The quiet pull of Atlanta's canopy

What travelers seem to bring home from Atlanta isn't the skyline, but the feeling of driving beneath an oak canopy so thick the city feels hidden inside a forest. It’s the way people talk about the late-afternoon light filtering through the trees along the BeltLine, or the quiet, irresistible pull of lemon pepper wet wings eaten on a warm curb in Old Fourth Ward.

There is a steady magic in these smaller rhythms—spending an entire afternoon drifting through Buford Highway's strip-mall food stalls, or ducking into the sudden shade of the Krog Street Tunnel. Inside, the air smells faintly of aerosol and ozone, and someone is always mid-stroke on a fresh layer of neon paint, just as a slow-cruising car rolls through, its bass vibrating the concrete under your feet while—