Yesterday sucked, one of those days where little to nothing went right.

Endless driving. Motel room that smelled like cat pee. Motel clerks unwilling to help. Trying to find a meeting on a highway with no address. Finding said meeting 20 minutes before it starts. Dashing into a Chinese food place, thinking that will be my quickest bet. Marveling that it takes 15 minutes to make one order of Egg Foo Yung. Slopping said Egg Foo Yung down shirt and all over passenger seat in desperate attempt to finish in five minutes. Burning roof of mouth. Walking in late. Running out repeatedly when dog sets off car alarm - no less than five times in 45 minutes. Marveling at a Southern rainstorm, complete with lightning pyrotechnics against a color-shifting sky. Trying to sleep when the atmosphere is wet and heavy with humidity, despite the rambling air conditioner.

Through it all, Loren is a trooper. She never complains. I would complain if I were her. This sucks. This room smells. I don’t want Chinese food. Etc. That is why I took this trip with a dog. I knew there would be times that weren’t so joyous, times when things go wrong, times when things become downright irritating, which become exponentially worse with another frustrated human being by your side. Loren is almost unfailingly polite, except when she’s tracking a new smell or sees a cat. Then she becomes slightly pushy, as is her right.

Today was much better. We checked out of our hotel and found a cleaner one closer to the city. Top on our agenda was having lunch at Uncle Bubba’s Oyster House (Bubba is Paula Deen’s brother) with Mark & Julie, family friends that go back over 20 years. They are originally from the south, but lived in California for a few years. They and their daughters, Ashley and Marianne, were a welcome part of many vacations, camping trips, and BBQs when I was in my late teens. It must be over a decade since I’ve seen them last. They look great, still youthful and happy, pulling up on their Harley, which has seen them through 45 states.


"I wonder if they have room on their Harley for me?"

They greeted Loren warmly, even arranging for us to sit on the patio so she could join us. It was perfect - we had a little private shaded area all to ourselves, overlooking the shallow tides. A guitarist played classic rock, serenading us with Jimmy Buffett and Van Morrison songs.

The wait staff loved Loren, coming over to meet her and share their stories, from the waiter with the rescued black lab puppy to the waitress with a new bulldog “grandson.”

Mark ordered us two dozen steamed oysters as a starter. They were fresh from Galveston, their rough shells the size of flattened tennis balls.

"Who originally looked at this and thought, food?!" I pondered.

"The Indians," Mark said. "Then we saw what they were doing and tried it ourselves."

Thankfully, Mark shucked for the both of us (something this Yankee has never done). Topped with lemon juice, hot sauce, and a little melted better, the oysters were divine, briny, succulent, very easy going down. They were a great counterpart to the complimentary, crumbly little cornbread cakes, which were so moist they didn’t need any butter.


Oysterfest!

When it came around, I could barely tackle the huge bowl of shrimp and grits I ordered, an amazing dish: rich, creamy, studded with bits of smoky bacon, peppers, and onions, and overflowing with tender shrimp. I sighed looking at task in front of me.

“I don’t think I should’ve eaten so many oysters,” I said. (Not to mention the cornbread).

“Just eat the shrimp,” Julie encouraged me. I did. Every single one.

Between being treated to all that tasty food, about a gallon of Arnold Palmers, good conversation, and the relaxing vibe, I was feeling much better about life. So was Loren. She napped most of the time, stretching out on a shady part of the wooden deck.


"Sleeping on the Dock of the Bay is my favorite Otis Redding song."


Saturday afternoon, Savannah style!

“Dogs sleep about 20 hours a day,” Mark noted. (They just lost their two dogs in the last year - RIP).

So true. When I first started working from home, I was shocked at how much my dogs slept. Loren is no exception. She naps whenever possible - in the car, at the hotel, under shady trees and bushes. When dogs are on, they’re on, so I presume it must be exhausting.

Like when Loren spotted the tiny orange and grey Uncle Bubba’s house cat. Suddenly, she was up on all fours, straining against her leash, wanting to, umm, introduce herself. (Actually, she wanted the cat steamed with a side of melted butter).Thankfully, she’s also easily distracted, going over to Mark for attention and becoming fixated on something below our patio table, before splaying out again.


"Where'd the cat go?"

After saying our goodbyes (we’re heading up to Mark & Julie’s for dinner and a sleepover tomorrow night), Loren and I drove over the bridge to Fort Pulaski. Though I’m not a history buff, I couldn’t help but be humbled by the thought of the men who died there in many a gruesome fashion, right on that soil. There was a huge brick fort, with cannons on the rooftop, and that famous Southern murky water filled the moat. (Gators?)

"I ain't afraid of no reptiles!"

Loren and I sat under a tree for a few minutes, taking the scenery in.


"Pretty cool, Aunt Michelle..."

All that humidity produces some beautiful landscape - grass as far as the eye can see, moss dripping from branches, swollen treetops swaying in the wind. Not too far from the fort is shoreline, where three men fished for their night’s dinner under puffy white clouds and a cerulean blue sky.


Fishing with a view

Next, we took a brief jaunt to Tybee Island, a seaside town rife with tanned young bodies, families overloaded with beach gear, dune buggy and moped rentals, and lovely beach houses ranging from funky to palatial. So full I was, I managed to bypass a homemade ice cream shop, something that wouldn’t usually be within my willpower.

The siren all didn't lure me this time...

We had one last stop to make before going back to our hotel. My car is making funny noises, what I thought was my back brakes. When we pulled up to the auto repair shop, the mechanic took one listen and said, “That’s your U joint.”

That means a $300 repair and 2 ½ to 3 hours to fill tomorrow. Oh, well. It will give us a chance to explore the famous nearby River district, filled with historical monuments, praline shops(!), and waterfront restaurants. Hopefully, we can find as nice a patio as Uncle Bubba’s to hang our hats on for a few.

Tonight, it’s take out and turning in early.

 
"Let's make it a Blockbuster night."