Notes From Central Florida: Alligators and Angels Abound

Yesterday we made the long drive from St. Augustine to Dade City, with a quick stop at Blue Springs State Park. The major event of the day was the loss, and rediscovery, of my brand new iPhone. This is what happened.

We went to Blue Springs, a warm spring that flows into the St. John's River, to see the manatees. And if I had my iPhone with me now you would see the manatees too. But more about that later. The manatees, delicate, bumbling and endangered creatures that look a bit like swimming elephants, migrate into a variety of warm springs around Florida in the winter and early spring to breed and to warm up a bit. It's like manatee spring break. At any rate, there were five that we saw, all on the youngish side; there was also an outstanding sample of a blue-gray alligator mississippiensis sitting on the far bank. A park volunteer who was doing a gar census near where we were (a gar is a skinny fish that becomes as big as fifty pounds, and is distinguished by an extremely long, thin nose) handed me his binoculars and I got a good close-up of the alligator's face. They all have a fixed, insane, toothy grin that inspires the thought: "Serial killer." I myself cannot get enough of alligators, and my current hostess has promised alligators in the pond on their property. In addition to the gar, there were schools of snook, and at least one black fish as big as my head that is commonly sold in pet stores, but in a thumb size model. "Aquarium dump," the volunteer said succinctly. Apparently fish that are thrown in the rivers in Florida, or flushed down the toilet, if they survive, thrive well beyond their life span as pets. So yes, it is worth saying: probably everything you have heard about wildlife in Florida is true.

So back to the iPhone. We got back in the car and, just as we were getting back on route 17, my companion noticed that the trunk was open. I won't belabor this but: somewhere between me getting out of the car and getting back in, my iPhone slipped from my possession. Several blocks down the road, I realized this. We returned to the scene, pursued a methodical search, but to no avail. One of us went in to ask the gas station owners if it had been turned in, and they shook their heads sorrowfully. "Not a chance anyone would turn in a thing like that," one said sympathetically, "Not here." We left. There were tears. I will quietly draw a veil over the next hour or so.

Needless to say, as we passed development after development in the metro Orlando region (most of which -- if state-level statistics in Florida are correct -- are running at a foreclosure rate that is expected to run well over fifty percent before this financial crisis is over) I wrestled myself back into some version of sanity. Not only is it not fair to ruin someone else's vacation over a lost telephone, but in the midst of bankruptcies and foreclosures, to kvell relentlessly over an object that is, although beloved, replaceable, is wrong. And certainly not Radical. In comparing my pain to the pain of others, I found mine wanting.

And I promised myself I would buy another as soon as I could get to an AT&T store on Monday.

But then there was a miracle. As we drove up the long driveway to the home of the family members who are harboring us for the rest of the week, as they all came out to greet us (the youngest, a great nephew who is four, shrieking with pleasure at our arrival), my niece came out with a telephone and said that one of our other mutual nephews, who lives in Shoreline, needed to talk to me now.

My phone had been found, by Roy and Kristine of Orange City, Florida who, when they pulled up to the gas station, were returning to their home in Orange City from celebrating Bike Week in Ft. Lauderdale. Actually, it was Kristine who spotted the iPhone in the parking lot and picked it up, perhaps minutes, or even seconds, after I dropped it, and Roy claims it is in perfect condition. They found me by calling the first number in the book, which happened to be said nephew's father, who happened to know where we were, but knew nothing about an iPhone. But my nephews -- who pay close attention to the electronic acquisitions of their nearest and dearest as well as to where everyone is going on vacation and when -- put two and two together and explained to the pater that someone had found my iPhone! Needless to say, a happy ending is underway. Roy and Kristine are going to mail me the cherished item tomorrow; theoretically it should be here Tuesday or Wednesday. I am going to mail them a lot of money, which they didn't say no to, so my guess is that it is welcome. And when you figure that I was ready to spend the money anyway for a new phone, well, it all makes sense.

So when you think of Florida, don't think of Jeb Bush: think of Roy and Kristine. As I thanked them profusely, Kristine said, "Well it's no trouble at all. I would like to think someone would do the same thing for me."

I would, actually. But now I really would. And as for the nephews: I now officially pronounce you The Boy Detectives.

Hello Dali!

OK, so your Radical is in convention recovery, in St. Petersburg Florida, by a pool. All I can say to everybody up north is: Nyah, nyah.

Just kidding.

OK -- so part of the package is that I am in temporary charge of a three year old nephew. Big deal. He's a sweet boy with a lovely smile. And, after an hour or so at a splendid playground and park by the water, he agreed to accompany me to the Salvador Dali Museum. I have been waiting approximately twenty years to get someone to do this with me, since surrealist art is never on the top of our agenda when we are visiting relatives who don't see us much. But this morning, it was just me and the boy. So of course I jumped on the opportunity to take advantage of a companion who a) must do what I say, no matter what; b) has a pleasant disposition; and c) has a tendency to say "yes," "no" or "OK" when you ask him a question. Hence, you have a 66.33% chance of total agreement to any activity.

"Want to go to the Salvador Dali Museum?" I said.

"Okay," he said.

And we were off. We went through at his speed, which is a fast trot. It is my opinion that viewing art at the child's pace, even if you are wearing trifocals and need a second or two more than he gives you to focus, is one good way not to ruin museums for him. As a counter example, my parents used to saunter through them at a leisurely, thoughtful walk, discussing the paintings one by one, as though they were in a group entirely made up of adults. Needless to say, being treated as an equal has other advantages, but this, I found, was not one of them. My sister and I became adept at standing in front of Major Works looking as though we were thinking Deep Thoughts about them, but we were secretly bored out of our minds. I never enjoyed art at all until my twenties, when I started gallery hopping with a gay man who would literally go through SoHo at a dead run, stopping only for an occasional vodka.

If you are in the St. Pete area, and you haven't been to the Dali Museum, go, and if you are with a child, double-go: I think it's a great little museum, and of course surrealist paintings make no sense, so they are kind of more intriguing for kids than realist art. In addition, right now the museum has an exhibit of surrealist paintings, sculptures and drawings done by school children in the community that is really very impressive. I mean, the work is impressive, but they also obviously have some great art teachers working in this city.

And you can get a fabulous foam Salvador Dali clock, where the 12 and the 6 wag back and forth, for only twenty dollars. My nephew now has one, although he will need a more conventional time piece to learn to tell time -- one where all the numbers are actually lined up on an axis, for example. Even I can't tell what time it is on that clock. We also have a book for children on The Life and Work of Salvador Dali. My favorite page says "Salvador was expelled from art school in Madrid because he caused trouble. In Paris he met a Russian girl called Gala. She became a model and then his wife." What they don't tell you in the book is that he was expelled because he announced that his teachers were not competent to examine him; that he was a big Franco-phile; and that Gala was married to someone else when she became his "model." Details, details. We should all be writing children's books.

But, since I would agree with the editors' view that three year olds are a little young for conversations about fascism or adultery, I would actually support the central historical argument here, which is:

Causing Trouble ---> Spectacular Artistic Career.

Finally, I want to take this opportunity of a relative lull in the academic schedule to introduce you to Historiann, a newish blogger doing a dynamite job, who is now on my blogroll. Click now for some historical context on Gloria Steinem's recent remarks about the relative weight of racism and sexism in the Democratic primaries. Historiann ain't buying it. She also led me to this pithy commentary on Happy Jihad's House of Pancakes.