Seeking Southern Charm: Landing in Fairhope (Barely)
I made it to Fairhope, Alabama! Barely.
I owe y'all so many stories. Now that I'm settled here for a bit — and Bertha, that tropical storm with a name far scarier than her actual manners, is hanging around like the skeeters hang around the bay — I'm finally ready to take you on some of the wild, wonderful, occasionally white-knuckled journeys that got me from Beaufort to Savannah to Live Oak, Florida, and now here, to sweet Fairhope.
First things first: I'm writing this from Provisions — a coffee-wine-shop-little-bit-of-everything spot that I sat inside of for a full ten minutes before I typed the word and realized what it actually meant. Provisions. Dang. I need to go easier on the blonde highlights.
(If you want to see it all unfold in real time, I'm on Instagram at @BirdieJaneLane — the photos tell half the story.)
The Parts I Don't Always Show You
I've mostly been sharing the best parts of this trip. The peach-ripe, golden-hour parts. But a solo road trip isn't all smooth sailing, and I don't want anyone thinking otherwise.
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| Breakfast at Provisions |
There have been tears. There was a full freakout — alone, driving into a new state, when my phone lost signal right as I needed to exit and couldn't for the life of me remember which one. There have been splinters. And there was the time in Savannah I drove the wrong way down a one-way street with a police car coming straight at me — and the officers just... waited. Patiently. Backed up so I could correct myself, then drove on like it was nothing.
Thank you, boys in blue. I owe you one.
The Pattern I Keep Repeating
Here's something I've noticed about myself on this trip: every time I land somewhere new, my first instinct is that I don't like it. Charleston ruined me for life in the very best way, and I think some part of me keeps measuring every new place against it and finding it wanting — at first.
Then I explore, and everything shifts.
My advice, if you're the directionally challenged sort like me: be an early riser. Walk the town before anything opens. There's something about seeing a place empty and quiet that gives you its real shape — how the streets actually connect, where the shortcuts hide — so that when it wakes up and gets busy, you already know your way around.
I didn't do that in Savannah, and I paid for it. I got good and lost downtown before I'd even reached my Airbnb. Travel days do that to you — the unpacking, the trying to remember which bag has your phone charger, the sheer overwhelm of starting over in a new place. It piles up.
About Those Airbnbs
I wish I could tell you they'd all been wonderful. The truth is they've gotten a little rougher as the trip's gone on — though I think that's partly because Harrisonburg, Mount Pleasant, and Beaufort spoiled me rotten. Beaufort, especially, had the loveliest screened-in porch I've ever sat on — the kind that makes you understand why people fall in love with a place.
I picked this Fairhope rental because it promised a screened front porch and a cute little back porch. What I got was a screened porch full of cobwebs and stained furniture, at a higher price than my gorgeous Beaufort spot. (update: I contacted the host's about the spider webs - they came right out the next morning and it is now sparkling and lovely! I learned a lesson - it's okay to tell your host about an issue! I loathe being a complainer - except when I write, obviously! And had that issue never happened, I would have never met Sandy - who invited me to coffee and then to lunch and then to her home where I met her wonderful husband Tom and Dash, their four legged family member! Story to come on that!)
But that's the deal, isn't it? The journey isn't all sunshine and roses. It's also tropical storms, bugs, wrong turns, and disappointing porches — and rising to meet all of it anyway. My goal from here on: less private freakout, more cool, calm, and collected.
What Lila Taught Me, Without Even Trying
I'm currently reading a memoir by a local Fairhope writer — What Would Mamma Do — by a woman I met at Pages & Palette, the bookstore here in town. She's ninety-four years old. Her name is Lila Pennington Ryals, and within minutes of meeting me, she was insisting I put her address in my phone so I could come visit her at her cottage.
Ninety-four, and sharper than I am most days.
I started her book yesterday, and it recalibrated something in me fast. Whatever porch I'm complaining about, whatever wrong turn I made — it's nothing next to what she's lived through. Nothing compared to what the generations before all of us survived.
Sometimes it feels like we're living in doomed times. But this trip keeps reminding me: our country has weathered tremendous upheaval before, and we came through it. We always do.
It's not supposed to be an easy life. It's supposed to be a good one. And good doesn't mean easy — it means doing what you can to flourish when the weather's fair and the times are kind, and hunkering down, steady, when they're not — trusting that this too will pass.
I'll be sharing more soon, including the story of driving through Storm Bertha to reach Lila's cottage. It's a good one.
Until then —
Roll Tide!
— Birdie
