I've been over the Ravenel Bridge in every incarnation--sweaty and jubilant on foot with thousands of other runners and flying on the back of a motorcycle on a foggy night. Then there's nights like tonight: after a long, lazy dinner on Sullivan's, soaring over the Bridge with open windows and the blurry breeze, sighing to the sounds of Jeff Buckley's falsetto notes and seeing my city of dreams all glittering on the edges of the water below--it makes you feel both young and timeless.
There's just something about this place. I complain about the sweltering heat, the tourists, the floods. But then when you feel the city's warm breath on the nape of your neck--the lazy, knowing way the heat wraps itself around you--it's nothing but seductive. Charleston may appear buttoned down under layers of seersucker, but underneath it's all dirty words and gin-soaked breath. And I can't get enough.