Adventures with Geannii

  Tybee Island Light house   The Lighthouse in Heels Pam wasn’t feeling great that morning, so John, Calvin, and I went off in search of breakfast. The line was long, but worth it. Calvin ordered a burrito the size of a football, with some mysterious brown blob on the side that looked suspiciously like… well, not food. Neither of us knew what it was until Calvin braved a bite. Salsa. He smeared it on what was left of the burrito and made a show of loving it. I had my doubts, but hey—more power to him. When we got back, Pam was feeling better, so off we went exploring. I was feeling mighty stylish—new white shorts, new sandals with a one-inch clog heel. I don’t do heels, but this was a golf cart vacation. It’s not like I planned on walking anywhere. Famous last words. Our first stop: the lighthouse. At the ticket booth, the guy charged me full price until Pam chimed in: “She’s a senior!” Excuse me? I’ll happily pay full price if I’m passing for under-55, thank you very much. Bu...

   The Quest for White Shorts “You need white shorts,” Pam declared, giving my outfit the kind of side-eye usually reserved for fashion emergencies. Black yoga pants. Black shirt with white flowers. Yes, technically tropical. But also… “Woman in Black” vibes. On a sunny island, I looked less like vacation and more like I was attending a beach funeral. So began The Quest. Every souvenir shop had shorts—tie-dye, camouflage, hibiscus flowers the size of dinner plates. Twenty-four bucks a pair, and not a single plain white option in sight. Then we learned the secret: the thrift store would be open Wednesday, 10 a.m. to noon. Two hours only. That was our window. We rolled up in our golf cart right at opening. An elderly woman waved. “Headed to the thrift store?” she asked. “Why yes, we are,” I said, full of hope. Pam asked, “Why such short hours?” The woman smiled. “Well, our volunteers average eighty-five. Youngest is eighty. Oldest is ninety-five.” Mystery solved. Inside, t...

     Golf Cart Chronicles: Tybee Island   Our official first day at Tybee Island meant one thing—golf cart time! We checked in at the rental office: “Your cart is T258. Make sure you know your golf cart’s number. You don’t want to drive off in someone else’s cart.” (Actually, that sounded like more fun. Oh well, maybe not.) “You’ll need a map with the No-No Route in red. DO NOT drive on that road. The penalty is $1,000. Only cross at traffic lights. Seatbelts on—police do seatbelt checks.” Alright already. We got it. Just give us the keys! Pam slid behind the wheel, and we took off like… a turtle on the sidewalk. “Uh, are we supposed to be on the sidewalk?” I asked. Pam hopped out, “You have a CDL—you drive!” (Note: You don’t actually need a Commercial Driver’s License to operate a golf cart, but I kept quiet.) So, I buckled in, shouted, “Hold tight, buckle up, shut up!” and floored it like an Indy 500 racer. The lady at the rental desk had warned us this might ...

  Royal Palms Resort  We have arrived! It’s dark, so the real exploring will have to wait until tomorrow morning. For now—we settle into our very unique motel. The first thing I notice? The TV is hung over the sofa. Interesting angle for watching TV—you’ve got to tilt your head just right, like you’re birdwatching. Then I see it: a turquoise refrigerator with a matching microwave, next to a little sink. This place doesn’t just whisper “retro”—it screams it.      The layout is… creative. One queen bed sits right in the living room, while the other queen bed is in the bedroom, which also happens to contain the only door to the bathroom. Translation: anyone sleeping in the living room has to tiptoe through the “master suite” in the middle of the night if nature calls. It could get interesting, but hey—we’ll survive.         Calvin popped the sofa out into a bed, piled cushions around like his own private fort facing the tv on the wall. Out ...