Exodus VII: The Final Farewell

When I graduated from Ohio University and had to drive away from Athens, I sobbed like a baby on the car ride back to Toledo. I sobbed so hard, in fact, that I saw spots and felt like I was going to pass out. And I hadn’t cried a day before that day. When everyone else was hugging and shedding their tears, I remember standing there, wondering what was so sad. When I finally had to leave the place I’d called home for the best years of my life (to that point), I had a total meltdown because it was finally REAL. I finally understood that I was leaving Athens—the school, the city, the people—and I was not coming back.

This all sounds very overdramatic and it is, because I did (and do) go back to Athens whenever I could. I still see all my college friends three times a year, and when we’re together, it feels like we’re back at Ohio University. Like no time has passed. So now, here I am, my last day in Charleston, South Carolina, following the best years of my life (to THIS point), and I’m leaving in the morning. Before I get to jump a plane to Phoenix, AZ, I have to drive with my parents to Jacksonville, FL, where my flight awaits. And I have an inkling the drive tomorrow will look and feel a lot like the drive from Athens to Toledo, back in 2004. Once again, my parents will be with me. Once again, I bet my mom will be crying. And once again, I will be leaving a city and people I love.

However, similarities aside, this is a very different departure. When I left Athens, things were uncertain. I had just graduated from college, and I was now supposed to find a “real” job. Many of my high schools friends didn’t live in Toledo anymore, so who was I going to hang with? Who would be my support? And who wanted to live in TOLEDO, anyway?

What will they do without me?

Tomorrow, as I leave Charleston, things are not so uncertain. I’m not worried about finding a job, because I have freelance—fully booked. I’m not worried about finding friends, because thanks to Charleston, I have learned that there are truly amazing, wonderful, compassionate people everywhere…if you know where to look. And finally, I’m not worried about support or someone to hang with. For the first time in my life, I have love waiting, in a city where I have never been. I have Jake waiting, but he will not be waiting much longer.

To sum up the past three weeks, I will recap my top ten list of things to do in Charleston. Did I do them all?
1) Walk the Battery. DONE.
2) Pralines at River Street Sweets on Market. DONE.
3) Oyster Shooters at Pearlz, East Bay. DONE. (Several times over.)
4) She Crab Soup at Mistral. DONE.
5) Burger at Poe’s Tavern, Sullivan’s Island. DONE.
6) Beach Walk at Sunrise, Sullivan’s Island. DONE.
7) Glass of wine at Social, East Bay. DONE.
8 ) Dollar on the Wall at Griffon Pub, Vendue Street. DONE. (See picture.)
9) Manhattan at Charleston Grill, featuring Quentin Baxter. NOT done.
10) Bar Dancing, Market Street Saloon. NOT done.

As you can see, I did pretty well. That being said, I didn’t have the chance to do two of the things on my top ten list. In this way, Charleston, SC, is also like Athens, OH. Someday, I have to finish my list. That means, someday, I will be back to the Lowcountry. She worked her magic on me, and I do hope I left something of myself behind for her to treasure.

And with that, I leave you for now. My Exodus is complete, and I will arrive in Phoenix tomorrow night, where Jake will pick me up at the airport, hold me, kiss me, and hopefully, never stop. Farewell, Chucktown. Know that somewhere, in the desert out west, a Midwestern girl will always love you.

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Exodus VI: Call Me Phoenician

The other day, I bought one of those Frommer’s travel guides about Arizona. I’ve been trucking along through the 474 pages, writing little notes about things to do and places to see. The more notes I write, the more I realize—Arizona is FULL of crazy, exciting things to do.

Bright Angel Trail. Oww...my CALVES.

Now, I knew this already, because growing up, my parents would take Matt and me along on out-of-this-world family vacations. For instance, I have a very, very vivid memory of my father and me, hiking the Grand Canyon. We decided to do the Bright Angel Trail, down to Indian Garden. Nine miles round-trip in the summer; 3,000 feet below the rim of the Grand Canyon. By the end, I thought I was going to die, and I swear, that red sand took about a week to wash off.

Just because I’ve hiked half the national parks in the four corners states does not mean I know anything about the culture. It also doesn’t mean I know anything about Phoenix. I don’t. But since I’ll be there Thursday as a RESIDENT, I’m working on it. There are some negatives…

1) They say the smog in Phoenix is as bad as Los Angeles. And to think, I was hoping the desert air would HELP my horrible sinus problems.

2) Tarantulas and scorpions. If you need me to explain why these are negatives, go try and pet one.

3) The months of May and June have one day of rain each year on average. So I really AM moving to a dry climate.

4) Flash flooding. Arizona is known for crazy, sudden thunderstorms and dangerous flash floods. I don’t know if I can truly call this a negative, though, because I’ve been living in Charleston for almost two years now, and well, I’ve watched waves break on the doorway of my favorite downtown pub.

Having said all this, there are things about Arizona that thrill the heck out of me. Case in point…

1) PRICKLY PEAR CACTUS MARGARITAS! Seriously? Woohoooooo!

2) Saguaros (pronounced sa-hwah-ro). Picture a stereotypical cactus—the kind you used to draw when you were a kid and someone told you to draw a cactus—and you’re picturing a saguaro. These monsters only grow in the Arizona desert, and they can get to be up to fifty feet tall! PLUS they bloom! And they’ll be blooming right around the time I get settled!

3) I can wear cowboy boots and say things like “yee-haw” and no one will think I’m weird…beyond Jake, I guess, but he already knows I’m weird.

4) My favorite Western, Tombstone, was filmed two hours from Phoenix. The actual city—Tombstone—isn’t too far away! I mean, that’s COOL!

5) Sidewalk Egg-Frying Challenge. Contestants use mirrors and other devices and have to fry an egg in the Arizona sun in fifteen minutes. Where else on earth would they have an actual festival to celebrate this kind of bonehead behavior? And no, I wouldn’t miss it.

6) Finally, I’ll be called a “Phoenician.” That’s one syllable less than “Charlestonian.” So I’m saving energy out west.

For me, Arizona is one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen on earth. I love the dry heat. I love the red sand. I love the FOOD. Most of all, I love Jake. The countdown has begun. I fly out Thursday. Did I mention packing is a pain in my hide? Excuse me, but I gotta go hang out with my luggage for the next, oh, three days…

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Exodus V: I’ll Never Be as Good as Matt Dobie

My little brother plays Neil Young the way Neil Young wishes he could play Neil Young, and I taught him everything he knows. Ha. Kidding. I attempted to become a guitar player when I was in junior high. I lasted a couple months. Then, Matt picked up my discarded acoustic guitar, and well, at the age of 23, he’s been playing for about fifteen years. On and off, we play together. He rocks out on guitar; I do some wailing on vocals. It’s a semi-Partridge Family situation, without the bar haircuts and bell-bottoms.

The Exodus Series is about me leaving Charleston and moving to Phoenix. So what does my brother have to do with any of this, you ask? Matt moved to Charleston back in October. He did not specifically move here to be near me; he moved here because he likes Charleston and he likes my friends. (Luckily, Matt also likes Jake, but that’s a whole other story…) Anyway, he moved here, and it was a great comfort to me, because Matt and I have always been close—more like best buds than siblings. He moved here. He met my friends. He became accustomed to my haunts (Griffon Pub on Vendue, in particular), and then, he became accustomed to the music scene.

And he decided to walk in and take over the entire operation.

Little Dobes. Guitar god.

At present, he runs an open mic night in West Ashley, SC, but it’s more like a Matt Dobie showcase. It’s not like most open mics, where a bunch of talentless yahoos play acoustic covers of Coldplay. No, Matt’s open mic is comprised of a full band—drums, guitar (electric and acoustic), bass, vocals—and anyone can do it. For instance, the first time I went to see him, I ended up singing. That was also the night when an old man walked up to my brother, pointed at him, and said, “I want to play music with YOU, kid.” And they did. Johnny Cash. Neil Young. Blues. Jazz. All the good stuff. And I was reminded that my little brother is truly a fantastic musician.

I’m not the only one who acknowledges this. Other musicians who’ve seen him play often end up saying he’s a “guitar god.” Guys twice his age shake their heads and wonder how a kid so young could be so dang talented. Even I do embarrassing dance moves and toe taps every time he goes into a screaming guitar solo. It’s impossible not to. And I—a vocalist who is intimidated by nothing—often fear being outshined by my younger sibling. This, of course, is an elder sister’s nightmare. That being said, I know there is no hope for me on stage. Matt will always be better than me. He will always be better than a lot of people.

Last week, he covered Tom Waits’ “Train Song.” The lyrics:

I remember when I left
Without bothering to pack
You know I up and left with
Just the clothes I had on my back
Now I’m sorry for what I’ve done
And I’m out here on my own
Well it was a train that took me away from
Here but a train can’t bring me home

I can’t listen to the song anymore, because it makes me cry. First off, I cry because my brother is better than Waits, yet Waits’ version is the only recording I have. Secondly, I cry because perhaps the worst thing about leaving Charleston is leaving my brother. Like trains passing in the night, we keep missing each other. As soon as I graduated from Ohio University, Matt began his freshman year. Now, as soon as we found a city to share, I’m leaving it.

I know Matt and me will play music together many, many more times in the coming years. For now, I just gotta tell him: Sorry I gotta head west, kiddo. Keep playing that Neil Young, and next time we’re together, we’ll rock some “Helpless” by Neil Young, because we know that Mom and Dad love it.

If you’re in Chucktown, here’s the website for the bar where little Dobes kicks some guitar ass every Saturday night: http://www.rpubonline.com/. If you wanna here my meager vocal stylings, check out my MySpace music page: myspace.com/sarasingstheblues.

The Dobies. An anti-Partridge Family.

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Exodus IV: Crazy Little Thing Called Love

If you wanna know the truth, Jake and I met purely by chance. And it almost didn’t happen. Per Exodus I, you know we met at Burn’s Alley and we ended up at Waffle House, but that’s not really how this started. This started with my roommate, Hannah.

Hannah is a volleyball player. She’s built for the sport—tall, lean, and muscular—and she’s damn good at it. We were on the beach at Sullivan’s Island one hotter-than-hell day in August, and this blond guy walked up and asked if anyone wanted to play volleyball. Hannah said “YES!” I said, “I’d rather just lay here.” So Hannah met Vince; Vince was Jake’s best friend.

Jake and me. The night we met. (Lower left hand corner.)

Now, despite the fact that Jake was also playing volleyball at the beach that day, I didn’t meet him for another week, and that was at Burn’s Alley. We did have fun that night, and he did get my number. Then, he didn’t call for awhile and I was kind of disappointed, because I’d had fun with the guy. I shrugged it off, though, because if it wasn’t meant to be, it wasn’t meant to be. Then, since Hannah was dating Vince at the time, I came to learn that Jake was only here on vacation, and he didn’t want to get involved with some chick named Sara because he didn’t want to end up hurting some chick named Sara. So be it.

But he did call. And well, I’m moving to Arizona with him on February 25th. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?

First, lemme explain Jake’s “vacation.” He’d just gotten out of the navy in July, and for the rest of the summer, all he wanted was fun. He came down to Charleston to visit Vince (a fellow US Navy dude), and after Charleston, Jake planned to go on a road trip across the country to visit other friends and family. We went on our first date about three weeks after he got to South Carolina. He never left. He stayed at Vince’s house. He slept on an inflatable mattress, and he wore the clothes that he’d brought in his suitcase. For five months.

There were several times when I (being a flakey female) requested additional information. When Jake started applying for jobs outside of South Carolina, I wanted to know, “Well, what am I supposed to do?” <sob, sob> to which Jake would respond, “We’ll just see what happens. Things will happen the way they’re supposed to.” When Jake came home for Christmas, my friends wanted to know, “Well, if you get a job in Illinois/North Carolina/BFE, what are you going to do with Sara?” to which he responded (smart ass comments that decorum prevents me from posting here). And yet, through all the questions, we knew. We had an understanding that God had a plan and was taking care of stuff.

So when Jake got the job in Arizona, we looked at each other and asked, “Is this the plan? Is this how it’s supposed to work out?” With little hesitation, Jake took the job. With no hesitation, he asked me to move with him. And with a resounding “YES!” I agreed to move to Phoenix, just like Hannah had agreed to play volleyball all those months ago.

I love Jake; Jake loves me. I have never doubted him, and I’m pretty sure he puts a lot of faith in our relationship. And it almost never happened. Hannah takes credit for Jake and me. I let her keep the credit, because she certainly did have a lot to do with it at the beginning, and this credit makes her smile.

However, there’s a part of me that believes Jake and I would have met regardless of volleyball. We could have met before, in fact. When I was at Ohio University, Jake dated a girl that went to Ohio University. She lived on Union, three blocks from my apartment on Court Street. Two years later, Jake attended a wedding in downtown Toledo, Ohio—my hometown—back in the days when I used to go out downtown all the time. And yet, it was far from both of our homes, in Charleston, South Carolina, when we finally met. And fell stupid for each other.

I know it’s Valentine’s Day. Couples everywhere are squeezing into packed restaurants and sharing heart-shaped chocolates. Singles everywhere are doing shots, smoking cigarettes, and screaming “F@#% Valentine’s Day!” No matter where you fit in this mix, we all know what today is about: LOVE.

I don’t know much about love in the philosophical sense. I know how much I love Jake. I know that, after thirty years, my parents still make kissy faces at each other, and I know that my married friends like to say, “When love is right, it’s easy.” But like I said, I’m not a philosopher. I will tell you this: it was a long road, getting to Jake—through Athens, Toledo, and finally Charleston. Through years of terrible relationships and men who liked to let me down. But I found him. Finally. On his vacation that never stopped.

The week before he headed to Arizona to find us a house, he told me: “I think the reason I came to Charleston was to meet you and take you with me.” You know, babe, I think you’re right.

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.

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Exodus, Part III: My Jaws Phobia

The ocean is evil. Or so I thought. For twenty-five years.

Having been raised in Ohio, all I knew about the ocean was based specifically on Jaws and Discovery Channel’s Shark Week. Roy Scheider’s “You’re gonna need a bigger boat” was enough to make me say uh-uh—that body of water is baaaad news—and I existed happily in my land-locked existence for a quarter of a century. I realize the ocean is pretty. It makes nice noises. And yes, even I wanted to run naked down the beach after watching the music video for Chris Issak’s “Wicked Game.” But there was no way I was getting in the water.

Then, I moved to Charleston, SC, and when I was first offered the job down here, I had no idea Charleston was on the ocean. It is. I mean, it’s ON the ocean. It could very well be the next sinking city, like Venice. We’re built below the flood plain, and when it rains, the tide breaks on the stoop of the Griffon Pub on Vendue Street. So there I was, a chick with a phobia of dark water, and I was moving to a place filled with the stuff. I did seek out the ocean on my first day here. I met my prospective coworkers. I ate a burger at Poe’s Tavern. Then, I said, “Point me to the water!” As if I couldn’t smell it. When you’re near the beach in Charleston, salt crystals practically plug your nose. That first day, I walked beside the sea. I touched my toe in the white foam, and I enjoyed the breeze and the mansions on Sullivan’s Island. But I didn’t go swimming.

I did go swimming at an employee party. We were out in Charleston harbor on a speed boat, and everyone just kind of jumped in the water. Seriously, they just jumped in, as if a huge great white shark wasn’t about to bite off their toes. They waved up at me, saying things like “Come in”… “The water’s fine.” I thought about it. I looked at my coworkers, and I decided I could out-swim at least a couple of them. Sharks go after the slowest and weakest, right? So I jumped in, and I rolled into a little ball. I’ve seen the movies, okay? I didn’t want to lose one of my legs. I got out about two minutes later, and I called my dad when I got home. I told my father what I’d done, and he said, “What’s WRONG with you? Are you INSANE?” This coming from a man who would later…well, I’m getting to that.

Since that first salty tumble, I’ve become a water baby. If the waves are rockin,’ I’m the first one in. In the old days, I used to wade in up to my knees, and that was only if there were other people swimming farther out. (Again, Jaws would get them first, right?) Now, I’m addicted to body-surfing. I know exactly when to jump to get the best ride in, and I know how to avoid being smashed into the beach at the end. I’ve gone sailing, and yes, I’ve done graceful swan dives into choppy surf from the bow of a boat. I have even gone swimming at night. After seeing a show at the Windjammer on Isle of Palms, my gal pals and me stripped down to nothing—at 2 o’clock in the morning—and wallowed in the pitch-blackness of the sea. Yes, father, your daughter is insane.

That being said, I haven’t told you the worst part. I told you I was getting to it; here it is. When my parents were visiting last summer, Dad and me were walking down the beach. Something moved to our left, and we both paused long enough to see a baby SHARK struggling in the tide. The baby SHARK got loose and shot off down the beach. We looked at each other. This was an important moment. Would we run away back to Ohio, screaming and waving our hands in the air, or would we…go swimming? My father and I went swimming. When we got out, he turned to me. “Well, at least we didn’t lose a leg,” he said, and I realized, screw the sharks. Screw Jaws, and screw Shark Week. The ocean was no longer evil. The ocean was, in fact, one of my favorite places to be.

Now, I’m leaving it. I’m leaving the ocean for desert, and it’s funny because this is what my friends seem most concerned about. Not about me moving to a new place where I don’t know anyone. Not about me finding work or a LIFE PURPOSE. No, they just ask, “What about the ocean?” I tell them it’s not going anywhere. Oh, and did I mention San Diego is a seventy-buck plane ride from Phoenix?

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Exodus, Part II: A Charleston Top Ten List

Jake's lilies

Jake hit the road two hours ago. This morning, we packed his car full of stuff. He surprised me with tiger lilies, artfully arranged in an empty Macallan 12 bottle from his birthday. We shared a five minute hug. I cried melted, black mascara on his sweatshirt, and after a couple “I love you’s,” I shoved him out my front door for fear of a total meltdown.

This isn’t the end of the world. He’s just heading to Phoenix to get ready for his new job, to find us a house, and to settle in, before flying back to Charleston in three weeks to pick me up and do the drive west once more. It just felt like the end of the world, because we’ve never been apart for three weeks. It also felt strange, walking around his house this morning, one last time. His house—the place where we built a relationship. Where we spent so many nights making dinner together. So many mornings watching ESPN. So many moments laughing and looking toward a future.

Jake’s house in Charleston is just a place. Charleston, South Carolina, is just a place. However, it’s strange leaving the places we know. Leaving a place is like leaving a person—you have to touch the doorknobs, look out the windows, and hug the garage door, because it will be a long time (or perhaps, forever) before you see that place again. In the spirit of saying farewell to Jake’s house, I now have approximately three weeks to say farewell to Charleston. In homage, I have made the following list: Top Ten Things to do Before I Leave Chucktown.

The most beautiful house on the Charleston Battery

1. DONE: Walk the Battery. I walked the Charleston Battery within four hours of moving here a year and a half ago, and it had a lot to do with my immediate infatuation with the place. Jake requested to do the same once more before heading west. We did it the other day, which is where the pretty pics in this entry come from.

2. DONE: Pralines at River Street Sweets on the Market. Walking down Market Street, you can smell praline. They make ‘em fresh, right in front of you, at River Street Sweets, and they give you samples—warm, sweet, succulent, DECADENT. I dare you to have more than one.

Pralines at River Street Sweets

3. DONE: Oyster shooters at Pearlz, East Bay. I feared oysters until I moved to Charleston. Now, I’m obsessed. The oyster shooters at Pearlz are made with Absolut Peppar, cocktail sauce, fresh ground pepper, and a raw oyster. I will have as many of these as my body is able within the next three weeks.

4. DONE: She Crab Soup at Mistral, Market Street. She Crab Soup is a Lowcountry thing, just like New England Clam Chowder is an east coast thing. It’s rich, it’s heavy, it’s terrible for you, and it’s a must-have. Mistral is not only a charming restaurant—it has the best She Crab Soup in town.

5. Burger at Poe’s Tavern, Sullivan’s Island. Poe’s will put anything on a burger, from guacamole, to chili, to egg, to goat cheese. Go get one, medium rare, and have a Corona while you think about the beach, a block down the road.

6. DONE: Beach walk at sunrise, Sullivan’s Island. Speaking of beach, I was once scared of the ocean. Now, I know leaving the ocean will be the hardest part about leaving Charleston. I will miss the smell, the sound, and the feel of the waves. It’s gonna be rough turning my back on the sea.

7. Glass of wine at Social, East Bay. I love the smell of Social. I love the lighting. I love the wine list. I have spent many, MANY nights at the Social bar. I have built many memories there. I need just one more.

8. Dollar on the wall at Griffon, Vendue Street. Griffon is a pub, off the beaten path. I’m a regular. Dollar bills cover the walls, ceilings, doorways, and windowpanes. Patrons have hung these dollar bills, after adding their own personal touches. Jake put one up before he left for Phoenix. I already have one on the walls, too—added when a good friend of mine from Ohio came to visit. I need to add another one, saying farewell to this Holy City.

9. Manhattan at Charleston Grill, featuring Quentin Baxter, King Street and Market. I’m a whiskey fan; I’m a jazz fan. Therefore, I just gotta head to Charleston Grill one more time for a Maker’s Mark Manhattan and for Quentin Baxter’s jazz drum.

10. Bar dancing, Market Street Saloon. I like dancing on bars. Got a problem with it?

So. I’ve already completed two of these tasks. More to follow, as the Exodus continues. Wish me luck. Now, it’s just me. I will be Jake-less for the next three weeks as the adventure rolls on.

Mill Street Hotel. Chucktown.

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Exodus, Part I: Moving to Arizona

Chucktown

There’s an old adage: “If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.” Two years ago, I never planned to get a job in Charleston, SC. I didn’t plan to eventually hate/quit that job. I did not plan to meet a damn good lookin’ man one random Friday at Burn’s Alley. And I didn’t plan that six months later, I would move to Phoenix, Arizona.

Did you get all that? In one month, I am moving to Phoenix, AZ, with the man I love.

Since May of 2008, I have lived and breathed Charleston. I knew I loved the city as soon as I set foot on Rainbow Row. I fell in love with the seafood, the bars, the jazz, and the huge houses with huge porches. I realized, the more time I spent wandering along the beaches of Sullivan’s Island and the historic streets off East Bay and Broad, that I could become a lifer—a northerner who, like many before had “found Heaven” in the Lowcountry, destined to grow old and one day sip warm Grand Marnier on a decrepit porch swing in the Battery.

But who would be with me?

I’ve always joked about growing old with my girl friends—saying we’d be the cougars hitting on young boat owners at Red’s on Shem Creek or maybe even the college guys at AC’s on King. We’ll stick together forever and be sexy, single bitches well into our sixties. We like making these jokes, because in general, the men we have met don’t make us happy. I’ve been of the opinion that it’s not good to meet guys in bars. It’s not good to give out your number to the drunk guy playing pool and actually expecting him to call and offer anything other than cheap liquor and perhaps, an ill-advised sleepover.

Then, I met Jake. At a bar called Burn’s Alley. Playing pool. He liked the way I could sing, and I liked that he could make me laugh. We stayed at the bar until close. Then, we went to Waffle House. Then, we talked music over his laptop, with his roommate’s annoying ankle-biter barking and licking my toes. Then, he got my number, and he didn’t call for more bar-hopping and cheap breakfast at 3 AM. He called for a date. Remember? Those things where you get dressed up and go out to dinner and get to know each other? An actual date. And he made me happy; he still does every day.

Six months after that first date, I’m looking out the window of my apartment in Mt. Pleasant, SC. The sky is blue. It’s a little chilly for this late in January, and the grass is showing no sign of spring green. When I close my eyes, I can already see the red desert. I can already see cactuses in between the palm trees. I can see me and Jake.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m not there yet. This is only Exodus, Part I.

Me, Charleston Harbor, 2009

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