Southern Comfort

When I step out of the airport’s automatic ingress, the wave of humidity hits me like a doused blanket. Unfortunately, it’s no warmer than it was at home; simply soggier and sunnier. We navigate a maze of hulking SUVs until we spot the one bearing the logo of our chosen ride share. It shares the windshield with three other logos - sadistic algorithms cannibalizing each other. 

It’s a 40 minute drive to the coast. Inland, the greenery is barely contained by clippers, shears and mowers. The kudzu is eager to attach its rhizomous mouthes anywhere it can find respite. 

We cross a 4-mile-long bridge over a bay; I fantasize about how long it would take the sea to reclaim this without the constant maintenance it must require. Imagining coral overtaking colossal concrete blocks of interstate brings a smile. 

The headlights of our ride haze into roiling waves of sand and mist as we approach the hotel. 

The next morning, I wake up well before dawn and head out to the balcony. I do some glorified streching and call it Yoga. My lower back emits a rumbling “Pop!” as I come out of Ananda Balasana. 

A little closer to daybreak, the clouds gather like a murder of crows over the ocean. The surf begins to crash audibly louder over the white sand beaches and their thunderous calm is infectious. 

The blissful silence is suddenly pierced by the belching, squealing cacophony of a large truck’s exhaust. It barrels up and down the empty boardwalk, declaring its intention to ‘MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN’ with a large flag affixed to its bed. 

When I step back inside, I pour myself a vodka and Orange Juice. As I down the Screwdriver, I vow to add Yoga to my morning routine and make a mental note not to wear my Judy Blue shorts or eye makeup here. “If only I were a sex trafficker, or pedophile,” I sarcastically lamented to the millenial-grey condo. “I could be who I really wanted to in Florida.”

Daytime brings neon blue skies against blindingly opalite beach backdrops. 

On the beach, I eat two tacos sparsely populated with anemic shrimp and wash it down with a watery Mai Tai. The privelege sets me back $115. I wonder aloud to the server whether we have become Great Again. 

The next morning brings a more solitary dawn, and we wander down to the waves. 

“I heard this sand is white because there’s quartz in it, and it’s healing. That’s what the yoga lady said, anyways.”

The granules exfoliate my feet to a fine smoothness when I burrow them into the sand, as I see how deep I can get. 

I spend the ride back to the airport promising myself to come back here when the world ends and the people are gone. As long as that bridge holds up, I remind myself.