The Road to Treasure Island

We were now officially in the south. The side road we took in Virginia was really boring; straight, empty and interrupted only by small homes looking lonely and in need of repair. At one fuel stop an old, black lady followed me out to the bike and gave us a rendition of her favourite gospel song. I was relieved when she sang because with her southern accent and lack of teeth (not one was visible) I couldn’t understand a word. I’m not sure she was all that old either. We rented a small apartment in Charlotte and stopped for 5 days. We visited Fran’s niece and family almost every day and Fran even got a trip in to the Nascar Hall of Fame. Evenings were spent talking over long dinners and enjoying the kids. The neighborhood homes, red brick with tall white porticos, were decorated with evergreen wreaths and red bows, and in true southern tradition, a light in every window once darkness fell.

No sooner were we out of the city when we crossed into South Carolina. We took the 301 all the way south. The next day I saw my first palm tree and the following, Spanish moss. The side of the road became scattered with cotton balls and driving behind several trucks, more cotton escaped the giant cylinder wrappings and swirled back at us like snow. The south has always excited me, with its steamy humidity and moss-laced trees, but even I couldn’t help being disappointed as we continued into Georgia. The road was so monotonous I practically missed the state altogether. Bordered by the same green pines, the asphalt stretched straight ahead with no curves and hardly any towns. Those we did pass were empty and silent, not even a McDonald’s to indicate the 20th Century had come and gone.

After fueling on the second day we ate a quick lunch of leftover Panera bread, hacked into delicious hunks with the penknife. (Oh what excitement there was the day we spotted our first Panera of the journey, in New Jersey!) A guy in his forties wandered over to see the bike and asked if he could hear the engine. He said it sounded like a Volkswagon, and do you know, he was right. I wondered why we’d never noticed that before. He was friendly but again, the Southern accent was hard to decipher and sadder still, only 3 teeth were visible. This was beginning to be a pattern as the road meandered further south and pawn shops and Dollar Generals became the only signs of urbanization.

Crossing the Florida line the weather changed visibly. How the climate recognized state boundaries beats me but the minute we landed on Florida soil it grew warmer and the roadside turned sandy white. The towns were colorful and had an air of the seaside about them. The first night with our friends we went to a brew pub. We sat on the grass, the sky pink and the warm air caressing our bare arms. It was unbelievably good to shed all those clothes. I’d almost forgotten what my skin looked like.

The Florida landscape reminds me of a painting, with 7/8 blue sky and swollen clouds. The bottom 1/8, almost an afterthought, just a thin green line of land. Every garden and roadside was crawling with spiky, lush green plants. Large lily-like pads smothered the still waters of Lake Wales and the morning mists were damp and clammy. Before long I was itching with red bites, all in places that had never seen the light of day, another of Florida’s great mysteries. The numerous pawn shops didn’t seem to celebrate the season but some guns shops did with billboards announcing “Jingle Bells, Shotgun Shells”. Now if that doesn’t put you in the spirit, I don’t know what will.

We drove in the direction of Tampa for Christmas and settled on the white shores of Treasure Island in the gulf. The sunsets on the beach reminded us of home and made me a little sad, so I made some bread. The weather outside may not have been frightful but we were with friends, and that after all, is the only way to spend the holiday season.