Savannah, GA

I'm checking into a hotel in Savannah when I get the call. 

The Police. 

It takes a minute for the officer to introduce himself and explain his business with me. In that minute, I recall every mildly illegal thing I've done in the last week. I'm busted.  For not paying parking tickets, for stealing wi-fi, for driving 100 mph through New Mexico, for all of the above. It's been a fun ride, but now it's coming to a screeching halt...

So it's a relief when he tells me he's with the San Diego Police Department, and they've located my Jeep. This is good news, though at the time, it's a bit inconvenient. I need to call my insurance company, the DMV, the tow yard, and a friend in San Diego to pick it up (which will require a signed and notarized letter, a copy of my driver's license, my keys, $229). Problem is, I'm in Georgia, dog tired. I've just walked 20 blocks into the wind and I just want a hot shower and a nap. 

I put my cares on hold long enough to get some rest, then hit the town again, looking to pick up some espresso, poach some wi-fi, make some calls. A short while later, my life is neatly stacked again and there's a city to see. I walk onto Broughton, through the Historic District, down Bay Street to the river. The Warehouse advertises 'the coldest, cheapest beer in town', which lures me in. 

A few cold, cheap beers later, I'm deep in conversation with a Gulfstream pilot from Munich who explains to me the differences in aerodynamics between the Leer, Citation, Falcon and Gulf Stream, the latter being the Rolls Royce of the sky, manufactured right here in Savannah, Georgia.  

On my way home, I pass a street musician who is playing the harmonica, drums and guitar simultaneously... with a kitchen pot on his head (Mr. Pothead is his stagename, and he introduces himself as such). I applaud him, tip him, and he expresses fatigue. "Wanna play one of these?" Absolutely. 

He hands me the guitar, we jam for a while, Petty, Marley, Dylan. Then he teaches me his hook, The Mr. Pothead Song. It's actually a catchy tune.  Crowds shuffle past, laugh a bit, tip. The crowd gets up in the 10-15 range a few times, and I feel like I'm playing Woodstock. This goes on for an hour, and it's a blast. A thank Mr. Pothead for allowing the cameo, and get on my merry way.

Mr. Pothead and Me

This morning, I'm back on Broughton watching the good people of Savannah walk to work. Tonight, Atlanta. I realize that it's a few hundred miles in the wrong direction, but friends and kicks are there, and I don't have anywhere to be for awhile.