Savannah's iconic squares, draped in Spanish moss. Photo / Ash Jurberg
Home to Forrest Gump’s iconic bus bench, Savannah may be a small city, but it’s one of America’s friendliest, writes Ash Jurberg.
“Life is like a box of chocolates.”
I say it in my best Forrest Gump voice while standing in Chippewa Square in Savannah, Georgia. The spot where Tom Hanks sat on a bench and told strangers his life story.
My wife Cece stares at me.
“You never know what you’re gonna get.”
She still doesn’t respond, which only encourages me.
Savannah is one of America’s most filmed cities, and Forrest Gump is perhaps its most famous production. Once you arrive, you understand why. Everything here looks like it was built for a camera, except people actually live in it.
Cece is American, grew up in Texas, and has travelled her own country her whole life. She had never considered Savannah until I suggested a quick trip before visiting her parents for Christmas.
At our bed and breakfast, the owner Nino meets us at the front door with fresh coffee and snacks. His place has three bedrooms, one of them his, and we eat at his dining table while he cooks in the kitchen.
Before we’ve even finished our coffee, he has a map out, listing restaurants and bars with the urgency of someone worried we might eat at the wrong place.
But first, we explore on foot.
“Walk everywhere. There are 22 squares, and you’ll find something new in every one,” Nino says.
The walk passes through Forsyth Park, where a white fountain sprays beneath a canopy of oaks and locals sit reading on benches. Then the squares begin, each shaded by live oaks heavy with Spanish moss and connected by paths that lead from one to the next.
Every block has a plaque, a statue, or an old house with a story mounted beside its door. We pass one of the oldest Black churches in America, colourful houses with shutters in blues and greens, and doorways that look like they haven’t changed in 200 years.
Halfway along a quiet block, Cece grabs my arm, staring at a sign on a handsome old house. It is the birthplace of Juliette Gordon Low, founder of the Girl Scouts of the USA.
Cece joined Girl Scouts as a kid in Texas. She stands on the footpath telling me about her troop, the badges she earned, the camping trips she still remembers. Cece had no idea the founder was from Savannah.
Around the corner, we find a museum dedicated to Low, then a statue.
I have travelled to dozens of countries with Cece, and never seen her this excited about a statue. She poses beside each one without being asked. Every tour for the day is full.
The next day, we take a trolley tour to make sense of everything we have already walked past.
Our guide, Twila, is a woman in her late 60s with a thick Southern drawl. I expect a straight-laced history lesson. What I get is closer to stand-up comedy. She tells stories about the families who built these grand old houses, who lived in them, who lost them, waving at porches like she knows the people inside.
Savannah, Twila adds, is one of America’s most haunted cities, and the next 10 minutes are dedicated to proving it. Ghost tour plans for that evening are immediately cancelled.
As we turn onto Jones Street, often called the prettiest street in America, she slows down.
“Now, the phrase ‘keeping up with the Joneses’ comes from right here,” she says, gesturing at the houses lining both sides.
“Wealthy residents trying to outdo each other.” She pauses and raises an eyebrow. “At least that’s the story.”
The houses do look like they are competing. Each one grander than the last, sitting behind iron fences under thick canopies of oak. Whether the Joneses’ story is true barely matters. A bit of Forrest Gump has crept into the locals and their storytelling, and I love it.
That evening, Nino’s cocktail recommendation takes us to the Lost Square.
The rooftop bar is open year-round, but in winter they set up two yurts, cosy and lit with fairy lights, while the terrace stays open to the crisp night air.
I’ve booked one of the yurts. Inside, cocktails in hand, the city is lit up below, and the squares glow between the oaks.
.
On our last night, another recommendation takes us to the Cotton Exchange, a restaurant on the riverfront in an old cotton factory.
Our waiter suggests we share a low-country boil. For anyone who hasn’t tried one, it’s a Southern tradition. Shrimp, corn on the cob, spicy sausage, and potatoes, all boiled together with spices and often tipped out onto the table in a pile.
I reach for my cutlery. “You eat with your hands,” our waiter says.
“It’s tradition.” No wonder Nino insisted we eat here.
Cece has been to plenty of boils at backyard gatherings in Texas.
The Savannah version, she tells me, is different. Lighter on the seasoning, heavier on the shrimp, less intense than what she grew up with.
“This is better,” she says. “I’m so glad we came here.”
She pauses. “This might be one of my favourite places in America.”