I don’t know what I expected from Savannah.

I didn’t do any research, didn’t read any articles, never spoke to anyone who traveled here before. I knew nothing about the town other than where it was located on a map, that a round-trip ticket from DC was all of $99, and I wanted to go here for like, forever. I don’t know why.

I asked a few people if they wanted to come with me. When I got the, “OH-EM-GEE that would be so awesome!” I was like, bitch, you’re never gonna buy a ticket, and bought it on my own.

Two friends—my friends Mike and Tara—told me traveling by myself was something I just HAD to do. I didn’t imagine it could be any different than my regular life. Come on, I work from HOME. The longest conversation I have each day is with my barista, and she doesn’t even ask what I order anymore.

This is the first time I sat down to see if anything worth reading would somehow pour out of me.

And it’s my second-to-last day here. I landed Monday night, walked around a bunch, got on a manicure to salvage what’s left of my nails, ate pizza from the #1 Google result when I typed in best pizza in Savannah.

Tuesday I just started walking. Savannah has twenty-two gardens spread across the historic district, and I must have hit like, sixty percent of them. I went shopping for the first time in a year. [Exception: When I rip out the crotch of my jeans, which happens every six-to-nine months on repeat.]

I bought a book. I binge-read that book. Tuesday night through 10PM yesterday, all I did was walk a few blocks, sit down and read. Go to a coffee shop, sit down and read.

I went out to dinner by myself both Tuesday and Wednesday night.

Both times, I sat at the bar alone. Both times, I placed my order, flipped my phone over so I wouldn’t use it as a crutch, and pulled my book out.

Both nights, I left without paying for my drinks.

I was eating tacos and drinking margs on Tuesday when the bartender slid a receipt toward me. On the back it read, By the way, you’re drinks are on the house. Why? Because there’s nothing better than a girl who reads. (I’m paraphrasing that last part. I swear it wasn’t dirty).

Wednesday: I went to a rooftop bar, ordered chips, guac, and a merlot, and pulled open my book. I was on my second glass when the bartender told me my drinks were paid for by a guy at the end of the bar. He left with his friends before I could go over and say thank you.

Excuse me what the fuck did I miss here.

Was I supposed to physically stand up and go over and talk words with these people?

Because I really did just want to read my book. And I did not want to make eye contact with human beings. I’m such a baby.

And now that I’m sitting here typing this, I feel sort of shitty I didn’t stand up and say something. That kind of thing takes guts. My friend Mere and I joke every-other day that we have zero clue how to meet guys “organically.” I can swipe right on a guy, meet him out, put my RBF away and put my charming face on—because that’s what you’re SUPPOSED to do. I had no idea people still walked up to strangers in random places, without planning to meet that stranger at that particular place and time.

Like, people still interact with each other in public? Who knew.

Remember how I said I wasn’t sure what I wanted out of this trip?

I didn’t necessarily want to make plans, but I didn’t want to leave wishing I had done something, either. So I typed myself up a little list:

• Have a conversation with a complete stranger
• Get a tan
• Go to a different coffee shop every day
• Do one historical thing per day
• Write a blog post for fun
• Try a fitness studio

THAT WAS MY CHANCE.

I’m not living or dying by this list or anything—it took me precisely 32 seconds to write—but come ON.

One thing I wanted was for this trip to be more a retreat than a vacation.

I didn’t want to be tired (read: hungover) any day I was here. I actually considered not drinking at all. I also didn’t want to feel like I had to do anything.

I think one reason why today is the first time I actually sat down to type anything is because I associate writing with work. Even though it’s something I love to do, going to a coffee shop and pulling open my Mac is what signals my workday. I think that’s the same reason I left my camera in my hotel room ninety percent of the time. I spend so many hours editing photos, I lost the urge to take any here.

I’m not sure if I’ll finish my list. I have had zero desire to workout all week, although I’ve ran a few miles and fifted each day (fifted=fake lifted). I hit three different coffee shops yesterday alone, and frankly I might run out.

I’m going to have to buy another book.