Minnesota. That’s a state, right?
No. It’s an evil, socialist regime, I wanted to say. Stockaded between The Republic of Iowa and Canada’s Grand Communistic Experiment – which IS a US state.
“Yeah. It’s a state,” I said.
“I don’t think I can spell it right, sorry.” The clerk smiled shyly and pecked at the keys on his console.
I remember someone else asking me that once and he was also from Florida. I doubt the question is an indictment of its people, probably just coincidence. But one guy happened to be a surfer with a seemingly bottomless wellspring of travel funds and this guy a clerk in an electronics store in Miami Beach, a township with more disposable income than most dictators.
Southern Comfort RV Resort, Florida City.
There’s a point when the cheeseburger strays from paradise. It skirts utopia and stumbles toward the Lord of the Flies. But it takes a certain person to enjoy paradise and I’m not that person. In paradise, you don’t need pylons to protect your portable satellite dish. You don’t need a six foot chain to restrain your Rottweiler. Paradise is easy. Paradise is for pansies. A stopover at the gates of dystopia is fine with me.
By day, bellied men sunbathe under American flags planted next to gargantuan campers cemented axle-deep in dried mud. They walk little dogs and navigate throaty, slow-moving Harleys wearing stars-and-stripes doo-rags. Women ride shotgun in pimped golf carts. They promenade the slim avenues and wink at neighbors or trim small lawns with inflatable palm trees, their eyebrows cocked toward the liquor cabinet. By night, a vapor of Journey, Creedence Clearwater, Blondie and Otis Redding hangs over the camp. It drifts from the Tiki Bar like bacon smoke. Sung by para-professionals dipped in vodka tonics and backed by atonal choruses of margarita-soaked retirees. Random fire pits attract neighbors like moths. They chillax and bitch about the government, forecasting calamities like the imminent Socialist Invasion or the color of Shinola when the moon hits it.
A sign on Southern Comfort’s robotic entrance gate says: SPEED LIMIT 9 MPH. Why nine? Why not eleven, or eight? Was it an algorithm? Or just a gut feeling . . .
“What part of Minnesota you from?” said a guy with a baseball cap.
“South Minneapolis,” I said. “You?”
“Inver Grove Heights.”
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Two Months.”
Miami
Pretty city. Attractive cafes, funky joints, easy-going locals. Lovely latin-meets-craftsman neighborhoods. I admire their style. I also admire their will power. Their sheer determination to resist the urge. To not scratch that emotional itch to flip that lever when they change lanes. I also wonder why they have cars at all. Considering there’s nowhere to park. But it’s a fine city with character. Minus the guy who posed as a parking lot attendant and hustled me for twenty-five bucks. But that was my own damn fault.