Florida Road Trip

Driving South on US1 yesterday, heading down to Bunnell for an appointment, we expected to see “Old Florida” along the way, but it had been erased. Up until recently, US1 was a crumbling secondary road, long neglected by folks in a rush to get to somewhere other than here. They're speeding up and down I95 now. 

In our hurry up culture there's little time to slow down for a look at a time eroded farmhouse with surrounding scrap piles that had once been outbuildings. Gone are the remnants of country stores, imploded and covered in a blanket of Kudzu. Even the alternate route 1 South had been updated. No rusted gas pumps dying slowly in front of abandoned stations plastered with tin urging travelers to chew Red Man tobacco. Now it's four lanes separated by a landscaped median and flanked by twin bike paths, all of it like a highway golf course, pristine and sterile, stretching out to the horizon. 

Heat snakes still danced up from the hot asphalt. That hadn't changed.

Bunnell itself has plenty of character though. It's liberally sprinkled with churches for the born again and bars for those who only see the light on Sunday. Pawn and gun shops compete for space with junkyards that call themselves auto body shops. 

Ruth called and told me of a dog she so wanted to rescue, the questionable product of a bitch impregnated by her son and the resulting bitch by her own brother. The pup had severe problems. Several locals managed to drag themselves past our front bumper when we stopped at the light in the center of town, themselves the seeming products of dark family relations. I told her that I understood her hesitancy to adopt.

When our appointment was over, we asked Siri to find some seafood, a good lunch spot. She sent us 20 miles due East where the Atlantic demands that traffic turn North or South. We wound up sitting in a booth at The Flagler Fish Company. Soothed by a Pandora station spinning familiar folk tunes, sharing a perfect Cesar Salad. Glasses of real sweet tea with lots of lemon were in a cold sweat, drenching napkins that now doubled as sponges on our pitted wood table. Asiago potatoes accompanied Lobster rolls stuffed with buttery chunks of warm flesh that only moments before had been the claws and tail of a dark green crustacean sleeping in a shaded corner of the lobster tank pressed up against a wall opposite our table. Although I find most restaurants disappointing, there are those rare times when the atmosphere combines with great service and food that is exactly right. This was one of those times. 

Sitting reflectively after we cleaned our plates, Carla covered my hand with hers, like a blanket from the chill. We shared a wordless smile, an appreciation for the moment, and for the good fortune of our lives themselves... as James Taylor sang a song about Mexico.