"If you gave me several million years, there would be nothing that did not grow in beauty if it were surrounded by water."
Jan Erik Vold, 1970
Air plants drip from the giant oak trees that spread out above the Savanah streets. They hang in tendrils, soaking up moisture from the air. Their abundance suggests that they are doing a good job, but my sticky skin and the formation of gills on my neckline suggest that they have a way to go before Georgia runs out of moisture. It's not hot, but my skin is vinyl on bare legs in the summer, sticking to everything, fooling me into believing that I'm sweating. Downtown Savannah is an underwater burg, where pedestrians swim instead of walking, and greet each other with drowned silences, only an Oh of bubbles escaping their parted lips as they pass each other in front of centuries old buildings.