Sleepless in Savannah, Part Five

Continued from Part Four:

Things took a turn for the better when Tre and I decided to hail a cab back to the Dresser Palmer House. Our driver was a friendly, Savannah born-and-bred man who took issue with the whole concept of his city as a supernatural phenomenon: "Ma'am, I've lived in Savannah for 56 years and I ain't once seen a ghost -- they just play that up for the tourists!"

"Feel better?" Tre asked, playfully poking me in the arm. I had to admit, it did feel good to hear a native deny Savannah's spectre tales so vehemently. However, there was still one more thing left to do.

After generously tipping our driver for the safe trip back and the reassurance (I was starting to believe I'd actually sleep that night), we entered the main floor of the house to chat with the evening manager. We'd been told someone was on the premesis at all times, and I wanted to get his or her take on the rumors we'd heard about the Inn.

We called out as we walked through the French doors and into the lovely dining area, which was already arranged with fine china and silverware for the next day's gourmet breakfast. We heard a sweet, friendly voice with a slight drawl respond before an adorable African-American young woman approached us from the back kitchen.

"Hi, I'm Deedee! How can I help y'all?"

"Is this place haunted? My friend here is scared to death," Tre noted.

"Heck, no!" she stated, rather emphatically. "I've been working here for 7 years and I told the owners if I ever once saw a ghost, I was outta here!"

I felt like I could breathe again. We chatted for several minutes, during which Deedee informed us that while some places in the city were indeed, haunted, she'd never experienced any problems at the Dresser Palmer House. Relieved, I took her by the arm and thanked her, as if to prove to myself that she really was a flesh and blood human being.

Upon returning to our room, though, I was still a little spooked. I've never been a fan of old buildings, having been raised in new homes where we'd always been the first inhabitants (I am my mother's daughter; I'd rather buy brand-new clothes at a discount store than buy anything that had once been worn by a stranger). Despite the comforting words of Deedee and the Cabbie, I never did sleep that night.

Tre graciously offered to let me keep the TV on all night (which I gratefully accepted) and periodically rolled over to inquire in a sleepy voice about my well-being. I was touched by the gesture, but just couldn't relax enough to drift off to dreamland. I decided that Savannah was a place to explore with a big, strong manly man, with whom a girl could snuggle up when things went bump in the night. And of course, the city's romantic aura definitely favored couples.

In any case, I never saw or heard anything terrifying that night, though old houses tend to make noise just fine on their own; Dresser Palmer House was no exception. It didn't help that our next-door neighbors had their television blaring, but I was willing to cut them some slack. For all I knew, they were ill-at-ease, too.

The next morning, on pure adrenalin, I cheerfully accompanied Tre down to breakfast, where we made the acquaintance of a nice couple from Wisconsin, over homemade spinach quiche and coffee. Scott and Kristin regaled us with tales of the haunted pub crawl they'd taken the night before, and confirmed some pretty strange occurances (cold spots, footsteps on the stairs, etc.).

But the most chilling story they shared involved the 17Hundred90 Inn, home of Anna, the Ghost. Anna was a young girl of 17 back in the 18th Century, whose family forced her to marry a man old enough to be her grandfather. He was the original owner of the Inn and basically made her his slave, forcing her to do all of the Inn's dirty work (which, in the days before running water, must have been thoroughly disgusting). He also beat her regularly.

When Anna fell in love with a strapping young sailor and made plans to run away with him, the Old Geezer uncovered their plot, and locked Anna in Room 204, where he beat her to within an inch of her life, then threw her to her death over the balcony. To this day, she haunts that very room, crying for her true love.

Unbelievably, there's a one-year waiting list for honeymooners, who apparently have nothing better to do on their wedding night than enjoy a wild confrontation with a despondant spirit (which doesn't bode well for the marriage). As the story goes, couples are rudely awakened in the middle of the night by a levitating Anna, crying her dearly-departed eyes out. People have reported feeling the tears on their faces and having their lingerie stolen. Reports say that couples run from the room in horror in the middle of the night and head for the safety of the closest hotel chain.

We all wondered why anyone would find that entertaining, but figured the Inn's new owners are laughing themselves all the way to the bank.

Luckily for sleep-deprived me, Tre loves to drive and took the wheel for the rest of our journey back to South Florida. I am happy to report that my condo stood just as I left, and my sleeping patterns have returned to normal.

Despite all of the weirdness, I'd be willing to revisit Savannah on the arm of a strong, understanding gentleman. Until then, I think I'll stick to visiting happy places like the beach and Disneyworld. Sleep well, Savannah!

Sleepless in Savannah, Part Four

So much for looking fear in the eye...all I wanted to do at that point was run as far and as fast as I could from "historic" Savannah and into the safety of my peaceful condo in Boca Raton. Alas, we were still a long 6-hour drive away from my well-manicured town on Florida's Gold Coast, and besides, we were technically still on vacation.

Not wanting to ruin the fun for Tre, I urged her to take the tour without me; after all, it was a Saturday night, and the place was bustling. I would blend in with the crowds, stick to the main streets and explore some "safe" places, like gift shops and ice cream parlors. After a "spirited" debate (which, thankfully left our friendship intact), we decided to leave the ghost tour for another day, and take in some Savannah nightlife.

Despite my emphasis on the spooks, Savannah has much to offer in this regard; whatever your musical preference, you can surely find an enjoyable venue in this city -- from jazz clubs to country western bars to dueling pianos. Tre and I eventually camped out at Savannah Smiles, a high-energy, fun-lovin' place with hot pianos, cold brews and --- lest we forget -- playful ghosts. Three times during the evening, the musical mayhem was interrupted by unexplained power failures, which didn't seem to bother the (mostly drunk) huge crowd. In fact, no explanation or apology ensued for each blackout; instead, such events appeared to be a matter of course, with the underlying assumption that when the "spirit moved them" the power would turn on again.

Surrounded by so many revelers, the blackouts didn't bother me, though I tried not to drink too much club soda with lime, since I wasn't sure if the haunts were also frequenting the Ladies Room. I am glad I hung in there, too, or I would have missed a thoroughly enjoyable "duel" between the North and South, in which one piano player represented the "Yankees" side and the other the "Rebels." Each would sing a few verses of either Yankee Doodle Dandy or The Land of Cotton (not sure if that's the exact title, but since it begins "Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton," that seems a pretty good guess). Anyway, that song always brings Elvis -- one of my all-time favorites -- to mind. I could just hear his deep, masculine voice warbling this tribute to his beloved Dixie.

For that reason perhaps, along with others, I have always had an affinity for the South, despite my Northeastern upbringing. For as long as I can remember I have been attracted to Southern accents, friendliness, love of country and tradition. The South possesses a shared identity and culture that no other region of the country can claim. As I cheered for the Southern side in this musical duel, my friend (a Floridian by way of New York)passionately threw her support behind the Yanks and wondered why I was fervently rooting for "the other side." Not surprisingly -- we were in the heart of the deep South after all -- the Rebels won the duel, but not before supplying the deliriously happy piano players with lots of US currency.

Later, as we strolled along the streets of Savannah, every once in a while a streetlight would inexplicably turn off, and Tre would remind me that she is indeed clairvoyant, and thus well-accustomed to this kind of eerie occurance.

As the hour drew closer to return to our haunted Inn, fear and dread began to overwhelm me again. Would we be confronted by a revenge-seeking ghost in the wee hours of the morning???? I guess I was about to find out.

Sleepless in Savannah, Part Three

Continued from Part Two

If you've never had the pleasure of riding a pedicab, I highly recommend it, especially when visting a romantic city like Savannah. I've ridden on rolling chairs on the Atlantic City boardwalk (Tre and I had done that on this vacation as well) and the South Florida version of a pedicab in West Palm Beach's CityPlace; yet this was unlike any other experience.

Our rider was courteous and accommodating, even stopping by a market on the way to Vic's so Tre could pick up a few needed items. Ever the considerate tourist, she purchased a bottle of water for our diligent rider, who gratefully accepted the gift as he pedaled us down to the river.

On the surface Vic's is a delightful, elegant establishment with great food and a friendly waitstaff. That evening I enjoyed one of the best meals of my life -- blackened prime rib -- minus the horseradish mashed potatoes, with extra greens on the side, of course. Because it was such a large cut of beef, I happily shared it with Tre, whose scallop entree suffered by comparison (though she assured me it was indeed, delicious).

Our waiter was a cute, friendly guy, approximately in his mid-20's. Thanks to him, though, my resolve to confront my ghosts, so to speak, diminished rather quickly. He informed us that he lived well outside of the historic district as most of the buildings were seriously haunted, including our very lovely Dresser Palmer House (upon hearing this, I became determined to sleep in the car) and the third floor of the restaurant. "Whatever you do, he warned, "don't go to that floor."

Apparently, Vic's had once been a headquarters for the Confederate Army during the Civil War, and had thus experienced its share of bloodshed. Angry spirits on the third floor continued to do battle by furiously throwing objects around and otherwise making their presence known in frightening ways. In fact, our handsome waiter steadfastly refuses to close the place on his own, after enduring some spine-tingling confrontations with earthbound spirits.

Still (and perhaps due to the delectible cuisine), I felt pretty certain I could handle a walking ghost tour with a good friend and other tourists. Our dinner conversation consisted mostly of Tre giving me a pep-talk about how great I would feel once I pushed myself to look fear in the eye and survive the experience.

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, a wicked thunder and lightning storm, complete with a heavy downpour of rain, threatened our evening walking plans. However, by the time we lingered over coffee (and I must admit, a delectibly obscene piece of pecan cheesecake), the storm had passed and we (well at least Theresa) were ready for our "spirit walk." During the meal, Tre had even spotted a Confederate soldier out the window, walking in the rain; we never did determine if he was an actual ghost, or a dressed-up actor, though we saw no other such actors strolling around the entire night. Needless to say, she was pretty jazzed about spying on other spectres, now that we could do so sans umbrellas.

We reported to a beautiful town square, replete with foliage and a statue of John Wesley, Founder of the Methodist Church. Our friendly tour guides greeted us warmly and informed -- or rather -- terrified us (me) with tales of tourists getting slapped in the face, pulled away and otherwise confronted in decidedly unfriendly ways by the ghosts of Savannah. "But I thought we didn't actually go into the buildings," I meekly protested.

"Of course we go into the buildings. We're all about giving you an authentic experience!" one of the guides replied. As I scanned the crowd I realized that, unlike myself, these people truly considered this excellent entertainment. My heart began to pound in my chest as I not only confronted fear, but became entirely consumed by it. And when the tourguides confirmed hauntings at the Dresser Palmer House, what was left of my resolve drained out of me faster than a puddle in the South Florida sun.

More to come in my next post.

Sleepless in Savannah, Part One

Note: Since Halloween is just around the corner, I thought I'd repost a multi-part series I'd written four years ago after visiting Savannah, Georgia with a good friend. While I didn't actually see any ghosts or walk through any "cold spots", I experienced a relentless, palpable discomfort during my brief but memorable 24-hour stay in this simultaneously charming, historic and eerie southern city. And while I'd definitely visit again, this time I'd be sure to stay in a hotel somewhere on the outskirts of town -- far from any paranormal activity. A girl needs her beauty sleep, you know! ;)

Sleepless in Savannah, Part One

For as long as I can remember, I have always wanted to visit Savannah -- a city rich in history, tradition and Southern charm and hospitality. Several close friends who've spent time in the Garden of Good and Evil have had nothing but praise for its wealth of culture, cuisine and myriad attractions. None of their glowing reviews, however, ever mentioned the fact that Savannah is also well-known as "the most haunted city in North America."

Had I been aware of this well-deserved title, I may never have agreed to accompany Theresa on an overnight stay in the historic district, on our way back to South Florida from Pennsylvania. To be honest, I did have an inkling about the city's supernatural tendencies, mainly because Theresa excitedly talked of staying in a haunted Bed and Breakfast, until I begged her to compromise on our lodging arrangements, to which she graciously agreed.

In return, I nervously conceded to participating in a walking ghost tour, like those offered in St. Augustine (based on her experience in America's oldest city, Tre was positive we wouldn't actually enter any haunted buildings, but merely stay outside while the guides regaled us with tales of horror and history). We'd soon find out that Savannah does things a little differently when it comes to giving their guests an authentic, spine-tingling experience (more on that later).

Thanks to the marvels of modern technology, we were able to call ahead to several places, using the GPS (whose female satellite voice we dubbed "Sally"), while cruising south on I-95 somewhere in South Carolina. After many fruitless calls ("Sorry ma'am, but we're booked solid") I finally called what I thought was a Hampton Inn safely on the outskirts of town.

A friendly voice answered, "Good afternoon, Dresser Palmer House!" and I knew right away I was in trouble: I had to at least ask if rooms were available, in fairness to my friend, though I dreaded a positive answer. Unbelievably, they had one room left -- The Lady Astor -- which came with a Queen-sized bed and a fireplace. As if to eliminate any possibility that this was a trap set up by phantoms of the underworld, I asked if the place was haunted. "Do you want it to be?" the nice gentleman on the line queried, to which I firmly responded with a resounding NO!

He then assured me that while many B & B's in Savannah were indeed inhabited by earthbound spirits, Dresser Palmer House had never had any problems. Feeling somewhat better, though still a bit apprehensive, I made the reservation (much to Theresa's delight). That's just the beginning of the story. More to come in my next post.