Which, in my own strange way, I am, after two weeks in the same bed, waking to the same birds outside the same window.
Savannah is a near-three hour drive to the Atlantic coast from Augusta. A port town. A pirate town. Rhett Butler’s town.
A late lunch of ‘wild’ Georgia shrimp in a stale po’boy roll (clearly they weren’t countin’ on an Aussie who knows a fresh prawn when she bites down on one), down by the old docks on River Street, cobbled and dressed up for tourists, its shops stacked sky high with the same stuff you find in tourist shops all over the world – only these clothes and trinkets were stamped ‘Savannah’.
We cross the Savannah River, wide and brown, the same river I walked beside in Augusta with Harry and Mee-shu in tow, spilling now at journey’s end into the sea.
My publisher, Lucinda, makes several U-turns as we make our way to the station. I have learned after two weeks’ in her passenger seat that she has a penchant for U-turns. Happy circles.
We pull in. We unload my bag. We hug. I walk to the front door and wave her off.
I am leaving home.
Heading north to my future.
North, to New York City.