This should have been finished weeks ago, but then surgery happened. I couldn’t fully reflect on my travels through the recovery process. I hope we can pick up where we left off without incident. I will circle back to my Operating Theater experience presently, but let’s get back to my humble getaway narrative.
My Clean Break was half full. As I drove away from Pensacola, I felt the joy and rush of spontaneous excursion. I-10 would get me to Tallahassee sooner, and that was the original plan, but Brother Miguel’s insistence on 30A opened my journey to new prospects and wanderlust ebullience. I promised myself a meal and a swim in a few spots along the way. I will record these succinctly, for they were simply delightful and reflective pit stops, respites swathed in bold and sometimes quietly opulent flavors, brilliant sun and bracing saltwater.
In Destin I had little neck clams with butter, lemon and finely chopped flat-leaf parsley. The beach was packed, the water refreshing after a long walk.
Then I drove on to Seaside. I’d visited the Truman Show set in another life, and a slow drive through its Easter egg colors and eclectic design was lulling. I found a loophole onto the sand and ran towards the shore. I swam until my limbs were heavy, my heart pumping hard, my mind on nothing. I found a lavender-colored shack and had seared scallops with basil, garlic, salt and pepper. Fresh and plump, with a squirt of Crystal for piquancy.
A brief aside: the best scallops I’ve ever had were savored at Harry’s Seafood Bar and Grille. French Baked Scallops, the menu called them, and all I can remember is sweet, succulent meat, sharp, tangy parmesan, and a hearty gravy that I won’t attempt to deconstruct, except to say that God and sex were in the recipe. Did I mention that this was in Lakeland, Florida? I know. Lakeland. It was one of the happiest dinners of my life, and I will always be glad that it happened.
After dinner, sated and anticipating the next great thing, despite the weariness of a long and arduous day, we walked out into the clear, cold night. We were still warm. The small-town roads were empty, an amber glow from streetlamps lighting the moment. We gently crashed into one another and held fast, for longer than we thought possible. Then we raced, laughing like children. I was ahead by only a little, but, like Orpheus, the irrepressible need and doomed urgency to look back was irresistible.
Back to 30A. Next stop: Rosemary Beach. I was on a reconnaissance mission. Staking out the place for a future visit filled with all the things we stay alive for. The place, I must admit, was a bit magical. Spring break ruined it, of course, but the storied beach town was an elaborate playset, a miniature world designed for a movie about a resort at the edge of the afterlife. The homes and hotels were lovely, the grassy town center surrounded by European colonial architecture beguiling, adorned in a vivid color palate, rocking your senses with visual harmony and quaint flair, the likes of which I’d never seen.
I felt like a Lotus-Eater. I didn’t want to leave, but I wasn’t sure it was good for me. The boutiques and overly posh atmosphere were occasionally off-putting, but I left wanting to return on another day, with company, during a quieter season. I needed a special card to make it onto the beach, a card given to residents and renters only, but I didn’t have one—apparently, no one told them I was coming. Suffice it to say that the water was chilly and restorative, the sand like talcum, the sights Venusian and titillating.
