Savannah. The sun is not up. The city is dark and foggy. I am the first one awake in my hotel.

I am always the first one awake. I don’t know why. As a kid, I could sleep until Carson came on. Now I get up before the rooster clears his throat.

I visit the front desk to ask the receptionist whether coffee is available.

“Not until six, sir,” she replies.

So, I wait in the lobby. This is a very swanky hotel. Nicer than any hotel I’ve ever visited. They have towels and robes so plush you cannot get your suitcase shut.

Six o’clock rolls around.

Nobody shows up in the café. The overhead music is Blondie. Then, Duran Duran. I’d better go for a walk before they start playing Starship. Or worse, Culture Club.

As far as I can tell, I’m the only pedestrian on the streets at this hour. Which is eerie, maybe even a little unsafe. Anyone could leap from the shadows and have their way with me.

Which reminds me of a story my grandmother used to tell. As a young woman, she was on a train bound for Saint Louis with her aunt Mildred. Two masked men entered the train and announced they were going to rob passengers and ravish all the women.

My grandmother stood and shouted, “You can take our money, but leave us women alone!”

Aunt Mildred said, “Shut up, the robbers are runnin’ this train!”

On my walk, I pass a man sleeping on a park bench. He is covered with blankets, scrolling his phone. He gives me the two-fingered wave as I pass. Then he asks for money. I give him a few dollars.

But before he accepts the cash, he admits that he’s going to use the money to buy cigarettes and if I want to change my mind that’s okay but he just wants to be honest.

I tell him I don’t care what he buys and if he needs a smoke then he needs a smoke. In return, he gifts me a braided rose made from a palmetto leaf. It’s beautiful.

“Did you make this?” I ask.

“I’ve made thousands, man,” he says.

I walk past a little market and café. The lights are on. A man in an apron is sorting apples and oranges.

I ask if the café is open. He says no. And I can see he’s not entirely sure whether I’m playing with a full deck. He tells me I can wait on a bench for another 30 minutes until they open. Then he reaches into his pocket just to be sure his pepper spray is still there.

I’m wondering whether anyone in this town drinks coffee before 6 a.m.

I sit to wait. The café’s overhead music is Michael Jackson. So I keep walking.

One of my first writing gigs was in Savannah, for a local magazine. When the magazine agreed to give me a shot, I was in disbelief. It was the biggest thing to ever happen to me.

I drove my bald-tired truck to Chatham County. I camped at the KOA with my dog. We ate beans and rice. I wrote seven articles. The magazine’s check got lost in the mail.

But it didn’t matter. Something inside me changed. I saw myself as a writer, for the first time. Not just a high-school dropout. Not just the child of a dead man. Not a hopeless case. I was a writer.

There is a group of joggers on the sidewalk. They shout for me to move aside. I am almost run over by mass Spandex.

I pass another coffee shop. I stop inside and ask if they are serving coffee yet.

The kid behind the counter looks at his watch. He thinks. “We don’t officially open for another 30 minutes, but I’ll take care of you.”

I bless him. I bless the womb from which he sprang.

When my coffee is ready, I pay at the register. “Your first time in Savannah?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “But it always feels that way.”

“What’re you in town for?”

“I’m making a speech.”

“Really. About what?”

“Writing.”

His face beams. “Hey, I write! I want to be a writer someday!”

I reach into my pocket and give him a braided rose.

“You already are,” I say.