My family just returned from our first trip to Florida. Most people assumed, that having two children, we probably ventured on the mandatory odyssey to any of the top theme parks located in that state. Much to the amazement of others - we did not. As a matter of fact, we have never even gone to any roller coaster park as a family, partly because two of the family members do not do well physically while being strapped into cars that race at lighting speed across a track or seem to be dropped from outer space. At the end, we saved a lot of money and stuck to our family mantra to travel off the beaten path. Our google search criteria always includes the word "secluded".
With pooch in tow (well, not literally of course), we drove south, excited to see a new part of the country. As we succumbed to the monotony of Interstate 95, we eventually noticed that the vegetation started to change. Among the leafy hardwood trees that we are used to in our region, more and more pine trees, palmetto palms and Spanish moss appeared, indicating, that the soil structure changed from heavy clay to sandier ground. The landscape was interspersed with swamps and wetlands, naked tree stumps sticking out like skinny arms. It reminded me of swamp scenes in "Lord of the Rings" .
Eventually we left the well-known East coast traffic corridor with its neverending string of cookie cutter rest stops - one looking like the last one: truck stop, gas stations, fast food chains - and took off on Interstate 10, which stirred up a bit of nostalgia in my Los Angeles born husband. He thought the sign should read his California City of Angels as the final destination. Off we went, deeper into the south, where people use "y'all" and have a lovely accent, yet turning onto a lesser known highway until we hit the gulf coast. We were amazed at how flat the land was, the gulf was still and stretched until the horizon, a few huge white thunder clouds in the distance decorating the top if the line, where the sky meets the water.
Our island retreat on St. George Island was everything we had yearned for: remote, quiet, unknown, a virgin tourist paradise. There was not much to research online about this place, and it seemed to fit its Floridian nickname "The Forgotten Coast". The nearest town was "Apalachicola", where we could stock our fridge at the local Piggly Wiggly, which had its own smokehouse in the parking lot - great rotisserie chicken!
One afternoon, we had to give in to our location's spot on the map, and venture out to find an Internet cafe of some sort. Thank Goodness, there was no Starbucks or similar establishments, but a very charming, artsy and warm coffeehouse on the riverfront, owned by a Venezuelan woman and run by a French man. On the handwritten coffee menu, it said in white chalk "Wir sprechen Deutsch" - "We speak German". Now, German tourists can be found almost anywhere on this planet, but in Apalachicola, Florida - far away from the Everglades and Key West? I was curious and had to ask. It turned out that the French gentleman behind the counter spoke fluent German, we had a quick conversation and it seemed to me that he did not want to share why he decided to stay in this part of the United States, other than for its natural beauty and artsy flair, a place, where people are proud of their history and always have a little story to share. He admitted he would much rather live in New York, but feeling that living right here, in that little town, may not have been his choice, I left it at that. I am sure he had a very good reason. So, I enjoyed the fact that people came and went into the coffeehouse, greeting him by his first name. He whistled and sang while making coffee, later he pointed out his paintings on the wall next to other local artists.
Being more curious about this place, my husband and I ventured out to get a feel for this town of fishermen. It reminded us of some outpost in the Wild West, a place where you would have seen saloons, markets and small hotels - a historic crossroad, where people from all walks of life and all parts of the world may have come for business, news or ship repairs. And so it was! Reaching the riverfront again after looping through the town, we came to a tiny park, where we saw a historic plaque. It said:" When the River was King". Form reading the sign, we learned that Apalachicola was a thriving port town in the 1800s, in fact, it used to be the third largest cotton trading city and ran a dominant fish canning industry, with domestic and foreign steamboats docking on this river inlet from the gulf. Where we were standing, one was able to imagine the bustle of a port town about 150 years ago, that made up to $14,000,000,000 in business in 1860! Despite the dollar being worth less then, it was still an amazing number and ranked Apalachicola before Boston Harbor in terms of trade volume. How rich it must have been. Markets and hotels, even a French consulate once lined this street and named the town "Queen of the River".
Today, you don't see the wealth, but you do see potential, just like the young artist from France. It is a quaint town, the sticky summer heat gives it something nostalgic with folks taking it easy on the front porch during the heat of the day. Adventurers and hopefuls have started small shops and restaurants, I real venture capital. The local owner of an antique shop shares her story of growing up here, when she owned nothing but her clothes, her doll and a bike when she was in third grade. So different from her grandchildren, she tells me, they know how to work those computers and own ATVs. Despite her daughter's criticism, she still has her doll in her bedroom - there is a cute wicker bed in the store next door, she shares, it would be perfect for that doll and would fit her wicker bedroom furniture at home. But that young business lady from next door is new, she charges too much and opens her store late. There is that suspicion towards the hopefuls from outside this town.
A little further down we come across a more traditional souvenir store, signs of "Tupela Honey" have caught our eye. We had seen signs before, along the country rode, where old men were selling homemade honey among Spanish moss covered oaks. Entering the store, the owner greets us enthusiastically, engages us into a conversation very quickly, and before we even realize what happend, we are part of an expert lecture about Tupela Honey. We learn to look for just the right color, the proper yellow bottle cap and understand that the Tupela flower grows in the swamps up the river and will only produce the purest honey for two weeks in the spring. This honey never crystalizes and due to a different kind of sugar is good for diabetics. Of course we had to buy a bottle! Our son was mesmerized by the old-fashioned cash register - no laser scanner, but lots of brass colored buttons, a ring and a huge drawer pushing open! And just like you would expect in a small town, our offspring was asked to come behind the counter and give the register a try himself. How cool was that!
We left the gulf coast amazed by the fact, that we had never know about this area, how lucky we were to find it and how we could never live here since getting here meant driving through some very poor looking towns, whose glimmer was lost when the railway stopped to connect these communities to the rest of the country during the hay day of the industrial age. People are still fishermen down here, like they have always been, going out in tiny wooden boats with tongs used for scraping the ground for oysters. They have learned to live with the weather, the humidity, the flooding, the storms. These folks are resilient and they have not forgotten their history!
