May I draw near?

May I draw near?  Welcome and step into my night. Just after dusk in French Quarter Charleston where the Ashley and Cooper rivers join and flow past Southern tradition into the Atlantic  So much history here as seen in the corbels, cornices, and iron balcony that decorates the recreated pink stucco Mills House, my quarters along Meeting Street. It bustles with a wedding party celebrating in the Best Friends Lounge and on the pool deck even as other guests spill out to low country restaurants, galleries, clotheries, and, of course, history.

This evening I decided on 167 Raw Oyster Bar, a cobblestoned zig and zag away.  A short wait outside for my bar seat is aided by a friendly concierge and his recommended tulip of Revelry Poke the Bear Pale Ale.  At the bar a couple, who met on a dating app, adopt me. Once I see the algorithm working as their chemistry’s match, I cheerfully decline their further southern hospitality and turn to the chalkboard listing of oyster selections.  I had no idea: salinity, region, size. I settle on Rhode Island oysters, specifically Island Creek, Watch Hill, Moonstone and Ninigrets. Each is delicious straight up or anointed in a curry infused oil.

I am intrigued by an entree named Shrimp Toast. I order it. It is wonderful. Shrimp nestled in a flavorful tomato reduction mounded on an absorbant slice of pumpernickel. I vow to recreate it once home.  Toward the end of my dining I am again embraced by a young couple. These southerners. We chat and laugh and then depart. Until this weekend I had grown weary of urban haunts. Too familiar. Too geometric. My eyes needed new horizons. Yet, even as I avoided  the plentiful horse drawn carriage tours, I fell in love again with the charm of this town.

Night leads to day.  Holy Smokes is this town's bike share. So, all day today on a powder-green basketed bike I pedaled the by ways of this low country kingdom inhaling hints of brackish fresh water and taking rest from time to time in brick walled gardens lined in live oaks.