I am currently exiled to the quaint old southern city of Savannah, Georgia. I am staying at the Marriott Riverfront, which is rather like visiting a village of gingerbread houses and deciding to stay in the block of chocolate on the edge of town instead. But at least it is a modern hotel with many conveniences, an extremely accommodating staff and several fully-stocked bars, and not some twee bed-and-breakfast run by a female fascist who forces her guests to get up at six in the morning to sample her homemade prune muesli.
Savannah's so-called Historic District is very pleasant and picturesque, but there is nothing to do here except eat, drink and buy foolish trinkets and pirate-theme sweatshirts in the zillions of restaurants and souvenir shops that sprout like weeds on every street. I walked for miles in search of shaving soap but never found a pharmacy, just row after row of steak and seafood grilles, Irish pubs and holes-in-the-wall selling unconventional candies by the pound. The Methodist preacher John Wesley once left this town in a huff and I fear so shall I.
