Anniversary 2

Charleston, South Carolina is a city where I was transformed. It was to Charleston that I fled the confines of my hometown to start a new life. In many ways, that experience was as traumatic as birth itself. But it was, ultimately, redeeming. I consider it to be the damn smartest, bravest thing I ever did.

The 14 months I spent there in 1995 were mostly in solitude, but I refused to allow that to keep me from enjoying it to the best of my ability. The great thing about Charleston is that even if you're flat-ass broke (which I was), you can still find something to do on the cheap. I'd stop at a roadside stand on my way to Folly Beach to grab a $2 bag of boiled peanuts and feed the seagulls. I'd go to the Market and buy a bag of warm pralines. I'd leash up Sparky (my cocker spaniel) and we'd spend hours upon hours mindlessly ambling along the streets of the historic area or the Battery, watching the tourists, the locals, the lovers. Charleston is, basically, the Paris of the South.

I'd go to Palmetto Islands County Park and walk on wooden pathways over tidal marshes and watch the crabs scramble in the marsh grass as I approached. I'd watch the great blue herons circle and land on sun-bleached tree branches. I'd drive along Sam Rittenberg toward I-26 and stick my head out the window to inhale that distinctive mix of fishy low-tide, the Westvaco paper mill downstream on the banks of the Cooper River, and pluff mud.

I remember on one particularly bad night, I went to the end of the pier at Waterfront Park, sat on a big square footing, and felt about as lonely and forgotten as a deathrow inmate, when suddenly I heard a "pppppffffffftttt." It was a dolphin breaking the surface of Charleston Harbor, swimming so close I could almost touch him. And I felt as if he were reassuring me, somehow, that this, too, shall pass.

That part of Charleston -- the part that simultaneously hurts and heals in my memories -- isn't something I share with everyone. Only special people. And it was here that, a year ago this weekend, I shared Charleston with Mr. G.

We had a marvelous dinner at Garibali: flash-fried flounder that, to this day, remains the most unforgettable meal I've ever had. We stayed at a beautiful bed and breakfast, in the nicest room in the house (thanks to my old friend who knows the owners). The room, decked out in Asian-inspired antiques, had a hot tub in the bathroom, which we used, but we made better use of the hot tub outside in the courtyard, where we talked. And talked. And talked. For three hours.

It was in that hot tub where Mr. G was somehow able to finally convince my stubborn, stubborn heart that I was "she," and I realized my life would be different. I could hardly wrap my mind around it.

That weekend, we kayaked the tidal creeks in a tandem, jokingly referred to as "divorce boats," as couples passed us by -- the men looking at us with scorn and the women with jealousy -- as Mr. G paddled happily, and as I lay back, feet up on the deck, inhaling, inhaling, inhaling.

Sigh...what a happy memory.