Last week, I went to Florida. I flew out of New York City (LGA) to Orlando on Tuesday and came back Sunday. I had planned the trip almost a year ago, with the expectation of spending a few days with my parents, something I've done for many years.
My parents live in Pittsburgh but have a condominium in Vero Beach, where they spend winters. When they first announced their plan to go to Florida, I was skeptical: it seemed like they were somehow giving up on life, resigning themselves to aging and the inevitable decline that comes with it. Did they not have any dreams beyond sitting on a beach? I was also skeptical about Florida, which I viewed as an unfolding environmental disaster populated by a mix of leather-skinned seniors and vacuous spring breakers. Twenty years later, and more comfortable with the idea of resigning myself to aging -- especially if it involves access to a beach -- I've come to appreciate Florida. I like the people I've met. I like the big, Florida sky and its verdant landscape, the golden light that turns everything and everyone into silhouettes at twilight. (I know this happens everywhere, but somehow it's more magical in Florida: don't ask me why, it just is.)
This year I went with three of my brothers. Two of them flew to Orlando around the same time as me -- we rented a car -- while a third drove from Tennessee. When we planned the trip, almost a year ago, we didn't expect to be on the precipice of a pandemic, but that's of course where we found ourselves. I'm not sure if you remember last Tuesday -- just ten days ago -- but the landscape was very different then than it is today (and, no doubt, will be tomorrow). The wave of cancellations and closures was just beginning; there were only a handful of deaths in the United States, far fewer, for example, than the casualties of a typical flu season or even the ~100,000 people who die every month around the world in car crashes.* 'Social distancing' mostly meant avoiding handshakes in favor of elbow bumps and half-heartedly trying to avoid touching your face. (How?) But for those of us inclined to scroll through Twitter in the middle of the night, there was cause for alarm. Italy was getting serious; they were supposedly digging mass graves in Iran. In the days leading up to our departure, my brothers and I began to debate if and how we should modify our plans. One of us was nervous about flying at all, another suggested we not attend a concert my mother had already purchased tickets for, another questioned whether the media was exaggerating the potential impact of the virus. I'm sure these are the kind of conversations that were happening everywhere: there was so much information -- much of it contradictory -- that it seemed equally rational to act as if nothing bad were happening, or, on the other hand, to go into complete isolation. (I tended toward the latter extreme.) On Monday, we agreed to go ahead with the trip, mostly on account of our parents. It still seemed reasonable to fly and to socialize in small groups, although we agreed that we wouldn't bring them (or attend) any large events.
*Google it.
But on Tuesday afternoon, as my brothers and I gathered at the baggage claim at the Orlando airport, our attitude had already shifted. The purpose of the trip, we agreed, had now changed from vacation to evacuation, or perhaps vacation + evacuation: we needed to convince our parents, who were not slated to leave Florida until early April, to leave now, or soon; maybe not in the next day, but definitely by Sunday, when we were scheduled to go.
Having made at least the rough draft of an evacuation plan, there seemed to be little to do but go forward with the vacation part. We picked up the rental car and drove east. On the drive, we mostly discussed politics: as a Bernie supporter, I was still dismayed by the Super Tuesday results and the party and media machinations that -- in my view -- had led to it. I couldn't believe that the party was coalescing around someone I found as uninspiring and incoherent as Joe Biden, whose record was marked with unforgivable transgressions (Anita Hill, bankruptcy, social-security, the Iraq War) and in no way promised the kind of structural change I believed (and believe) necessary to address the systemic inequality and environmental degradation we've experienced in the post-war era. My brothers, though sympathetic to my arguments, felt that Biden, despite his record, was more 'electable' and could at least begin the process of getting our country back on course, even if the changes were only incremental. As siblings are often required to do to remain on speaking terms, we agreed to disagree.
After picking up my mother and father, we went to our rental house, which was right across the road from the beach. Booking early had clearly paid off, I thought, building a flimsy wall between my immediate surroundings and the lurking fears that roamed beyond.
The house was old and charming, filled with vintage knick-knacks, some of which cut against the grain of the stereotypical (beefy, male, lunkhead) lifeguard. I wondered who had inspired this artwork and where she was now. (Was she washing her hands?)
We went to dinner with my parents, who -- after listening to our unanimously voiced reasons for doing so -- pretty quickly agreed to fly home early. My mother's biggest concern was that we spend the rest of the week in Florida; she didn't want the vacation to be ruined. She was close to ninety; she didn't have many vacations left. It was hard to argue with her, at least emotionally. We agreed to stay through Sunday, although I continued to have my doubts. The NBA had just canceled its season and the NHL was rumored to be next. Would it be possible to relax?
It turned out that it was possible, or half-possible. The next few days passed in a slow-moving blur of unremarkable family gatherings (meals, games, beach) punctuated by frantic planning and anxiety. We bought new plane tickets for my parents and made other arrangements -- shutting down the cable and phone -- that seemed ominous and frightening. Then we went to the beach and rode the waves, just like we had always done. The surf was rough, but it felt good to be pummeled by the water.
Each morning I went running, either along the sidewalk of Route A1A or through the streets of old Vero, which are lined with live oaks. The houses -- not pictured -- are understated and tasteful; they represent old money. They are built on one level to withstand hurricanes. The only people I saw were the landscapers.
I veered onto a golf course and -- realizing my mistake -- quickly veered off.
Would a virus be able to find a home in such a neighborhood? From what I could tell, it seemed like a lot of people were banking on the answer being no.
On the early-morning beach, where I went after my run, there seemed to be little evidence of social distancing.
There was even less evidence on the afternoon beach, where clumps of teens played volleyball and chased each other into the water. We huddled in a circle closer to the dunes, where one of my mother's acquaintances passed by and, after saying hello, scoffed at the idea of a global pandemic. 'She's a Fox News-er,' said my mother, who then confessed to having her own doubts about the virus while at the same time recognizing that her doubts were not politically motivated but were formed out of a very conscious desire not to have these perfect-weather days come to an end.
I was anxious to get back to New York City -- to Stephen and the cats -- but I knew what she meant. Everything becomes more valuable when you realize that you're leaving it behind. Which of course is a constant of life, except that we train ourselves not to think about it except in unusual circumstances.
After leaving the beach, I stopped to rinse off my feet and put my towel on one of the nearby park benches, each of which featured a memorial to someone who had lived here. I felt like I could be friends with Ronald Smith, unless he was also a Fox News-er.
Would I have noticed these dedications at a different time? Would I have made fun of them? Possibly, or possibly not. Something that might seem pointless and trite now resonated with unspoken truth. It was no different than the Hallmark photos of the beach and the seagulls I was obsessed with capturing (and then deleting). A quick glance at Twitter confirmed that the news was getting worse. They had just closed Disney World in Orlando. Would the airport be next? Or if not, would it be mobbed with tourists trying to get home? Would they close state borders?
I tried to push the uncertainty aside. I admired the small plant and the colonizing moss.
I felt grateful to believe in nature, which always wins in the end.
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