Rainbow Row in Charleston. Photo / Unsplash
From pastel-painted streets to cowboy hats forged by fire, Charleston reveals why Americans keep voting it their favourite small city, writes Ash Jurberg.
I watch flames leap from the top of my new cowboy hat, slightly worried it’ll be ruined, or worse, the shop will catch fire. Laura smiles at me. “Don’t worry, this just keeps the excess fur off the leather. I do this all the time.” An hour later, we’re seated at her hat bar drinking wine with several of her friends, and I’m wearing the hat. Thankfully, it’s no longer on fire.
This is Charleston, South Carolina. Condé Nast readers have voted it America’s best small city 14 of the last 15 years, yet most New Zealanders know little about it beyond the name. I’m here to see what we’re missing.
Our first night, we walk the streets expecting tourist crowds. Instead, the city feels quiet, refined. The houses, each one painted in pastels with historic plaques mounted beside the door, catch our attention every few metres. There are no modern concrete blocks, no template homes. As we head down the colourful Rainbow Row, each house tells a tale of who built it and who lived there. We make up stories about the original residents, imagining their lives. I keep thinking we’ll turn a corner and find the crowds, but they never appear.
Dinner is at Poogan’s Porch, a spacious home built in 1891 and converted to a restaurant a century later. Our server calls us “sir” and “ma’am” throughout the meal, her thick Southern accent making every dish description sound like her momma made it. She recommends the She Crab soup, a specialty from the Lowcountry, the coastal region of South Carolina.
“I don’t really like soup,” I say.
Her smile doesn’t waver. “You’ll like this one, sir.”
She’s right. The soup tastes smooth and creamy with delicate roe, rich without being heavy. I finish the entire bowl, which is rare for me. We also order fried green tomatoes (until now, just a movie title to me), Frogmore stew, fried chicken, and collard greens. Even my American wife hasn’t tried most of these dishes, and every plate is finished quickly.
The next morning, we join Al Miller for a bus tour exploring Charleston’s Gullah Geechee history. The Gullah Geechee are descendants of enslaved Africans who maintained their cultural traditions in the South Carolina Lowcountry, and Al is a certified guide, author, and lecturer who’s spent his life documenting their story. What becomes clear within the first 10 minutes is that he’s not just teaching history, he’s showing us his own.
Despite being the only people on his small bus tour, Al’s enthusiasm never wavers. As we drive, he teaches us some of the Gullah language, starting with a famous Gullah proverb.
“Every frog praise e own pond.” Everyone favours their own.
Al explains he’s a “Beenya”, someone native to Charleston, as opposed to a “Comeya”, a newcomer. He points out the church where he worships, the school he attended, houses where relatives once stayed. When we stop at a historic tenement building on Church Street, he explains this is where George Gershwin set Porgy and Bess, the 1935 opera about Charleston’s Black community. Al performed in a production of it.
He starts singing Ain’t Necessarily So, one of the show’s songs, his voice filling the bus. He pauses, decides we need to join in, and teaches us the words. My wife and I are hopelessly out of tune, but Al carries the melody while we stumble through. Luckily, there’s no video with this article.
After exploring Charleston’s streets and history for several days, I visit Southern Ruetz, a workshop where you design your own custom hat. Laura Voth quit her advertising career in 2022 to focus on making hats, which she’d started as a side project. When I walk in, she mentions she recently made a hat for Lainey Wilson, my favourite country artist, and I’m immediately convinced I’m in the right place.
My wife appoints herself fashion consultant as we sort through materials and styles. I show Laura a photo of my wedding suit, seersucker with light blue stripes. She disappears into the back room and returns with an old shirt in the exact colour and material, then proceeds to cut it up. I look alarmed, but she explains she sources materials from vintage stores and thrift shops, sometimes even adding bits of luxury handbags. The seersucker becomes a band around my hat, my initials are branded into the leather, and the whole process ends with a fire show.
It’s Friday afternoon, and Laura’s friends start dropping by. Within minutes, we’re all drinking wine together, swapping Charleston stories. They tell me their favourite spots: SNOB for dinner, small bars off King Street, where to find sweetgrass baskets made by Gullah artisans. I’ve known them for maybe two hours, but I feel like part of the group.
We go to SNOB that night, short for Slightly North of Broad, based on their recommendation. The name is a playful jab at Charleston’s social hierarchy, where the wealthy historically lived south of Broad Street. The owner moves from table to table, welcoming guests, and when he reaches us, we’re eating hot biscuits with butter that appear free at every Charleston restaurant we visit.
“Are you getting the shrimp and grits?” he asks.
I admit I don’t know what grits are. The owner stops, genuinely shocked. “You have to try it. We have the best in the city.” Not knowing what to expect, I agree. The plate arrives steaming. Grits that look like a cross between mashed potatoes and rice taste creamy and slightly sweet, with perfectly cooked shrimp on top. Our server checks back to make sure it lives up to the owner’s promise.
On our final night, bellies full of biscuits and grits, we arrive at Sounds of Charleston in the Circular Congregational Church. Bill Perry, who founded the concert series nearly 20 years ago, greets people at the door. When Bill hears my accent, his face lights up, and he gives us a warm welcome, beckoning us toward seats at the front, like we’re old friends. He’s so glad we came.
Inside, Gospel, Gullah, Gershwin and Civil War songs fill the church. Four days in Charleston, and strangers welcome us like we belong.
Americans have voted this their favourite small city for 14 of the past 15 years. The rest of us will catch on.
The writer travelled independently.