Chapter one - The Journey Begins

Chapter 1: May - the Journey Begins

I never planned to live in Florida. I scoffed at the retirees we called “snowbirds” who each autumn pointed their Ford Crown Victorias south to escape the harsh Central New York Winters. I was proud of my ability to go running outdoors in shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt when the temperatures dipped into the 40’s, and that I kept running, albeit with more apparel, when icy, wind-driven snow blasted my cheeks. I arrogantly announced, on more than one occasion, that I would never live south of the Mason-Dixon line and made sweeping pronouncements that all white southerners were racists. Born in the shadow of the Empire State Building, I dance to the rhythm of hurry hurry rush rush, go, go, go. If the line is too long I’m out of there. Choose the machine over the cashier. If someone does you a favor, they have an ulterior motive; everybody’s got an angle. I was born only once, find football a bore and eat tofu instead of dead animals. These are not characteristics typical of Southerners, yet here I am on May 15th 2002 bound for Central Florida. I am off to become the principal of Prospect School, an alternative middle school for children who have been suspended or expelled from public school. I am energized and excited about the challenge ahead.

I am driving alone in my new SUV, a silver Saturn Vue, heading south on NY State Route 15 as it parallels the Susquehanna River. It is beautiful Amish country with quilts for sale and horse drawn carts and fruit stands. A friend in Rochester recommended this route, but for all its scenic views, I am not pleased. It is just too slow. Often the speed limit is 35 or 45 mph with the additional challenge of construction zones, single lanes and slow moving traffic. Why is there a 16 wheeler on this blue highway? I spend three painful hours trying hard to be Zen-like and enjoy the journey while thinking I have 1270 miles of driving ahead and wishing I had stayed on the interstates. Finally I stop at the last outpost of civilization: Wegmans.

Calling Wegmans a supermarket is like calling Wal-Mart a five & dime. This Wegmans is in Williamsport, PA (home of the Little League World Series). I am going to miss Wegmans. I am only half joking when I say my favorite restaurant in Syracuse is Wegmans. Living for the last year in Rochester, headquarters of Wegmans, I rarely went more than two days without a Wegmans fix. When I meet people from Central New York who are now residing elsewhere, the conversation quickly turns to Wegmans deprivation. “You can’t get ciabatta like that here.” “I stock up on their buckwheat pancake mix whenever I’m in town.” “Their Caesar salad is to die for.” At Wegmans I use the facilities, buy bottled water, a yogurt and continue my trip . . . on interstates.

Interstate 81 could be renamed Wal-Mart Way. McDonalds at every exit is to be expected, but Wal-Mart? Sometimes you don’t even have to exit at all, the Wal-Mart is just right there on the Interstate. I have been to Wal-Mart exactly twice in my life and both times swore never to return. I do stop at rest areas where I always seem to be standing in line, listening to little old ladies holding conversations between stalls while the clock is ticking and I need to get back on the road!

West Virginia welcomes with median strips covered in red poppies. It really is a breathtaking sight. I am Dorothy outside the Emerald Palace. I do not stop to smell or photograph the flowers; I need to make up for the time I lost on Route 15. I rush past and the memory is my souvenir. The Shenandoah Mountains rise up picture postcard perfect. WV and VA know how to keep the land adjacent to their highways pristine and relatively free of billboards.

In the Carolinas, things get a bit more serious. In North Carolina the gas pumps threaten to take your license if you “pump and drive.” In South Carolina the pre construction zones warn “Speeding in a work zone $300 fine and 20 days in jail.” I am not anxious to see the inside of a South Carolina jail; I do not speed. In Georgia signs keep warning me of “Smoke-Fog areas.” I can believe fog is more common in valleys, but is there often a fire in these parts? I drive by a sprawling, spewing Soviet-style factory. Perhaps this explains the smoke warning.

Somewhere in Georgia, I stop at a McDonalds craving a salad. The employee drawls that they don’t serve no salads cups till lunch and now’s breakfast. After some begging on my part she finally relents. It tastes nasty and I toss half of it. Be careful what you beg for. I could really use a Wegmans Caesar salad about now.

In Florida I see pick up trucks hauling open trailers of corn and watermelons. Lots of trucks of oranges, some loose and piled high, some in boxes with slits as if for animals. I guess oranges have to breathe too. The rest areas promise 24-hour security (no doubt due to the much-publicized rest area murder of a tourist a few years ago) but the security is no match for the reptiles. I leap from the car, determined to beat the rapidly approaching busload of blue hairs, only to be faced with a sign the likes of which I have never seen at a rest area in New York: “Warning: beware of poisonous snakes.”

The Osceola National Forest forms a tunnel of trees rising up on the median strip like the Great Wall of China, but soon the billboards outshine the scenery. First up: a sign for the Christian Factory Outlet followed by several billboards signed “God.” In the battle of dueling billboards, the “God” messages alternate with “We Bare All” signs for Todd Adult Toys. Like the South of the Border teasers, they let you know just how close you are to being able to purchase inflatable party dolls and dine in a 24 hour cafe which promises “good food and adult videos.” Many billboards are blank and you can contact Tom Gunter to have your ad placed here. I guess Tom owns all the billboards for at least a couple hundred miles. Clearly God’s got Tom’s number.

The speed limit is 70 but cars go either 65 or over 80. Unlike up north, the speedsters don't seem to get upset and flash lights or blow horns when they encounter a slow moving vehicle, they just pass, and passing maneuvers are performed at top speed in the left, right, middle lanes - wherever. A car flies by with a license plate "BN AGN 67" and I wonder if Todd (of Adult Toy billboard fame) is BN AGN.

The thermometer in the rear view mirror reminds me of the reality outside my air conditioned Saturn - during the day it always reads 90 something, except after a rainstorm when the temperature briefly dips into the 70’s. There are many rainstorms on my journey, brief but intense. The rain pounds down with tremendous force and volume, flooding the highway. In the right lane with flashers and white knuckles I seem to be the only person afraid of hydroplaning. Knowing how to drive in snow does not translate well to navigating torrents. Spectacular rainbows are a welcome epilogue to many of these storms. I phone my husband to tell him about the rainbows. I worry I won’t acclimate to the heat but I know I can get used to the rainbows.