
When I moved here in 1995, it was common to hear paranoid talk about Savannah’s artificial boundaries: a schoolgirl telling me that her parents told her she could never visit friends who lived on “numbered streets”; a friend telling me that Price Street is “the DMZ”; and, over and over, early readers of my columns telling me that they never go downtown because of crime. Back then, even some downtown people were really serious about not going south of Gaston Street.










