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. Day One: Our flight is in three hours. I’m not packed. It’s a wispy grey Wednesday morning and I can’t find my pants. My family of four loads the car with luggage and with many dramatic goodbyes, we drop off our furry critters at a local pet hotel. Then it is Mach-five all the way to Regan International. “We parked in C3, we parked in C3, we parked in C3...” is the general mantra as we wheel our suitcases, stuffed like Uncle Murray after Thanksgiving feast, through the sliding glass doors. As is usually the case with me, I am head over heels for the sights, the smells, the pace, the adrenaline, the alien exotica of Life in an airport. This is DC, so you can generally pick out the locals. We’re the ones in dark conservative attire, Rolexes, Prada bags, and Dolce dresses. Occasionally you’ll see one of those cool Apple watches, or a fitness tracker thingy. Me? I’m wearing a black leather jacket and Chucks. The fifty pound bag is checked, leaving us to hurriedly find TSA. I have my eyes peeled for a book store, my heart set on some work of Anthony Bourdain’s latest. Next, comes the familiar odor of old shoes, sweat, and metal. The usual waltz through the giant machine, the inevitable frisk. Then we’re off to D3. Found a book shop. No book. Grabbed a smoothie. It was good. Got to the gate. Listened to some Eddie Money, some Vertical Horizon, some Kings of Leon. Boarded. On the plane, I observed all the usual suspects: the swanky business man in a suede sport coat, the mom with crying baby, the young blonde couple visiting his parents in their posh retirement villa down south, and the infamous ...pajama girl. Distant youthful memories of 9/11 remind me to call my grandmother. Just in case. Taking off was a cinch. I watch our slow ascension into the clouds, the gradual disappearance of that sense of safety, as all that we know is left behind of the ground. I’ve flown more times than I can count, but it is complete exhilaration, every time. It was an afternoon flight so our lush green landscape, snaked by the highway system, is spread out below like something surreal, like a perfect painting, or that last mind blowing Coldplay song, breathtaking and transformative. (The song was Magic. FYI.) We land at dark, the Earth twinkling like sunshine dust as we descend. We deboard, grab our checked bag and a shiny siren red Suburban, and thanks to Beulah (the GPS) we arrive in Ft. Meyers, in perhaps less than grand fashion considering I smell like day old vomit. After a pit stop at the only joint still open, an organic market (hopefully they won’t mind that I bathed in their sink), we drive. There is no time to notice the palm trees, or how different the air smells here on the Gulf side, or anything really. We are all exhausted, except for my little sister who has insisted for the last week that we are going to the pool. “Honey, there’s no way. It’s midnight. The pool will probably be closed,” we all try to persuade her out of her adorable childish perverseness. “But… but you promised.” Guess what? We’re going to the damn pool. The hotel is ‘meh’, just some two-point-five star place with a couch in the lobby that looks like someone threw up on it. The coffee is decent, and the woman behind the front desk looks amusingly like a gothic, obese bull dog. Sometime after we get back from the pool, I pass out on the couch, smiling in subconscious anticipation of our week here in paradise.
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