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.
Entered our ice box of a hotel room, the air-conditioner blowing full blast. Turned it to low and walked into the bathroom, where a sign on the sink asked us to reuse our towels. "Help us conserve," it read. "We are committed to doing our share to preserve the environment and conserve energy."
Dropped our bags and headed back to the car. Drove across the river to look at the fanciful brick archways beneath the silver Scheherazade minarets of the old Tampa Bay Hotel (now the main building of the University of Tampa). Then back through downtown, a quick stop at Channelside where, at a second-story bar overlooking the port, I poured half a Yuengling into my lemonade for a refreshing panache.
A short drive to Ybor City. We parked in front of La France - Florida's greatest vintage clothing store - and walked into the high-ceilinged previous century. Panamas hung on the walls and a few Rooster ties hid in bunches on racks, but none in rare, elusive blue.
Dinner on a side street - Streetcar Charlie's Bar and Grille - where we watched the bright yellow trams (and got nostalgic for Warsaw). We had entered, it soon became clear from the same-sex couples at the surrounding tables, GaYbor City. The food was delicious: gumbo, salmon, catfish, smashed potatoes, even the broccoli.
Friday took the elevator to the 38th floor of the Verizon building for the Four Seasons Author Series lunch. The windows looked west, with beautiful views of the port and Davis Island. "Derek Jeter's building a house there," a gentleman told us. "30,000 square feet."
After the flounder, I got up and talked about travel and how I became a travel writer. People laughed at all the right places, and then when I was finished, quite a few bought my book. Nothing endears a city to an author like the willingness of its residents to buy his book.
It's not often that I think I know how our president feels, but last night I did.
Not when he stood on the pitcher's mound. A southpaw myself, I grew up in New Jersey instead of Hawaii, and could have come at Pujols with a little heat.
No, it was when he sat in the broadcast booth. Joe Buck mentioned that he had just been in Russia, Italy, and Ghana and suggested that this night of baseball must come as a pleasant relief. The beaming commander-in-chief, looking even more boyish than usual in his White Sox jacket, agreed.
And I was transported back to July of 2001. I was on my way home from three weeks in Russia, Lithuania and Latvia. I was in a wonderful mood because it had been a wonderful trip. (When you're a travel writer, the sweeter the trip, the happier you are to return - and write about it.) During my layover at Dulles, I went to a bar for dinner. I ordered something that wasn't borscht and, looking up at the TV, saw the introductions of All Stars on a brilliant green field. I could not have constructed a finer welcome home.
A friend recently posted photos on Facebook of her family cruise. One of the ports was Istanbul and one of the pictures showed her (I'm guessing) 6-year-old daughter sitting happily in the middle of a carpet in a carpet shop, surrounded by three smiling young shop assistants.
I can imagine the reaction in many countries to a little girl - a species not generally known for cleanliness - planting herself down on an expensive piece of merchandise. But Turks are different. The following photo showed the three men holding the rug waist-high, the delighted girl still sitting in the center as if on a magic carpet ride.
Paging through the Herald yesterday I grimaced when I came to a picture of our president with the Russian leader. The two men were strolling around the latter's Gorki residence - Medvedev with one arm half-raised (the other resting at his side); Obama with both his hands casually planted in his pockets.
Back in the 60s Nabokov wrote critically of American diplomats posing similarly for pictures with their Russian counterparts, blissfully unaware of the fact that putting one's hands in one's pockets is disrespectful. I don't necessarily expect our presidential handlers to read Nabokov, but I do expect them to be aware of international rules of etiquette.
In the 80s I taught English in Poland. One exercise required students to finish half-completed sentences. One began: "Don't talk to your teacher ..." - to which a student immediately said "with your hands in your pockets." An even better rule, I then thought, for American schools, where a student pocket might contain a knife. But ever since, I have tried to keep my hands visible while in the company of Slavs.
The night before my drive to Atlanta Hania and I drove to the Thrifty Car Rental office. After several days of calling the toll-free number I had been able to get a rate of $199 ($218 with tax) on an economy car for a week.
The woman behind the counter found my reservation and, while tapping the keyboard, asked if I'd like to upgrade to a bigger car. The "you-may-as-well" tone of her voice suggested that this was a normal part of her job, one that hadn't changed in the wake of a recession and money-conscious customers. It made me feel like a loser, renting an economy car with, as the woman pointed out with disdain, manual windows.
I wouldn't be opening the windows that much in I-75. I said I'd stick with the economy car. She printed out the contract and handed it to me. The total was $254. I told her that the rate I'd been quoted was $218. In a "what's-36-extra-dollars?" tone of voice, the woman pointed out that the extra fee was security in case of a flat tire or lost keys. She said I might be able to convince whoever was at the counter when I returned the car to take it off, provided I had the keys and the tires weren't flat. Or she could remove it now. We asked her to remove it now.
As she did she said that now, if a tire went flat or I lost the keys, I would have to pay $500. This was not said in a "what's-500-extra-dollars?" tone of voice. I told her to put it back on. But I complained about the discrepancy between the price that had been quoted over the phone and the price that I had been given here. She said - again, as if it were the most natural thing in the world - that the reservations are made in another state (Oklahoma, I think) and they apparently weren't aware of Florida's flat tire and lost key fee.
Reluctantly, I signed the new contract and went out for the car. It was a bright blue PT Cruiser. It was not my idea of an economy car. I looked in the back; there was no cover to hide my eventual luggage. The attendant said that people steal them.
We marched back inside. The woman said that all they had in the economy class were hatchbacks, and that none of them came with covers. We asked her if it didn't seem odd that rental cars, the vast majority of which are used by travelers, had no means for concealing luggage. She gave me an "I-told-you-you-should-have-upgraded" look.
We asked her to void the contract. Why rent a car from a company that discriminates against people who are what the company uses as its name?