Florida: I Finally Get You

Dear Florida,

 

I’ve never wanted to like you.

And admirably, you’ve made that goal rather easy.

To me, you’ve been the state of flatness, concealed carry permits, secessionism, low-income work, and oppressive heat.

You’ve attracted millions of transplants with that work—made somewhat more palatable by the lack of state income tax—and that heat, which apparently ameliorates the pangs of arthritis.

You’ve built fake cities, otherwise known as theme parks, overcharging for the right to melt in line and eat suboptimal fried chicken.

Your legislation reeks of anti-intellectualism, though you prefer the phrase states’ rights.

In all, as above, you’ve proven yourself quite capable of providing fodder for haters.

But this time, when I crossed the Florida-Georgia line and entered your domain, I saw something different.

First, I saw the biggest gas station I’ve ever seen in my life. It was open 24 hours a day and had what looked like a beaver as a mascot. Inside were massive bathrooms, brisket sandwiches, beef jerky by the pound, clothes, and basically everything else I didn’t need but suddenly wanted.

Buc-ee’s, I learned, is a Texas import, but one that suits you well.

Back in the car, I took to admiring my surroundings.

I saw billboard after billboard.

One for Jesus.

A bunch for accident lawyers.

And a few for vasectomies.

I might have noticed more, but the highway was proving more treacherous than anticipated.

I dodged tires.

I barely missed a cooler.

By the time I saw the Slinky, I had no choice but to drive right over it.

If this was the state of the retired, I wouldn’t have guessed it by the kids passing me at 90 on the right.

As traffic picked up and the racers slowed down, I did manage to catch a few glimpses of opulence, followed by more than a few double-wide glimpses of modesty.

Eventually, I reached the desired destination—a hotel.

On arrival, I was greeted by a mammoth convention of military veterans, most of whom had arrived on their Harleys.

Wearing decorated leather vests, many were smoking their indulgence of choice. With waste-length beards, still-broad shoulders, and a sprinkling of Confederate flags, I got the sense they could have split me in half just by looking at me.

I might have been a little intimidated if it weren’t for the equally large Indian wedding party arriving at the same time. Not everyone looked Indian, but the outfits definitely did.

As I was bombarded by a potpourri of languages, I spotted a group of teenage boys that seemed entertained by both parties. They were there for a national volleyball tournament.

I, of course, was there for my daughter’s dance competition.

That’s American dance, by the way.

Some of the arriving dancers looked American.

Many did not.

But they all sounded the part.

And something told me that around there, no one cared anyway.

Because after crossing the Florida-Georgia line, I learned that among the chaos, strip malls, nonexistent urban planning, blatant consumerism, and uncomfortable heat is one other thing:

The American ideal.

And while the rest of the country keeps talking about it, you, in your own peculiar way, seem to have it figured out.

 

Sincerely,

A Florida Convert