Tuesday, October 25th

Rollin’

Even though it was late in the season, a hurricane was brewing in the Caribbean. It was expected to hit Cancun later this week, then turn around and come back north-east. Whether it would hit Florida or not was currently everyone’s guess. Either way, it was time to go north.

The road through Captiva was beset on both sides with homely estates. The island was once rated among the top ten places to have a second home at by Wall Street Magazine. The estates were separated from the street by a thick layer of jungle. Through it you could peak at big villas or just a driveway and more jungle. If you are interested, some of these estates were still empty. You’d just have to deal with the odd hurricane removing your house.

The road was infested by joggers and bicyclists on their morning routine, even though it was already past ten. Similarly the motorists had a lot of time, too. Thus, the ten or so miles off the island took their time. I past the site of my earlier crime, but nobody tried to stop and arrest me.

Back in the real world, Fort Myers was all concrete and malls and traffic jams. It was also crawling with police. The map showed a place called Edison Mall where I stopped for some extra shopping. The place empty, except for a bunch of Germans. They really are everywhere. Quite irritating.

The good news was that the book store had a copy of the Michelin road atlas. Finally I was ready for serious driving to start. Or I would have been, but getting out of Fort Myers was a test for the nerves. In addition, signing was quite terrible. A big sign pointed towards route 80, which I was planning to take, only to not say anything at the next t-intersection about route 80 at all. After some detour I finally found my way back on it, only to subsequently miss the exit for route 13.

Instead, I continued to La Belle, arriving in small-town America. The only memorable feature was a draw-bridge over the Caloosahatchee river, and only because it was open. The single pleasure boat crossing produced a huge traffic jam.

The landscape here was flat grassland with the occasional pocket of forest added for good measure. Every once in a while it turned swampy with cows wading through the mud. Large white birds, looking a bit like storks, were standing in the water gazing philosophically at the horizon. A bear warning sign made this trip’s collection of crossing dangerous animals complete.

Further north, nature had added a few lakes to the game. The first sign of this was by the road announcing a “gated lakeside retirement community.” That was not all to be found, though. The endless sprawl of civilization had entangled the lakes like an orange scarf. Lake Placid, Sebring, Avon Park. Where there was no buildings, there were now fruit plantations. I wasn’t quite sure what kind of fruit, but probably oranges or lemons. I did a quick swing through Sebring, if only to avoid the now rather heavy traffic along the highway, but there was nothing much to be seen.

I turned west again after Avon Park to get back onto my original route north. At the town of Fort Meade, we finally arrived in the old south known from many a motion picture. Old wooden buildings set back on large laws and tucked away behind large trees with big long hanging leafs. A spotlessly clean white, wooden church. And another one. The only stone building being the courthouse in neoclassical architecture with big columns out front.

But I only got to see this because I came in through the back door. Up front, along the big highway, the usual commercial thoughtlessness loomed.

The next town of Bartow had a large citrus plant. So that’s what these plantations were. Bartow also was the entrance back into big civilization and congested roads along the Tampa-to-Oakland corridor. Since it was now half past three, I got to enjoy the full afternoon rush. This madness continued all the way to Dade City, styling itself as “Tree City, USA”. There sure were lots of trees and even a boardwalk near the train station.

After Dale City, but certainly after crossing over Interstate 75, traffic became lighter. There was another change which I only noticed in Brooksville when I had to stop at a traffic light outside the handsome court house: I was on top of a hill. So far, the landscape had been endlessly flat. But now, suddenly, there was hills.

Rolling up and down those hills for about thirty more miles, I arrived at Homosassa Springs. The map made it look like the last serious village for the next page, so I decided to spend the night. This was your unmemorable plot by the highway, so I wasn’t expecting much. The place I chose for the night called itself “hotel and spa” in the same way that McDonald’s calls itself a restaurant. But it was cheap and cheerful. What more can you expect?