Tallahassee is my first destination on this six month adventure, or ‘midlife crisis’ as Sarah puts it. Her comment has me contemplating what this six months IS about. I am certain that it is not a soon to be 55 year old’s last dash at ‘youthfulness’ (just one look at my body tells me that is long gone!) Four months ago I realised that my soul felt depleted, I was devoid of passion, life was heavy. The past three years had been tough. It was only a few months into a new challenging job that mum suddenly passed — a nine day roller coaster ride that left us all numb with the speed of her decline and the cold reality of death. Just thirteen months later, after a tragically short battle with cancer my childhood neighbour, playmate and lifelong friend, Trace, passed away. Less than a year after Trace, just two years after mum, dad’s brief spell of see-sawing health plummeted and a mere 5 days from hospital admission, Dad’s soul peacefully left. Six months earlier when he seemed to be fading away before our eyes, with friends I shared “I’ll feel like an orphan when he dies”. I thought being adopted was why I had a looming sense of abandonment but from friends, movies, and media I came to see that this is an inevitable ‘right of passage’ for those of us who outlive our parents. A request for six moths leave without pay, the purchase of a round the world ticket, a plan to spend time with a string of friends, throw in a couple of adventures, and here I am in Tallahassee.
Sun drenched days, temps up in the ‘high eighties’ (over 30 degrees to an Aussie) and 74 % humidity defy the calendar’s proclamation that it is autumn. But I am on a mission. Patagonia hiking in January. The most I’ve ever achieved has been a seven hour hike seven years ago on Hydra. Strange that I had never noticed the greenway behind Sarah’s house on previous trips. I am pleased to discover this expansive thoroughfare of forest tracks and now have no excuses. Most days I set off with my iPhone app ‘maps.me’, bottles of water, a hat and my camera working towards my goal of a 5 hour walk — naively I have not looked at the distances of the Patagonia hikes, rather I am stuck on my capacity to sustain ‘hours’ of walking. So on the hottest, most humid and still day I complete the five hours, returning spent beyond comparison. My iPhone and fitbit tell me I’d walked more than 17 kms. The next day I discover the hikes in Patagonia will be a mere 12.5kms with not much altitude. My anxiety about completing the hikes is waning a little and in the days after this mammoth effort, plunging my feet into the local pool seems a better option than into my heavy hiking boots.
By the second week Hurricane Nate begins to toy with the panhandle coast, thwarting a Florida coastal weekend getaway just as another had four years ago. I make a silent ‘note to self’ — next visit I’ll come in April, well out of the hurricane season. Wednesday, then Thursday pass with Nate diverting to the Louisiana coast and while Destin, our planned for destination, is in the danger zone we decide to risk it, cancelling just one of the two ‘non-refundable’ hotel nights and opting for a bed at Tibie’s in Panama City instead. I am determined to see the renowned Destin beach.
Come Friday we head out on ‘Interstate 10’ past towering dense forest that lines the route. We turn off for Blountstown, a sleepy hollow voted ‘safest town in America’ more than 16 years ago. Just a bit of an anomaly given Blounstown and neighbouring boroughs are the ‘deep south’, KKK land. Tales abound of regular changes to the speed limit, a police tactic to catch unwitting travellers. Sarah and her friends, African, Caribbean and African American tell of their near misses, the visceral relief when a black officer strolls up to the car rather than a white trooper or sheriff. Zenia, an Islander (Caribbean) still learning the ropes, is sternly cautioned to NEVER stop at night, no matter what, in nearby Altha or Bristol. Driving through we pass homecoming preparations — locals parked with their picnic chairs out front of trucks, awaiting a parade of first responders, like a white ribbon strewn along the roadside. Fond memories of visiting Sarah and family in Blountstown years earlier weave through a stream of recollections. Takura had just started school and Linda, a reticent 3 year old, who for some reason had taken a liking to her aunty Lisa, followed me around helping with the dishes or sweeping alongside me with her toy broom. It was somewhat disheartened on later trips to find the bond broken, she was, and is, a mummy’s girl. Now at Grad school and living out of home, she flies in for a brief dose of ‘mom — daughter’ time and is out the door as quickly as she’s come. Blountstown gave me my first encounter with Piggly Wiggly — the southern supermarket chain. The name still entertains me with swirling memories of childhood nursery rhymes. For some incomprehensible reason Sarah also thinks back fondly on the town, wistfully considering living there again — despite the (white) state trouper who’d tail her round town or the childcare that politely said they were full for months, until she suddenly realised no black kids were enrolled there. But I suppose with a rewarding job, the making of lifelong friends, the ‘dark’ tones of the town have been brushed with more rosy hues.
Our destination for the first night is Panama City, (Florida that is, not Panama). After devouring free boiled peanuts at the Five Guys burger joint, sampling what is locally considered a good burger (not the same as an Aussie fish’n’chip shop creation) and sharing a supersized individual portion of fries, we make it to the beach — St Andrew’s national park where the sand is powder white and the Gulf of Mexico water drifts in in ever increasing waves as various crafts sail or motor by. Grey cumulus clouds hover at the western horizon, harmless at a distance while in the east a dense wall of metal grey clouds approach but thankfully the curtain of rain remains a distant back drop to the sun bathed beach. The locals, Sarah and Tibie, tentatively putting a toe in the water, exclaim at the water’s temperature while the Aussie, used to the frigid waters of Bass Strait, immerses herself in the warm crystal clear sea without pause.
The weather channel seems more of a staple, a necessity here in the South — while I am in Florida a chain of tropical storms tease meteorologists as they dance around the Caribbean, like debutantes spoilt for choice — which island nation will be whirled around this time? Zenia proudly informed me that St Lucia is the place to live — floating outside the hurricane. Over a glass of wine we contemplate our plan for tomorrow. Nate is increasing in intensity and moving fast. We decide to wait and see.
I awake to clear sunny skies, light breeze, heat — perfect beach weather. But the locals don’t agree. We cancel the night’s accomodation in Destin deciding to drive west into, not the eye of the storm, but the frill of it’s swirling skirt, all in the name of shopping at the outlet mall. To be honest, I’d have preferred a few hours at the beach but others were to dictate the day. We wait for Tibie’s friend to arrive. Never quite got her name, one of those African American concoctions that, rather than stick in your mind with its poignance, befuddle you with its non-sense, not quite making it into the memory bank. I’ll call her Katrina. She has to pick up her washing and take it home, she tells Tibie. Resistant to Tibie’s directive to bring the washing with her, she leaves us waiting — sitting in the car with growing humidity and no aircon. I’m not sure why we aren’t disembarking and waiting inside and am starting to become just a little impatient and frustrated. Generally when I visit friends I willingly go with the flow, letting them decide where to, what time and who with, in contrast to life at home dense with decisions. But sitting in a hot car with idyllic beaches just a stones throw away, well I am not feeling my most Zen. I calm myself with thoughts of ‘African time’ and try to let go of attachment to my preferred plan.
Katrina arrives and off we go. Two hours with Christian Music playing, interspersed with exclamations of “praise the lord”, and a point by point narrative of all the reality developments along the route — Katrina’s second job is a real estate agent. “Rosa Beach will see a Six Flags development” she reports knowingly, indifferent to my ignorance — what is a Six Flags? I’m later informed it’s an amusement park chain. We talk of land prices, plots in the new estate ranging from 70,000 to 1 million US, houses for anything from $130,000 to 1 million “but you have only eight options of design and colours to choose from”. As she regales me with other local enticements — jazz festivals, poetry readings, concerts, I wonder if this coastal area is just a little confused with it’s identity. Tibie and Katrina sing along to the radio. I’m a little amused, and curious. Christian music has come along way from my recollections of the Catholic ‘charismatic’ movement of the 70’s. 2017 Christian music appears to have appropriated all genres, country, hiphop, pop, r&b. There are a few tunes that sound decidedly mainstream and I later ask Sarah if these radio stations feel exposed ethically, in conflict playing for example Beyonce’s ‘Halo’, the original purpose not in any way godly but easily earmarked as a devotion. There was no clear answer.
We reach Destin in time for a few hours of shopping. Despite grey skies not yet threatening, wind not yet wild, plastic barriers are screwed into place over windows, sand bags are dragged into doorways and the stores closer a few hours earlier than usual — all in preparation for Nate. Well God clearly had a higher purpose for me that day. Rather than lazing on a beach, saving my pennies for the months ahead, I shop till I drop and I needed every item I purchased of course! Next time I am definitely coming in April, will see Destin beach, and bring a second suitcase!
By three in the afternoon Nate is making his presence noticed, the wind has picked up and large drops of rain splatter the windscreen. We drive east out of the storm past roadside signs ‘Full Sail Reality’ and ‘Mattress Firm’ and approaching Panama City agree on Sonny’s southern ribs for a late lunch early dinner. Seated in a booth the three black women and I peruse the menu as a young white waiter hovers. It’s not unusual for whites to refuse to serve blacks down here. Eventually Sarah, Tibie and Katrina make their orders, each with adaptations — reworking the menu as their own. Unsure and intimidated, especially when Tibie adds to her order a serve of ‘redneck eggrolls’, the young guy seems to get the unspoken message. Waiting for our meal, the Christian dialogue continues and I feel I am sitting in an evangelic church — questions and answers dance back and forth in the way a pastor calls out and the congregation answers. I wonder at the term ‘god fearing’ and its meaning — ‘earnestly religious’. But why ‘fearing’, maybe I am out of touch, maybe religions are no longer ‘god fearing’ and see him as benevolent? Tibie and Katrina make “The lord will deliver” assurances to any stated problem, espoused with a patented jubilance that seems devoid of any real joy. I know that both these ladies are going through tough times, so maybe its like the science that tells us putting a smile on our face actually increases our joy — the muscles, nerves and limbic system giving a temporary short cut to bliss. Hmmm?
Our meal arrives. Looking around the diner I notice the locals, this is well and truely Trump country, liberal Tallahassee, a university town, perhaps an aberration in the panhandle? Just then a blaring takes over the room. Sarah informs me it’s our phones sounding an alarm. I look down to see ‘Emergency Alert. Tornado Warning in this area til 5.00 pm CDT. Take shelter now. Check local media’. A bit of a risk taker, interested in a bit of an adventure, I have to admit to a sense of panic, an ‘is this real’ moment, as I ask, everyone calmly putting their phone away, “Do we do anything?” Clearly not. So we sit and enjoy the meal when it finally comes, redneck egg rolls and all.
Heading home a day early, on roads that are known by their numbers, we take interstate 10 again, pass though backwater ‘towns’ (a patrol station, some trailers, and a palpable sense that we don’t want to stop). With me the whitey in the car it might not be so bad, but nup, we’ll keep going thanks. Soon we are home to comfy beds, more HBO for me (I balance my training with binging on ‘In Treatment’), with a glass of Yellowtail Shiraz and handfuls of shopping bags littering my bedroom floor, well out of reach of Nate. All is good with the world.
But my spiritual tourism doesn’t end there. Brought up a Catholic, and practising till my mid twenties, I am sure mum was more than a little peeved that I continued to attend church when overseas, why not at home? Visiting Cathedrals and the like, lighting a candle for her, she would have got that. But attending services? For me is curiosity and respect for my hosts. Like me, Sarah was brought up a catholic and other than attending the Lutheran church with Ommet for a brief time and a brush with a pentecostal church in Blountstown (now that was an experience) she has stuck with the Catholics. Attending the Sunday night youth mass we drive to the service as day light fades. I scan the congregation, and when I later comment to Sarah “They all look SO American” she’s just a little bemused, after all, they are American. But it’s that clean cut, wide tooth grin, that ever so proper dress almost circa 1960 or 1980, I don’t know….maybe its just too much like the family TV shows we watched as kids with those perfect happy families? As the weeks pass I notice everyone has their place — literally, sitting in pretty much the same pew and position each week.
It is a marginally multicultural congregation, a few blacks attend this service, the African American Catholic church being across town. There are also some asians and hispanics. I notice a woman and her teenage daughter, lace veils draped over their hair, and am swept back to St Peter’s in the 1960s. But tonight the two black alter girls are pure 21st century. One night there is a single alter boy, dad proudly smiling from his pew. The poor boy must be new, have attention problems, or a very easy-go-lucky attitude, I ponder, as the priest and deacon continually and quietly prompt him throughout the service.
The young priest stands at the alter, the backdrop an array of plants and floral tributes, as he offers his sermon. Self effacing, gentle, not the most articulate of public speakers, his first sermon is about the sanctity of life. Walking into the church tan anti abortion poster heralded a warning, but I listen as he leads his flock from the sanctity of environmental life, the history of catholicism as vegetarians (the life of cows, who’d have known!) and ultimately of course to the life of a foetus. What was most curious was they way he distanced himself and the Church from any of his proclamations, all were attributed to the pope — a get out of free card for when the next pope came along and changed the rules? As he encourages his congregation to stand outside the local abortion clinic, bot in protest but to offer spiritual guidance to any woman entering, I feel affronted — but he was subdued, there was no rhetoric, just quietly asserting that he knew of children in the church that would not be here today if not for the chat he had at the door of the abortion clinic.
The youth mass draws young parishioners to do the readings, their devotion and passion just a little off putting to me — I suppose I’m stuck in the vein of ‘let’s all keep our faith and beliefs moderate and private please’. When the youth group leader makes his weekly announcements his piousness seems a little naive, particularly when he shares the evening’s topic — same sex attraction. They were ‘blessed to have a visit by a same sex attracted man who managed his cross by chastity….there is always a home in the church!’ My mind darts back and forth with rebuttals. So do all the Catholic couples only have sex to procreate? Never for pleasure or as an expression of love? Poor Tendai listens to all my challenges and views as Sarah and I dissect each mass on the drive home.
Three weeks come to a close. Meals of sadza ne muriwo, Australian Shiraz. Loads of washing, washing loads of dishes. Giving a lecture to Sarah’s Masters of Occupational Therapy students, at FAMU (Florida Agricultural and Mechanical University) on Autism and Mental Health, prepared it on the run on Sarah’s couch. Walking 17 kms in one go. Lots of TV, but even more talking. This was the first chapter in my midlife adventure as I fly home for four days.
