ESCAPE TO CHARLESTON

The “Holy City” never held any religious significance for me. My introduction to Charleston, South Carolina, was kicking back a couple of shots of Grand Marnier at a dingy upstairs bar on King Street on a sweltering August afternoon. The humidity was unbearable, the air literally heavy, and the town smelled as if it was in a constant state of mild decay. It was the summer of 2004, and I was relatively young, rootless and feeling restless. Chicago was the only town I’d known as an adult and I was uninspired, faltering in a deep rut of my own making. Things needed to change. So, when an opportunity to live in the low country came up, I jumped at it. It was almost too easy to say goodbye, quit my job, pack up the car and go. On first impression, I thought Charleston a quirky place, with its airline bottles of booze, odd obsession with orange liqueur, and