It is fall back home in Maryland. The air is crisp, the foliage becomes one endless stretch of burning sunset, and leaves fall slowly, like first snow, to the ground.
But where we're headed, this season pretty much does not exist. My burned-out, palm-tree seeking family has decided to spend a week away, on a trip to Ft. Myers, Florida, and despite many, many trips to the Techni-color peninsula, I had never been to this neck of the beach. It was said to be a wealthy, tropical, foodie paradise, given its proximity to Naples. (Which had to be as good as its Italian counterpart, right?) At home, expectations soaring, I dreamed of long stretches of cerulean beach, loud, thudding bass lines on the evening streets, beautiful bodies in sunshine, and even more beautiful foods. Sort of like South Beach! But with a Nordstrom. This is what ensued.
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I wrote this piece in my personal journal, while reflecting upon some recent travels... I was seventeen.
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