I spent my weekend in Charleston, visiting my son. All of us who live in South Carolina feel a kind of proprietary pride in Charleston. It’s a beautiful city. You can walk for blocks and blocks of beautiful 18th century and early 19th century houses, cobblestone and brick pavements, tiny slivers of a view into hidden gardens.
We had a sunny Saturday afternoon to take a long walk, and then a rainy Sunday morning. The slate sidewalks were slick with rain and empty. We met the occasional dog walker, but going by the Sunday papers lying on the sidewalks, most people were enjoying some extra sleep. Hardly a car in sight; no tourist carriages out yet (although the streets did hold a lingering smell of horse droppings); the occasional clang of a church bell. We strolled down Tradd Street, peeking into gardens and unshuttered windows, making our walk last as long as possible before the rain came down in earnest, knocking flower petals down to make abstract spatters on the slate.