On our way back from Tampa on Friday we got off Alligator Alley and drove the 20 odd miles south to Everglades City. I had decided, after living in South Florida for 20 years, and publishing a number of stories on the town, I should finally see it.
Eventually the Panther Crossing signs disappeared, and the bush opened up, revealing a bright, spacious, wide-open community. This was not at all what I had expected; I had been thinking cramped, shadowy, decaying, mysterious.
Large vacation homes rose on stilts and touristy restaurants overlooked the water. (At least there was water.) The old bank building didn't sit on an atmospheric main street but stood at an odd angle all by itself. It was painted bright blue.
Close by was the famous Rod & Gun Club fronted by a sun-drenched parking lot. (I had pictured a dirt road lined with sable palms.) Walking inside I was, finally, transported: dark wood-paneling, creaking floorboards, mounted animal heads, the scent of history. The hallway was papered with travel articles about the town, none of which, I suspect, revealed its prosperous, spruced-up character.
Driving away (the dining room was empty, so we didn't stay for dinner) I thought of Paul Theroux who wrote: "No one's ever described the place where I've just arrived." As good a reason for travel as it is a challenge for travel writers.
