’t like change but I want everything to be different, better, kinder, slower, faster, and cuter.  

I’m also sure there has to be such a thing as “Savannah Smooth,” though the only example I can think of is the consistency of hitting the unbroken string of green lights on Anderson Street from MLK to Skidaway during rush hour. And maybe the satisfying fluidity of bike wheels cruising over old bricks (when I might be drunk.)

To know Savannah is to love it, and also sometimes want to leave it—to the gators, to the tourists, to the messy infrastructure and the civic stubbornness.  

Isn’t that what true love is all about?

What does “Savannah Difficult” mean to you? 

No idea what I’m doing, but don’t tell me what to do ~ JLL

Savannah’s Most Difficult