It is generally not very hard to spot one of the nearly 7.9 million tourists who have an annual $14 billion economic impact on Charleston. Virtually all of them jaywalk on King Street, stepping suddenly out from between parked cars. I would gladly run them down, but it would result in falling off my bike, so I just loudly yell “CROSSWALK” while clipping their toes. This absolutely does not stop them because they are looking into a shop window across the street. One in a hundred mumbles “sorry” (but continues to jaywalk).
Or they sit in upscale restaurants wearing gym shorts and a wife beater (while wearing their hats). Or stop to shoot selfies on the Ravenel — often in the bike lane. Or consult their Google Maps app on the street corner, adding to the chaos of others coming through the crosswalk.
Like you, I have a love/hate relationship with these interlopers. I suspect my property taxes would be substantially higher if they visited some other city on the perennial “Best Cities to Visit in the U.S.” lists, skipped the increasingly expensive downtown hotels (with “a rooftop view of the Holy City”) and stayed the hell out of FIG so locals can get in once in a while. After all, we built restaurants especially for them — like Husk and Halls — so they should stay in their own lanes. The line for Chubby Fish, which opens at 5 p.m., forms between 3:30 and 4 p.m. Tell them to ignore that August humidity.
The only tourists we get in Mount Pleasant are lost on their way to the aircraft carrier or the bridges to the beaches. I take great pleasure in assuring them that Sullivan’s is “just down this road,” knowing that on a beautiful summer Sunday it will be dark before they get through the stoplights and find a legitimate place to park — without tires on the roadway! (heh-heh).
At one point last summer they might have seen a city limits sign saying that Sullivan’s Island was a “Gateway to Liberty.” But some islanders wondered how a slogan invoking liberty could be applied to a place where enslaved Africans were quarantined in the 18th century — just before they were sold in Charleston. Similarly, their visit to the International African American Museum usually ends quickly when they put up their collars and try to sneak out, feeling the guilt that is rightfully theirs (and ours).
Most tourists are here to wander in and out of historic homes South of Broad, take pictures of Rainbow Row and peer out over the Battery wondering just which of those little specks in the harbor is Fort Sumter. They know something important went down there — something about the Civil War (or as we say in the South, “the recent unpleasantness”) — but have little to no clue just what.
The Charleston area is rife with battlefields from the Revolutionary War to the Civil War, and in the War of 1812 the port defended the southern coastline and outfitted privateers that disrupted British trade. At the onset of World War I in 1917, Charleston was the site of a key naval facility — the Charleston Navy Yard — located along the Cooper River, which became central to refitting and constructing vessels for the U.S. Navy.
By World War II, Charleston had transformed into one of the South’s most important naval centers, becoming a major production site for destroyers, cruisers and other naval vessels, ultimately building or repairing more than 300 vessels. Today, at the Navy Yard, you can see Darius Rucker belting out covers of old Hootie & the Blowfish songs or pay $10 for a cup of lukewarm beer. Like most industries, shipbuilding has hightailed it to Shanghai.
If you plan to interact with visitors, it is incumbent on you to know things like where the Cistern is; who Joe Riley was; that carriage rides stop when the air temperature reaches 95°F or when the heat index hits 110°F; and, yes, as incredible as it may seem from her remarks, that Nancy Mace indeed went to college here. Also, know that “Bless your heart?!” is anything but a compliment; that Huger Street is pronounced “U-gee,” not “hue-gur;” and that not a soul understands why the façade of the Rice Mill is still standing.
I often stop to ask perplexed-looking tourists if they need help (like the couple in Hampton Park looking about for Marion Square). When I see a third person taking a picture of two others, I stop and ask if they all want to be in the picture, then watch with amusement while they fork over their $1,000 iPhones to a perfect stranger on a bike who could be three blocks away before the shutter closes. But I inevitably return them, adding, “Enjoy your stay in Charleston.”
And when they say, “Many thanks,” I add, “And bless your hearts.”