Charleston Day 2
Charleston Day Two
I woke up to biscuits and sausage gravy, so yeah, it was shaping up to be a good day. That paired perfectly with the coffee I had wisely set to auto-drip the night before. I trusted drunk-me more than hungover-me to handle the coffee setup. Drunk-me, however, was operating with one eye open and somehow forgot to account for the time difference between Florida and South Carolina. Close enough.
Despite the ghost closet in our bedroom, I slept surprisingly well. I told myself I’d be fine—as long as we didn’t do anything to make me think about ghosts. Spoiler alert: tonight’s agenda includes a ghost tour.
We kicked off the day with physical activity, which immediately made me wish for the ghost tour instead. Charleston has this magical weather cycle where it rains every five minutes—but only at the most inconvenient times. For instance, it rains just long enough for you to consider canceling your plans but never long enough to actually justify it. While bar hopping, it rains only when you’re walking between bars. While kayaking? Same deal.
The kayaking adventure itself was a saga. It included getting lost in a labyrinth of seagrass, pulling off Tokyo Drift-style hairpin turns, and the kind of close encounters with dolphins that make you question how much you actually like wildlife. Dolphins in South Carolina? Never seen those in Florida.
In the end, we all made it out alive, but no one came back quite the same.
With all the incredible local breweries around, we somehow ended up at Charleston Beer Works—a bar that conveniently carried a wide selection of local beers in one spot. A couple of friends on this trip were serious about their Untappd game. “Let’s make sure we log every beer and toast each other,” they said. Game on.
My wife and I share a joint account on Untappd. It’s the secret to drinking twice as much beer as our competition. Some call it cheating; we call it love. Okay, fine—it’s cheating any way you slice it, but we’re very romantic about it.
As I sipped my beer, I thought about the stickers for my kegerator collection. "Excuse me, do you have any stickers?" Wait—did I say that out loud? Nope. Turns out it was one of our Untappd rivals, also on the hunt for brewery stickers. That’s my thing.
Our second stop had funny beer quotes etched into the bar. My favorite? “You can only drink 30 or 40 glasses of beer a day. No matter how rich you are.” —Adolphus Busch. A legend.
Later, we regrouped with the crew for happy hour. And guess what? We weren’t late. I know that seems like a random thing to mention, but trust me, it’s worth celebrating. We specifically picked this place for their happy hour, and we triple-checked their specials. The website listed them. The host mentioned them. A giant sign even advertised them.
Plot twist: they didn’t have happy hour.
DEUCES. We walked out and headed to a spot that didn’t play the bait-and-switch game. Somebody open their Yelp app, because they’re about to get reviewed.
The new spot, clearly enjoying their neighbor’s misstep, leaned into it with jokes and poured us some stellar local brews alongside on-tap cocktails. Speaking of cocktails, I’d like to address wine and cocktails directly: beer was on tap first. Deal with it.
The last stop before dinner was a rooftop bar, perfect for being the first to know if it started raining. Spoiler: it didn’t rain, but the chairs up there were bizarre. They looked like white blobs—no two alike—and had about a 7-percent grade, so we kept sliding off. Naturally, we played musical chairs to find the perfect fit, a real Cinderella situation. We also rotated to avoid one poor soul staring into the sun too long. With seven seats and only one in the sun, the system worked—until it was my turn. I spent 30 seconds in direct sunlight and walked away sunburnt.
Dinner was outdoors because inside smelled... informative. I didn’t need to know how the sausage was made, so outside we went, where the air was fresh, and the menu featured a Nashville Hot chicken sandwich. I get that at work on Fridays. It’s spicy, flavorful, and reliable. Surely, this would be the same.
“All I can taste is blood and snot.”
I’m pretty sure the sandwich was good, but my insides weren’t cooperating. I shotgunned a couple of beers to extinguish the fire and moved on.
The ghost—host of our ghost tour was meeting us at an Irish pub. Wait a second... he’s not actually a ghost, right? Did anyone confirm? Just to be safe, I ordered a beer. I’m not sure how beer helps with ghosts, but I’m also not sure it doesn’t. I went with a local option and picked a tap handle featuring a big red beard. The bartender said it was a Sweetwater Brewing beer. I love Sweetwater, but I’ve never seen that tap handle. Did I get the wrong beer? Probably. It was chaos in there—someone was playing the harpsichord, or some equally obnoxious nonsense.
The host, who is not a ghost—I think—later suggested I try Tommy’s Red Beard beer. First of all, I like the “next round” energy. Second, that sounded like a beer worthy of the big red beard handle. I blamed the harpsichord for the mix-up and ordered it.
Before the tour, the host asked if my wife and I were newlyweds. I responded with, “No, we’re sick of each other.” He laughed and said that was good because the Boohag (a local ghost) targets happy newlyweds. See? My sarcasm saves lives! My wife kicked me under the table for that one.
The rain—timing its entrance with villainous precision—waited until we started walking to let loose. We instantly looked like couples at prom, guys holding umbrellas over their partners. I had lots of practice from photo duty the day before. My wife offered to hold the umbrella this time, but she kept it just high enough to jab me in the eyes a few times. Then I "offered" to take it back. She does it on purpose.
The tour itself was more of a history lesson than a scare-fest, but the ghosts were interesting. By the time we got home, everyone was too tired to play games. We split off to our rooms, and I cracked open another mango beer—seriously, who keeps buying these?—and my latest Michael Crichton novel. As usual, I read exactly one word before falling asleep.
