Miramar Beach, FL (Part 1/2)
Are we in the Caribbean or somessing?!?
We visited Florida several times when our kids were young, for the usual reasons: Disney World, Space Camp, warm weather during spring breaks. But we never went to Florida’s Panhandle. Besides our fervent “no mosquitoes” wish, we had few expectations for the area. So how would this campground be, where the wheels of our van would be sitting on the sand at an oceanfront site in Miramar Beach, Florida?
We arrived at our camp site and stared at the beach in wonder: clear waters of the Emerald Coast and white soft sand on a fairly empty — how? — and pristine beach. We felt as if we were in the Caribbean.
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Our first foray in the bike lanes in town revealed two types: “death wish” and “vacation time”. Both are as flat as pancakes. The biggest elevation challenge was the speed bumps, which here in Florida are sometimes called “traffic tables,” a phrase which has alliterative and metaphorical charm.
“Death wish” is the two-foot lane next to very busy streets driven by very busy people, most of whom take pity on bikers and move to the outside lane when possible. There’s always that minority, sigh, the ones in big scary cars who think of bikers as gnats to be slapped away and consequently seem to make a point to veer closer to the bike lanes while honking their horns. Two scares for the price of one.
Along the smaller neighborhood roads and scenic drives are the “vacation time” lanes, wide enough for two-way traffic. These are lovely lanes, except for the pedestrians we’ve run across — literally — who do not seem familiar with the practice of making way when someone is passing. (Given my previous story about the “death wish” lanes, I recognize the slight irony here.) More than once we’ve had to stop our bikes because no matter how hard we rang our pathetically timid bells, these people would not move. We suspected several categories of scofflaws: (1) those who cannot hear our bells because they’re engrossed in some playlist or podcast; (2) those who don’t have headphones but cannot hear our bells; (3) those who hear us but refuse for some warped principle to make way for others .
As I slowed down for yet more pedestrians hogging the whole lane, I fantasized about getting a loud recording of Andre the Giant as Fezzik in “The Princess Bride” when he is asked by Inigo to clear a path: “Everybody MOVE!”
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N. and our kids will attest to the fact that I have a fear — irrational they say — of feathers and, by extension, of birds. I have woken up crying and screaming because of a dream, say, about a bird flying close enough to gently brush a wing over my cheek. I feel chills when I see people — even if only in images — holding birds. We’ve never had down pillows in our house.
So it is with genuine surprise I’ve discovered that my absolutely favorite sight on the beach is of little birds feeding in the mornings by the wake of the waves. These early birds (hehe) can be found in synchronized groups. A wave will come and they will daintily run away just quickly enough to avoid getting wet. Then they turn around and line up exactly along the lines where the waves stopped and little holes bubbled up. The little birds then madly peck at the sand, eating heaven-knows-what. Wash, rinse, and repeat. It is the most charming scene! I could watch this for hours. (And yes, the video below is in real time!)
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But life at the beach does have its not-so-pleasant aspects.
* It was early December and our weather app often indicated that humidity in the area was at 100%. We were not sure how that was possible, but we did see evidence of the truth of those numbers. If we left any books or magazines outside, after a few hours, the pages would wrinkle with damp. On most nights, the humidity condensed and in the mornings our plastic tablecloth on the picnic table looked as if someone had dumped a bucket of water on its surface. All our synthetic clothes — no cotton allowed, so we could wash and shake and dry our laundry on the road — were sticky.
* Our campsite on the beach had connections for water and electricity, but not for sewer. As a service, the campground office scheduled what they called the “honey wagon” — what’s in a name? — whereby they provided pump-out service. When I made reservations, I noted the fact but then forgot about it. On our first scheduled service, we saw a little red tractor pulling a large container with hoses to pump out the grey and black tanks of all the RV’s on the beachfront sites. Dear Reader, there are things one cannot un-smell. But for some reason, the fact that the tractor was jaunty-red made me feel a little better.
* By chatting with our neighbors, we found out that many of the large RV campers were staying in the campground until spring. Most of the license plates revealed that they came from cold places: Michigan, Wisconsin, New Hampshire. So because they were settling for the long haul, they made themselves at home with rotating satellite dishes, elaborate holidays lights, fancy outdoor tents with sectionals sofas. And neighborly squabbles also made their appearance: I ran into two neighbors having an altercation about the noise generated by a leaf-blower.
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Today we had a good reminder that technology is still only as good as the people who use it — until the machines take over. (And yes, I think the Matrix really is coming.)
We had been in Miramar Beach for a week and wanted to try some good seafood, so we planned our whole day around something between lunch and dinner — a lunner. We had a late breakfast, read restaurant reviews, biked for forty minutes… and then found ourselves in front of an establishment that was closed for the season for renovations. The contractor working outside helpfully told us that (#1) we had missed the best seafood in the area, and (#2) the other restaurants in the area were also closed. Obviously someone forgot to update the internet gods about opening hours.
And that’s another mystery: how in the world is winter considered the low season in Florida? It’s easy to see that only a small fraction of owners are actually in town: walks on the beach show that a majority of condos have their storm shutters on. That, of course, must be why restaurants and other businesses take the opportunity to close and take a break or regroup. Fine, but if that is the case, where are these residents going in the winter? Average temperatures here now are lows in the 50’s and highs in the 70’s. In our book, that’s perfect December weather!
But the point is that our lunner was ruined, and N. does get “hangry”. We needed Plan B fast. We called a few restaurants in the area to make sure they were open and biked with whatever energy we had left. We could not afford to be too picky: this mystery restaurant could have had only haggis on its menu, and I think we would still have ordered a large portion!
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The End.
Our search for a great seafood restaurant in this area is over, not because we found a great one but because our journey to find simple good seafood has been paved with too many mediocre meals, no matter what online reviews say. Today yet again, after finishing a meal, we got that unwelcome feeling that we would have had a much better dinner in our van. This latest place had the word “Trap” as part of its name, so at least fair play to the restaurant for honest advertising.
BTW, a cursory glance of the menus of local restaurants reveals that a popular appetizer is battered and deep-fried… blue crab claws! Given the fact that one of our family’s rituals during Labor Day weekend is to go to the Eastern Shore and wack and pick at steamed blue crabs, we ordered these fried claws out of sheer curiosity. We can now report that in this preparation the soft sweet crab had transformed itself into a tough tasteless mystery meat. The only upsides of this meal were the cooling breezes and views of the beach.
On the way back to our campground, we stopped to pick up groceries. Back home, I would have gotten my keys, driven to Wegmans, picked up supplies, and driven home. The novelty of grocery shopping with a bicycle has yet to wear off: we folded our bikes, rolled them around while shopping, checked out, and then carefully packed each item into our backpacks. (Shopping with N. felt like shopping with a toddler: he was interested in nothing but desserts and seemed to genuinely agonize over whether to get the strawberry shortcake or the apple pie.)
Our ride back was around six miles. Miles 1 to 3 were uneventful. Around Mile 4, N. began to groan and complain about how tired he was. Around Mile 5, I heard him repeatedly grunt something in the wind. When I caught up with him, I heard him trying to motivate himself,
“Straw. Pedal. Berry. Pedal. Short. Pedal. Cake. Pedal… Straw. Pedal. Berry. Pedal. Short. Pedal…”
So here he is after Mile 6.