Yesterday Phil and I went to a Tampa Bay Buccaneers game.  It was my first American football game!  It was a hot (85 F) and humid afternoon as we approached the stadium from an adjacent sports field lined with rows upon rows of parked cars and tailgate parties. We even passed a party taking place at the bum end of a white stretch limo. People sat around in lawn chairs, bare-armed and sizzling in the sun. I found it interesting that just moments before, the hotdogs they were consuming, had also been sizzling, albeit on a barbeque.

We passed through the security cordon and climbed the ramps toward our seats. Throngs of people milled about in their Jets or Buccaneers shirts, looking happy and ready, either for the game, or to consume vast quantities of beer, I’m not sure which. The Buccaneers, it turns out, are a beefy looking bunch, all tight ends, I mean, er, all dressed in their red jerseys and white pants. Looks can be deceiving, though, and their ferocious appearance did not translate to a successful game. Instead, they fumbled and stumbled and were eventually massacred by the Jets. Since our seats were south-facing, Phil and I broiled like racks of lamb. (In contrast with the native Floridian sitting next to me who remarked on the nice breeze that, to his deluded mind anyway, seemed to be wafting from the other side of the field.) We stayed and cheered for three quarters. After that, Phil and I had to flee the heat. Alas, the Buccaneers had to make do without our support.

The serious guy in front is a New Yorker

Game about to start.

Typical architecture, Rosemary Beach

Walkway at Rosemary Beach

Rosemary Beach, the resort community in which we’ve been holed up is based on the urban planning model called ‘New Urbanism’.  Generally speaking, this refers to architecture and landscapes that are organized so that they promote walkable, human-scaled communities. A famous example of this is Seaside, Florida not five minutes away from us. We woke up to another cold and rainy day though, and this, combined with some bad news regarding my mother’s health (a cancer diagnosis) has pretty much quelled any enthusiasm for exploration. Aside from a walk or two with the dogs, not much of interest happens today.

This reminds me of another time and place; a journey from Vancouver Island to a family reunion in central Saskatchewan, about ten years ago.  In that trip we crossed the Rockies and arrived in the Prairies in very good time, thanks to the single-mindedness of my uncle who was behind the wheel of the RV. The trip, without stops, is an exhausting 20 hour drive and we probably clocked around 24. Considering my uncle was the only driver, this was remarkable. And while those of us not driving (my aunt, my cousins and I), had the benefit of catnaps along the way, he didn’t have that same advantage.  Close to our destination, we pulled up in the middle of the night below the crest of a gravel side road. Here, my uncle finally passed out.  The next morning the sun came up over a long prairie of wheat fields, flax fields, and rapeseed. The horizon beyond the small crest of the depression we were in was rimless. There was not a house in sight. Next to us, a summer fallow field lay as dormant as my uncle.

I don’t remember how I whiled away the time while my uncle got some well-deserved sleep but I do remember how impatient I was to be getting on with the trip.  I had a feeling we weren’t more than an hour away from my aunt’s yellow farmhouse and I could only sit on the steps of the RV for so long with nothing to do except stare at the empty sky. It was something of a surprise (to me only as it turned out) when my uncle finally did get up and we drove over the crest of the gravel side road. There, on the other side of the hill, not 800 metres from where we’d been camped over night, was my aunt’s house.

It was with these feelings of surprise and discovery that we first lay eyes upon Jim and Karen’s house. Like a ship on a wind-tossed sea, the house juts up and toward the waves of scrub-covered dunes and the sea beyond. Steel and wood and glass combine to create a warm and cozy Great Room on the second level (the first level is the garage space and rec room.) On the third floor, natural light eases into the bedrooms and into an into an office space that has both a sense of prospect (the view is sublime-on this day: a grey sea and sky) and refuge.  It is one of the most comfortable work spaces I’ve ever been in.

We spend the rest of the afternoon having a great visit with Jim and Karen and their two wonderful kids, Matthew and Olivia.  Karen loans me socks. The day is topped off with a visit to a wonderful seafood restaurant where some of us indulge in excellent sushi. After the goodbyes, we head back to our condo and roll into bed.

The Gulf Coast

Well here we are on the Gulf Coast. As you can see from the photo, the dogs are enjoying an early morning romp in the ocean. Phil and I….not so much. To our surprise, the temperature here is lower than it was in Alabama. It’s even lower than it was in Chicago. It’s around 49 F. It turns out that Florida is experiencing below average temperatures and abnormal rainfall. According to the weather channel, there is a tornado warning in effect for the area. Damn, my feet are cold.

We’re hungry and return the dogs to the little condo and set out to look for some breakfast and coffee. So as to avoid the strip mall experience we turn onto the old highway that hugs the coast and leads east to Panama City. In doing so, we enter a vernacular landscape right out of an Annie Proulx novel (The Shipping News, Brokeback Mountain). We cruise along miles and miles of dishevelled post-war bungalows lining both sides of the road. Paint hangs in grey flakes off wooden fences. There is a sign outside of an old house, now converted into a store, that says: ‘WE SELL SEASHELLS’.  A front window ledge decorated with shells and garlands of dried-out starfish further emphasize the point. Occasionally, an abandoned lot, with grasses growing through asphalt parking pads, lends us a zen view to a Dutch Blue ocean.

We pass by a few ‘bar-and-grills’ but they look like the kind of places you go to if you’re feeling rowdy perhaps, or have a gun rack on your truck.  Finally we find a cafe on the left side of the road: ‘ANTONIO’S’. The single storey building is set back a few metres from the road creating a space in front for a few tables with chairs. It strikes us as inviting and so we park. We go in.

Phil sees her before I do. She is tall and heavy set. Like an upside down pear. Her grey-blonde hair is overly long and still wet from her morning shower. She carries herself like a man. For some reason she reminds me of a lumber jack but maybe this is only because I can easily imagine her in a lumberjack shirt. The ones with the red and black squares that we had up in Canada. She calls Phil ‘sweetie’ and ‘babe’ until she sees me, at which point she calls me ‘sweetie’ and ‘babe’ also. She has tanned skin, a slightly hooked nose and a gap toothed smile. ‘Sit anywhere y’all like, honeys.’ ‘Would y’all like some coffee?’

After a greasy breakfast, (thin white toast, slathered with butter, fried eggs, hashbrowns right out of the freezer bag), she comes back around to chat. Somehow we get onto the subject of dogs. (This happens a lot to Phil and me as most of you reading this probably know.) We talk about being able to bring a dog into a restarant. Then we talk about blind men and dogs in restaurants. ‘It’s all the same,’ she offers. Not knowing what she means, we let the comment pass. A few seconds later she repeats herself. ‘Blind men and dogs, they’re all the same,’ she drawls with a twinkle in her sea-grey eyes.  ‘What do you mean?’ we respond, on cue this time.

She begins to tell us a joke about a blind man and his dog who enter a restaurant. As she is telling the joke, I take in the decor. One wall is decorated with garage sale Renoir prints of French villages and shade-dappled countrysides. Paper plates, turned concavely toward us on the near wall are inscribed with pencil crayons: pink hearts and orange smiley faces punctuate the specials of the day. Parked outside I notice a lipstick-pink Suzuki Sidekick. It’s battered and rusted and has a colourful frog sticker on the windshield.

Meanwhile, the man in the joke has got to the middle of the (fictional) restaurant. He’s grabbed his dog by the tail and swung it around his head several times. Someone has asked him what he is doing. Our waitress pauses before the punch line and gives us a big toothed grin.  The blind man says, ’Oh, I was just wantin’ to take a look around.’  Ha Ha Ha.

I look once again at the pink car outside, the crayoned paper plates and at the woman in front of me and I think to myself: ‘You go, Girl.’

An Example of Phil's Most Excellent Packing Ability

Today is rainy and cold (low 50′s). I’m running out of socks to wear as I’d anticipated warmer weather. (My husband, by far the most practical of the two, has pointed out that he is nice and dry in clean socks and a water proof jacket.) We leave Kentucky without seeing any horses and cross the state line into Tennessee.  We fly past Nashville and arrive in Montgomery, Alabama where we spend a long time, first ordering food at a very friendly Cracker Barrel (Hi y’all how are y’all doing?) and then searching for a petstore where we can buy some kitty litter.  We’re successful on this last item but wonder why we didn’t bring more on the trip? What were we thinking?

Aside from the rain, the going in Alabama is easy as the roads are excellent and the traffic is light. On our last visit to Pequod’s (our favourite Chicago pizza place) we struck up a conversation with a woman from Alabama. She told us that Alabama is beautiful and wooded. She was right: it’s a beautiful state and I wish we had some time to explore its less travelled roadways. The fact of the matter is, though, our animals aren’t enjoying the car ride. (Morenita is panting frenetically and Pumpkin is meowing angrily at the inconvenience of not having a kitty litter handy. Only Mango, passed out on the backseat, seems to be unfazed.) Phil and I hit upon the idea of swinging out in a south easterly direction for the coast, thus reducing our overall travel time. The shortcut would give us an additional couple of days to just stay put in some condo by the seaside and enjoy the sun and beach.

We call Phil’s brother Jim (who lives in Panama City Beach) who helpfully steers us to accommodations at Rosemary Beach, not too far away from his house.  After a twelve hour day it is luxurious to pull into the little condo and fall asleep on a very comfortable bed.

At this point it should be noted that my travelling companions include one husband, two dogs and one cat. I lump them all into one category because they are all hairier than me and have whiskers. Phil, my husband, is the one driving while Morenita and Mango lounge comfortably on pillows in the backseat. Pumpkin, the cat, has decided to settle on my lap and later, when I’m driving, onto Phil’s lap. The stretch from Chicago to Indianapolis is long-about 3 hours in an unchanging landscape.  The name of Indianapolis strikes me as odd.  Why the Greek suffix I wonder. Hmm, must look that up.  The freeway soars past the shiny office towers of the city and we are on our way to Louisville, Kentucky.

Another three hours later, this time through softly undulating terrain and mixed deciduous/coniferous tree cover, and we cross the Ohio River which separates Indiana from Kentucky.  On the banks of this river sit the dismal brick buildings that make up the city of Louisville.  But, freeway travel being what it is, the ugly city flashes by us in a murky blur and soon enough we’re driving in the rolling hills of Kentucky. How exciting!  I’m looking forward to seeing all the pretty horses.  We hit Thanksgiving traffic before glimpsing any horses though and decide to pull off the freeway an hour short of our destination of Bowling Green.  We settle into a Super 8 motel (takes dogs) for the rest of the day.

Tomorrow is another day of freeways and then, finally, we’ll pull onto the highways for a more scenic and relaxing journey….