Charleston Days

We left Orlando at 2pm prepared for the eight-hour train ride to Charleston. To our delight we found the train spacious, not like the Harry Potter carriages I'd hoped for but far roomier than bus and plane.

No Harry Potter-like characters on board but across the aisle from us was an odd couple: a 45-year-old-lady from Uruguay (a tired, big-eyed gypsy who got off at each stop to smoke), and a slow, plain man with a sing-song southern slur. Noticeable because they stopped being strangers after the first minute and talked for the entirety of the trip.

For a short while the scenery outside looked like it could be home. Then we moved to unfamiliar tree territory. Sometimes tall silver trees neatly organised but mostly the country was thick with all manner of trees and plant life puzzled together. We passed over rivers and through small towns, and there is an uncountable number of old farm blocks with junkyards like you see in our country, only people seem to have more junk here. The rain came when we pulled into Jacksonville and didn't let up.

Margs and I arrived in Charleston late as the train had to wait for a passing, larger, train and rain continued to soak the state. We finally organised a cab and made our way to the historic district, on the way passing several accidents. Cab driver's response to this was, 'Shit (head shake), some people just don't know how to drive in the rain,' which I think meant that he did.

We've been incredibly fortunate in our hostel selection so far and the Notso Hostel was no exception. Have been introduced to nutella and bagel pairing. GENIUS. Also discovered that if you eat two, it's very likely that you won't be hungry again until about 4pm.

Charleston is a beautiful city. At least the historic district is gorgeous, which is where we were based; big old buildings, brick and weatherboard. As old as those in New Orleans' Garden District, but friendlier and more approachable as none had intimidating fences. You can walk right up to these buildings and put your hands on their walls (if that's what you fancied doing).

Our hostel sits on the border of the district and our street is shabby, like they ran out of paint at the store. But once you turn the corner on to King (the main street), you see where the paint has been put to good use. The streets were empty of people our first morning out, which was slightly worrying (and had the makings of an art house movie) but then worked out that everyone was at church and by midday the sidewalks were busy with well-dressed people.

First duty was bookshops and so found four books (T.C. Boyle's The Women, Becoming Jane Eyre - Bronte sisters bio - Robin McKinley's 1982 award-winning, but plainly named, The Blue Sword (Lys, you would love this), and fun urban fantasy by Karen Chance) more to lug around; Margs also added to her collection.

The previous day's rain had departed so we were free to trespass the streets under sea-blue skies. No systematic approach for us, lots of back tracking and walking in various-sized circles. At lunch we met an owner of a bar who was with his son, a little boy selling fundraising chocolates (and thus ending my chocolate-free week) who convinced us to agree to attend his Karaoke fundraiser for Haiti. We heard Hades and were sure we were attending some Greek god-themed party, only realising the truth when we saw the posters later. Rather disappointed.

Margs and I discovered the most scrumptious cup-cake shop where I sampled chocolate and lemon and then (the next day) lemon and blue berry. Icing was as high as the cake.

Charleston is a university town and when students aren't in class, they're running. EVERYWHERE. Really. You blink and a runner will glide past. And yes, they do glide. No one's running to get fit here.

This city is also home to a prestigious military academy and where ever we went we saw boys in these funny felt uniforms and hats. We saw one uniformed girl at the station (girls have only been allowed to attend recently).

Margs did another ghost tour that night and I met up with her to attend Haiti benefit, which isn't worth writing about and neither is the Irish pub we moved on to. We did, however, meet some federal agents (even if they were really old) but, no doubt, Margs will elaborate as she found them.

Next day we had to stop by O'Malley's (Irish pub) as Margs had left Gone with the Wind there; thankfully, but hardly surprising, it was still waiting for her. We then made our way to the wharf, hoping that we would be able to catch a ferry to Fort Sumter, but missed it by ten minutes so instead we wandered back to the centre of the historic district and caught the Martin Luther King Day parade, which was a few marching bands, a few floats and lots of tooting cars (many of which were representatives of the different churches).

Have to end here as sitting in a cafe in Savannah writing this - hotel's Internet is not working and they don't show any inclination to fix this - as Margs has shown up from yet another ghost tour so we're off to dinner. She promises to write soon; her laptop is playing up.

Much love xox