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I was happy to be fifty-five in a place that made so much of me. A place that welcomed me when I was 18 and mostly clueless about everything.  I drove into Tallahassee via North Monroe, a street bulging with parts of me now coming to life. I looked for places that should have been there, Barnacle Bill’s, The Fourth Quarter, places where I treated my roommates and brothers to regal multi-course meals, surf and turf and double Crown Royal whiskies all night long when my financial aid kicked in, squandering most of my Pell Grant money on a single debauched night and afterparty, gleefully frightened by poverty in the white hot glare of the dreaded morning after. And I’d do it all over again. But they were missing, these places, these repositories of ecstatic history and painful lessons, their existence razed by time and University stardom, prestige, and upscaling. 

I was late. The car needed to be at Enterprise by 5:00 p.m. It was now 5:30, and Brother Miguel’s text was terse and ball breaking. He had every right. I had too much solitary, meandering fun and reflection along the way, and I had not accounted for the loss of an hour when I crossed time zones. As I approached Enterprise, I see a tall man standing next to a shorter one, two unlikely sentries guarding the locked front door of the establishment. The shorter one, without question, was Miguel, but there was no mistake about who was in charge. I was certain he was going to bat for me, demanding with all the charm of a banker, which he is, that I be given a bit of slack. I landed quickly and jumped out of my golf cart. Keys were handed over, eyes rolled, and Miguel came in for the hug, a huge mischievous grin on his fatherly mug. We jumped into his SUV and headed to dinner. 

Our destination was Table 23, a stylish eatery in what is now considered Tallahassee’s Midtown. There was a surprise afoot, but Miguel hadn’t mentioned a thing. As we made our way to the center of the restaurant, I spotted a high four top with a familiar profile taking a sip. Brother Keith was there, waiting, taking time from it all to come see an old friend. He looked over with his signature grin and we all clustered by the table for an embrace and happy reunion. It had been 10 years since we last saw each other—all of us (including others not present—Pete, Frank, Alex, Willie, Charlie) taking part in a fraternity Induction Ceremony for Miguel’s sons. We now talked of old times and our current blessings, survival whisking to the top of the list. After dinner, we said goodbye, and it was a touching moment, a feeling not unlike a permanent goodbye. We never neglect expressing our love, which is true and honorable among brothers, and that is a good thing. 

We drove to Miguel’s home as the sun was setting. The weather was fine, brisk and clean, a deep blue with yellow-fire streaks in the resplendent sky, and the release of a much-needed respite gave way to serenity. My mind drifted at times, but the substance and grace of the moment never left me. It stayed there, doggedly.  

I have known Miguel since 1987, when I first arrived at FSU, green and dazed—we were part of the same pledge class—and I have known Maggie, his better half, since our sophomore year in high school. To say that there is rich history is a heavy understatement. Besides being true friends, they have always been generous to a saintly degree. Miguel and Maggie live in one of the most beautiful areas I’ve ever seen, a veritable wonderland of natural splendor. Their stately Antebellum house is nestled in a 5,000-acre nature preserve. The Maclay trails are breathtaking, five and a half miles of lush and vibrant flora and abundant fauna (most of which hang out in Miguel’s backyard, since his obsessive life-hobby, maybe even purpose, has become feeding and conversing with every animal, all of whom, by the way, have names, my favorite being Izo, the giant albino opossum). The nature preserve’s crown jewel is Lake Overstreet.  

We arrived and unloaded two large Hefty bags full of food and made our way to his backyard. I was confused, but he insisted that it was my second surprise. You never know with Miguel. The best way to describe the feeling of anticipation when he’s about to unveil something is Giddy Terror. He begins to rip open the sacks, grabbing fistfuls of bread and other things, lobbing them over the low gate onto the sprawling greenery of his backyard wilderness. I helped, of course. Then, we waited. It was spooky, but not as endearingly creepy as what was about to happen. Five minutes later, the field was dense with deer. Poised  and elegant, glaring at us with trepidation and a little malice, to be frank. It was a scene from a Jordan Peele film. The spell was broken, and these lovely creatures dove for the grub, leaving not a single morsel for the other critters scuttling about. 

That night we caught up, sprawled on the sofa and easy chair. After we spoke of our children and the history of this glorious homestead Eden, and remembrances of all hues, shapes and sizes, my friends decided to help plan my itinerary for the following day. They made a list, and I was happy to follow. I insisted on at least one bookstore and a walk through my beloved campus. They had my room ready, the same room I stayed in ten years before, and I was delighted. I settled into bed, and after five or so pages from Rushdie’s Quichotte, I was unconscious. 

I woke up to an empty house. My friends were at work, but they’d left the keys to their brand-new SUV. It was the Home Alone/Ferris Bueller effect on a cool, blue-skyed Friday morning, and I felt free, exhilarated. I had much ground to cover, all of it in one day. First on their list was Maggie’s coffee bar suggestion. She knew of my fondness for a great cup of strong coffee and suggested the Lucky Goat. The place was perfect. A lovely barista gave me the rundown on their roasted beans and the company’s charming moniker. I ordered their “Drip of the Day” with a “Shot in the Dark”. She had my ticket.  

I made my way onto Centerville Road, which leads to Bradley’s Country Store (Number 2 on their list), and serves as the main general store between Tallahassee and Thomasville, Georgia. Miguel swore it was the best homemade sausage on the planet, and I was looking forward to a hearty meal. The place was from another time, all lumber and country fare, an ancient jukebox with The Crew Cuts and Fats Domino, a front porch with rocking chairs older than Foghorn Leghorn. The house specialty was indeed delicious, spicy and smoky. I sat on the front porch, rocked through my meal, washing it down with an ice-cold glass-bottled coke. I purchased a jar of Bradley’s Vidalia Onion Steak Sauce. This was Miguel’s only request, which he strongly insisted I execute, lest I find myself homeless for the night. They sold antique compasses at the checkout counter.  I bought one for my son, and one for someone else I care about. A small token of affection, a faithful magnetic device in case they ever lose their way. 

I then drove towards My Favorite Books, a used bookstore in midtown Tallahassee. The glass cottage store was inviting, comforting, full of great books, weighty volumes and antiquarian gems. I left with Peter Matthiessen’s In Paradise and July, July by Tim O’Brien. Fortunate finds by two National Book Award winners. I was happy and ready for my campus walkabout, bracing myself for the inevitable, the sentimental surge that would soon engulf me.  

Before I made it to campus, I drove down West Tennessee. So many memories. A trip to Atlanta came to the fore. Summer of 1990. The Econoline van idled outside the Delt House. There were four of us, wickedly ecstatic, hellbent on driving to Cobb County. Buffett was performing at the Lakewood Amphitheater. We didn’t know it then, but said concert would be immortalized on Feeding Frenzy, a legendary live album. We drove to Mike’s Beer Barn on Tennessee Street, a Farm Stores-looking shack that sold kegs in a drive through setup. We threw our money together, pulling just enough to score Busch. The Barn provided an ice-filled tub and tap, too. Finally, we had the cargo bay’s centerpiece. This illegal, ill-advised and unanimously-agreed-upon stupid idea made us quiver with joy. Our quest: empty the keg and nail and commit to handicapped memory every single syllable and nuanced delivery of Buffett’s live version of “God’s Own Drunk” from his 1978 live album You Had to Be There. We accomplished our mission. 

I then drove onto College Avenue and headed straight for the Wescott Building. I parked illegally and walked right up to the familiar, iconic fountain. I dipped my hand in the water, remembering a cold winter night thirty-seven years before when I was thrown in, naked, in 25-degree weather. I had just lavaliered my first college girlfriend. A lavalier is a small pendant you bestow upon your beloved as a promise of your devotion. Tradition dictated that said romantic schmuck be kidnapped by his brothers, have his clothes ripped off and dunked in the legendary fountain as punishment and ridicule for sentimental foolishness. But I did it, and I loved it. I serenaded CK, guitar in hand, on the front lawn of her sorority house. The song was Delta Girl, and it goes like this: 

“Delta Girl, we drink a toast to you 

Smiling eyes and hearts forever true 

May God bless you, your whole life through 

May he guide you, Delta Girl 

And when the sun of life begins to set 

May you know our hearts are with you yet 

And may these words you ne’er forget 

We love you Delta Girl 

My Delta Girl” 

I was nervous but armed with feeling. The performance was inspired, the memory true and evergreen. She came out of the house, beaming and tearful, a trail of sisters in her wake, and I placed the necklace and charm around her pretty, pale neck. Ten minutes later I was dripping, freezing, streaking across campus, seeking refuge from the elements and humiliation. I was rescued by three Pi Phis in a Jeep Wrangler. But it was one of the best memories I have, a landmark episode in a college career replete with them. Brother B-Rock also lavaliered his girlfriend on the very same night. There’s a picture floating around somewhere—or maybe it’s now resting quietly in Miguel’s Life Museum, an attic-like space that covers the entire third floor of his mansion, a venerated collection of mementos and memorabilia—of B-Rock and me, completely exposed, an action shot frozen in time, mid-splash and jubilant celebration. B-Rock, my beloved Delt brother, may he rest in peace.

I only have room for a few more impressions. Walking through campus was a mental and emotional chronicle. I walked by Landis Green, a student Mecca in the heart of FSU, a sprawling fertile oasis of youth, frisbees, Hawaiian Tropic, large beach towels and tiny bikinis, music of every flavor and era, sweet fruit and Fiji water, piles of slender paperbacks and a sea of reflecting iPhones. It hasn’t changed much, save for the electronics. So many celebrations, debacles, victories and heartaches on that verdant expanse. 

I passed by the Paul Dirac Science Library, where I worked, one of the many jobs I held during my tenure, reshelving incomprehensible books, loitering in the dark and uncertain aisles of quantum mechanics, toying with General Relativity and Schrodinger’s Cat. I walked by the Williams Building, where I took most of my literature courses, a sacred, stained-glass and red brick structure where I learned about Paul Theroux and Toni Morrison, Eudora Welty and Faulkner, Flannery O’Connor and Percy Shelley, a haven for the art and language I’d pursue and find meaning and sustenance in for the rest of my life.  

There were countless more encounters with my past. I’ll share one more. I finally reached McCollum Hall, the place where I lived during my sophomore year. I had my own Say Anything moment there, two years before Cameron Crowe placed a boom box over John Cusack’s head to the haunting beauty of Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes”. But it wasn’t my idea; I’m not that cool. CK and I had broken up—all my fault. The details don’t matter because what chiefly remains, what most of us can still conjure with ease, what rises above it all and endures, are the wondrous and tender things that made our hearts almost burst.

On that night, we were sitting in her Classic, yellow Datsun 240Z, right in front of McCollum Hall. We were making up, celebrating the joy and hard-missed intimacy we felt after a little time away. My room had a balcony facing the driveway. Alex, my big brother, who lived in the apartment right above, knew we had reunited, so he brought out his stereo—separate components (no boombox), turntable, receiver, wired speakers, the whole lot, and placed the cumbersome hi-fi setup on the thick cement wall of his balcony. With Pete, my roommate looking on, Alex gently blasted Jimmy Buffett’s “Coast of Marseilles”. They walked back inside our dorm as CK and I found our way back to each other. She and I were three stories below, but the music made its way inside the perfect little ember warming the musty interior of her sleek and sexy sports car. 

I drove back to Miguel’s house, ruminative and happy to be alive. I showered and read. Maggie returned from work less than an hour later, and we took a walk through the stunning Lake Overstreet Trails. We made it all the way to a large gazebo/deck overlooking the lake. It was magnificent, quiet and still, spiritual. On our walk back, as we reached their home, I was overtaken by the majesty of hundreds of white flowers blooming with delicate, porcelain grace. I hadn’t noticed these angels upon my arrival. They were now radiant in the vigorous light of the late afternoon sun. Maggie tells me these ravishing flowers are azaleas, and I’m the better for this knowledge.  

Miguel drives up soon after, and, of course, there is a plan already in motion. Next stop: Georgia. We hopped in the truck and headed for Thomasville. Food is the thing in Thomasville. So is the history, architecture and southern charm. We drove through town, taking in the red and brown brick and lush foliage, the inviting eateries and little playhouses, the old lamp posts and celebrated landmarks. One of these, The Big Oak, is, well, exactly what it says—and, supposedly, the largest and oldest in the country: 339 years old, 155-foot spread, 70 feet tall, with a trunk circumference of 27 feet. We made it to our chosen spot for dinner, Sweet Grass Cheese Shop. The fare was royal. There were a variety of cheeses, from creamy, subtle brie to sharp Manchego and herb-infused cheddars. They were served with blackberry patch preserves, house B+B pickles, roasted Schermer pecans and crackers, artisan mustard, their very own, famous pimento cheese on flatbread and on and on. A perfect repast with perfect company.  

We were soon back on the road headed for Melhana Plantation, where the first screening of Gone with the Wind took place, back in 1939. The grounds were magnificent, the beauty surpassing all expectations. The large, white plantation house (now a chapel), where Hollywood execs and glamorous stars first screened the film, was imposing. It was a strange feeling, somewhat dichotomous—darkness visible, palpable in the presence of such natural splendor. But the beguiling landscape, coming to full sumptuousness in the gloaming, was sublime.  

Miguel brought up Peter Farrelly’s film Green Book. I told him I enjoyed the film very much, and we discussed the story, the solid acting and direction. He had another surprise, he said. We drove away from Melhana and stopped at what’s left of The Imperial Hotel, which was featured in the original Green Book travel guide and the movie. I was very moved by the experience. The hotel has been vacant since the early 2000’s and is now but a ruin. Apparently, it was purchased in 2018, and the owner is working to preserve its history. This remains to be seen.  

Our final stop was a hidden gem at the edge of Tallahassee. Fish Camp is a bar, restaurant, music venue, bait shop, and mini marina. Perched precariously on the edge of Lake Lamonia, Fish Camp is a rustic establishment with a sweet-rough atmosphere, its patrons an eclectic collection of souls, a cast from a film Fellini would have made in the South. The evening was cold and crystal clear. There was a bar inside the main shack, taps pouring, oysters being shucked, laid exposed and almost quivering on ice-covered aluminum platters. I bought us a round and we headed outside, the dusk now engulfing our little sliver of planet. 

We walked up to the lake. What was left of the sun generously gifted us a cosmic painting I could not turn away from, colors and grandeur the likes of which I’d never seen. I stood there at the end of the pier until the last brush stroke obliterated the separation of water and sky, leaving only pinpoints of fiery specks expertly strewn across the eternal black dome. We walked back to a picnic table as the house band broke into song. It was an unlikely tune, a song I was not expecting from this outfit, but one nonetheless orchestrated by fate. The three of us looked at each other two bars into the first verse of The Mavericks’ “All You Ever Do is Bring Me Down”. 

I was dazed and filled with joy at that very moment. I thought perhaps Miguel had made the request surreptitiously, but I was happy to learn that it was a simple case of serendipity. We made our way home through the canopied night roads and arrived home tired but fulfilled. I said my goodbyes with customary emotion, thanked my good friends for all of it, and we retired to our rooms for the night.  

I flew back to Miami in the morning and finally walked inside my cherished little place, grateful for what just passed and the comforting rush that only getting home can provide. I unpacked, showered, and sat on the couch. The sturdy sentinels flanking my entertainment center, containing the art of a million words, stood loyal and welcoming. I was tempted to revisit something familiar, curative. But I sat down to write instead. I didn’t get far, but I began to make something. I was ready for what lay ahead, reaffirming that everything new and all that is old is nothing more than the present.