What does it take to edge out San Francisco as the second-best city in the country? What kind of upstart creeps up on the City by the Bay and overtakes it in the latest Travel + Leisure poll?
I left portions of my heart in San Francisco when I departed several decades ago. It's a city that makes residents cry with joy during moments of quiet contemplation. I could stand in the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge walkway, look out at the Marin Headlands and instantly realize that wherever my life's journey might take me, I would never see a more beautiful sight.
New York is large, has lots of voters for readers' polls and, for good reason, is always a sentimental favorite. Being Brooklyn-bred, I have never denied New York its rightful claim as the best city in America. But I know that those votes don't necessarily mean that readers of Travel + Leisure might voluntarily choose to live there.
But it seemed to me that San Francisco was always deserving of second place, a city nearly everyone would want to call home. How many times had I struck up conversations on a return flight to SFO when my seatmate would ask how long I would be visiting the city. It was, I confess, entirely pleasurable to reply, "Oh, I'm not visiting. I live there."
So it was with some surprise that I learned that the city of Charleston, S.C., had achieved its highest ranking ever, displacing San Francisco and outscoring Chicago on the new T+L Best City List.
I had to find out why Charleston is on such a fast track, given its mint-julep-on-the-porch, magnolia-strewn plantation image.
But first, I would head to Kiawah Island to ease into the Lowcountry comfortably. Besides, this wasn't just a writing trip. My wife and I had appointments with two real estate agents to get the lay of the local land and, possibly, to place the Lowcountry on our list of places we might move next.
Charleston's airport is functional in a 1970s kind of way. It reminded me of a large efficiency apartment with gates and only the bare minimum food outlets.
I knew the folks in South Carolina would be polite, but I was surprised that they never asked me for my ID or driver's license at the car rental counter. They just smiled and told me to have a good time.
I currently live south of South Carolina, on the southern tip of our southernmost state. And you know what? There isn't a single thing Southern about it. To get to the South, you have to go north of Florida.
So I was mighty impressed as we skirted Charleston and headed southwest toward Kiawah Island.
The drive is about 45 minutes from Charleston, and you approach Kiawah via Bohicket Road, a two-lane corridor where civilization seems to retreat 100 or so years after you pass the Piggly Wiggly on Johns Island. At that point, something really magical starts to happen.
Huge oak trees line both sides of the road, with powerful branches holding up carpets of green leaves. It was like driving under a protective canopy, and you had to marvel at the play of sunlight as it seeped through the foliage in streaks of momentary brightness.
I kept waiting for organ music, an understandable expectation given the fact that we passed about two dozen country churches in the space of little more than three songs on the lite-country radio station.
What was most amazing was the way the road went on for about 20 minutes, like a fun ride that lasts longer than it's supposed to because a carnival worker forgot to throw the switch.
Finally, we came to a roundabout and a small village called Freshfields, with shops including a world-class grocery where foie gras is readily available. A farmers market on the square greeted us as we arrived.
The largest business in town was the bicycle sports shop, which tells you pretty much all you need to know about Kiawah.
Passing security en route to a few nights at the private island's five-star Sanctuary Hotel, I felt like I was entering golf heaven. There were arboretum-quality plants and marshes as far as the eye could see. Some of the home sections off the main road had boat docks and quiet inlets for kayaking. There were several small villages filled with a few shops selling essentials like ice cream and surfboards.
Those of you who have read my columns for the past several years know that I have never laid claim to being any kind of expert on travel within the U.S. But I will tell you that Kiawah Island has many of the most beautiful streets I've seen in this country. The Lowcountry architecture and the antebellum porches, the greenness of it all, made me think as I drove the inner access road around the island that I might be waylaid at any moment by a gang of Confederate homeowners and invited in for sweet tea.
The Sanctuary struck me as one of the finest vacation destinations in the country: safe, protected, relaxing and child-friendly. The Kamp Kiawah program includes observations of animals in their local habitats. The swimming complex is connected by wooden bridges to the powder-white beach that stretches for 10 miles.
It took a decade to plan this 255-room property, and it shows. Guests who are not there for the golf or tennis, or those who want to forgo the beach or water-sports, will quickly discover the joys of bicycling miles of paths past marshlands and through lovely neighborhoods lined with Lowcountry residences built with two levels of porches.
The spirit of the place is manifested in the number of residents, renters and hotel guests who choose to get close to the bird and human enclaves by traveling the hundreds of bicycle paths, as if they had concluded that automobiles inhibit human interaction. I imagine that among the hazards golfers face as they approach the greens is a phalanx of helmeted, lost bicyclists seeking their way back to the trail.
One night we drove off-campus and went to an oyster roast and barbecue at Mingo Point on the banks of the Kiawah River.
Huge, wooden tubs were filled with fresh oysters that had been roasted on coals. You shucked your own in the flickering sunlight as a local band played on and the crowd helped themselves to steaks and hush puppies, ribs and vinegary cole slaw.
Children rocked back and forth in large swings with views of the river, and we walked out on the pier as the sun was setting to watch the kayakers maneuver slowly through the marshes.
On our last night at Kiawah, we dined at one of the country clubs, overlooking the eighth hole, the sand dunes and the Atlantic shore. Our waiter asked us if our daughter would like to "run."
It turned out to be a club tradition: well-dressed youngsters running around the manicured grass, watching twilight approach as the last golfers putted and the ocean gently rocked in the fading sunlight. For some inexplicable reason, children just run around the lovely grounds after dinner. The staff calls it a tradition. I call it watching pure joy.
How, I wondered, would the city of Charleston follow this warm-up act?
Contributing editor Richard Turen owns Churchill and Turen, a vacation-planning firm that has been named to Conde Nast Traveler's list of the World's Top Travel Specialists since the list began. Contact him at [email protected].