Just be warned that if you do decide to eat here, you’ll have to stand in a two-block-long line soaking in your own sweat and the sweat of dozens of other tourists — all for a $16 plate of sloppy buffet food that tastes like a platter of melted butter and fried pig lard seasoned with a splash of racism and a dash of homophobia.
Because unless you’re in the Savannah History Museum, we can safely say that the bench you’re posing next to in Chippewa Square is not the one that Tom Hanks’ butt touched while delivering his famous “My momma always said, ‘Life was like a box of chocolates…’” spiel.
Of course, having people on the sidewalk yell “WRONG WAY!” is much less humiliating than the potential accident you’ve caused by driving mindlessly down one of Savannah’s many one-way streets. Believe it or not, road signs serve a purpose.
We know you think you’re being courteous by stopping in the middle of the square to let the other cars go first from the cross streets, but now you’ve effed everything up and probably have a trail of pissed off cars behind you. Also, not saying you should whizz around them for potentially plowing a pedestrian, but if you could avoid moving at a pace of someone with cinder blocks strapped to their feet to snap photos of steamboat gothic porches, that would be great.
Especially if that said Trolley Tour is going around a square. The trolleybuses are like those cars with cinder blocks but if they were also wading through quicksand against the wind with a massive hangover and a broken leg. Throw in a horse carriage that stops to ooh and aah at all the haunted houses – which is pretty much every building in the Historic District – and you’ve got yourself a recipe for one pissed off local who’s now late for work.
As the first planned city in America, Savannah is laid out in a perfect, flat series of grids fastened together by 22 historic squares. Not saying you’ll be chastised for asking for directions, but do you really need your nose perpetually shoved in that obnoxiously large map?
It’s like the zipper that keeps the city together. At least learn how to pronounce it.
Unless you’re accustomed to stumbling down 18th century cobblestones, your best bet would be to ditch the 5-inch heels – especially if your night involves alcohol. Otherwise, you may find yourself sprawled out in the middle of the street, nervously laughing while employees on their cigarette breaks shake their heads as you lie in a blue puddle of spilt Call A Cab.
Plastic cups are stacked on the corner of bars in the Historic District for a reason!
Just because you tried to play it off cool by asking the dude next to you if he has a spare cigarette doesn’t mean the whole street didn’t just witness you puking behind Sweet Melissa’s.
It wouldn’t be Savannah without live oaks draped in seductive Spanish moss, but please, for the love of god, don’t touch any of it. That selfie you took with moss all over your face isn’t so funny anymore after you find little red bugs feasting on your skin.
Don’t let the tourism industry suck you into this one — you’re going to look like a complete moron.
It’s inevitable that by 9am, you’ll probably have already made a complete ass of yourself. But hey, at least you’ve been humiliated along with 400,000 other people — all collectively sloshing cheap beer over green attire and throwing back two Ibuprofens with Irish Car Bombs by lunchtime to avoid the hangover by dinner.
C’mon. Get your shit together.