Deja-vu Wonder x Jungle: Anastasia State Park and St. Augustine, FL

And so after surviving Thanksgiving air travel, we were on the road again. (I have had plenty of opportunities to regret mentioning the song by Willie Nelson to N.: he’s now given to playing it every time we start driving. I think he does it mostly to annoy me.)

In order to reach the land of sunshine, we had a long drive, broken into two days, south on Interstate 95. Easier said than done. There are two challenges to driving on I-95: fast-driving trucks and idiot drivers. Unfortunately, avoiding either was not an option.

One needs no other evidence that truckers are one of the main, well, drivers (hehe) of the economy: 18-wheelers sometimes outnumbered cars on the road. We saw trucks from Amazon Prime and Walmart, trucks carrying tree trunks and animals. From our experience on this particular trip, truckers drove fairly safely, but I felt nervous driving near them nonetheless, so when it was my turn at the wheel, I was white-knuckling it all the way. I felt cramps on my hands after just a couple of hours.

More challenging than truckers were the idiots on the road: the ones who drove 90 miles-per-hour and left three-foot gaps from the cars in front of them; the ones who drove 40 miles-per-hour and forced everyone behind them to slam on their brakes; the ones who stared at their phones and scrolled nonchalantly; the ones who confused the interstate with the Indianapolis 500 and zigzagged right and left. I cannot wait for driverless cars. As we got closer to Florida, we saw more RV’s on the road and trucks carrying boats and golf carts.

And the more excited N. became: if you were to get him started, you would not be able to shut him up about his dream beach house, not only its location, lot and layout but also its size, features and finishes. I just mention this to put into context his expectations about our destination: after we stopped at a rest area for a quick lunch, he changed into shorts and short sleeves. And as the temperature climbed into the high 70’s, he kept repeating, “Wow, it’s so warm, honey!”

There were lots of things to enjoy at Anastasia State Park, right outside St. Augustine: level campsites with water and electricity and privacy; great facilities for campers and beachgoers (plenty of parking, clean bathrooms, showers, cafe, picnic pavilion); a wide and pristine beach. However, all our dreams of a sunny beach vacation came crashing down as we checked in. The ranger was friendly and welcoming, but he seemed almost apologetic, warning us that we would probably end up spending quite a lot of time inside our vehicle. Why? Because the last storm — Tropical Storm Nicole strikes again! — had brought with it battalions of mosquitoes. We couldn’t tell if he was trying to incept ideas into our heads, but he mentioned, with a sigh, that several campers had chosen to leave early. N.’s enthusiasm would not be quashed so easily. Surely we were more resilient than those weaklings who had left — who’s afraid of a few mosquitoes?

The ranger wasn’t kidding: we changed into long sleeve shirts and pants, but as N. and I set up camp, we could see multiple mosquitoes landing on our clothes and buzzing around our faces. These buggers were professional-grade: N. got bitten in his bum through his jeans! I wore a jacket with a hood, but still got chewed in a semi-circle around the exposed part of my face; imagine a rainbow from ear to ear made of bug bites. In the campground’s bathroom stalls, one could see pancaked mosquitoes, which obviously had been slapped into the walls by occupants feeling, well, exposed. I added a couple of pancakes to the collection.

Plans of putting up outdoor lights and tunes, of cooking dinner on the grill, of enjoying a warm evening in shorts and short sleeves — poof! — disappeared in the mosquito-infested air. Mosquitoes suck, in more ways than one! (Apologies for that one… My poor kids have had to endure my sense of humor all their lives!)

***

We went on a reconnaissance mission this morning and a walk around the campground reinforced our fears of leaving even an inch of exposed skin. (Did you see the pix of me with our beach blanket? Of course not! You saw only the beach blanket.) Still, by the time we got closer to the beach, there was a light wind that seemed no match for the bugs.

The walk on the beach was lovely: the sun was peaking through the clouds, the breeze was refreshing, and there were no tiny vampires trying to suck our blood. We ran into a few optimistic fishermen who had poles attached to little carts that they pushed into the waves. Others were doing the beachcombers’ shuffle, walking and picking up shells.

It was so lovely at the beach that we decided to walk back to the van and pack a picnic to enjoy on the sand. I packed some leftovers, fruit and drinks, and we headed to the beach again. We had just finished lunch and were looking forward to a lazy afternoon of napping and reading when the skies suddenly darkened and rain fell, as rain tends to do, on everything — camera, phones, gimbal, books, blanket, chairs, bags. Not to be outdone, the wind decided to get in the action and dump sand on everything that was wet. We hurriedly packed and stumbled against the rain and wind and sand towards the boardwalk and into the mosquito-infested campsite. So there we were, in a 20-foot van, wet from the rain, everything gritty with sand. I couldn’t tell if N. was having second thoughts about beachfront properties, but his enthusiasm certainly seemed… dampened! (“Thanks everybody… I’ll be here all week!”)

***

For days, N. had been fussing about washing the van. As far as I could see, yes, there were mashed bugs on the windshield, but wasn’t that what rain was for? So when N. saw a sign for a coin-operated car wash AND it had a roof high enough to clear our 10-foot tall van, he was overjoyed. The stars had aligned and now conditions were perfect: he had the van, the quarters, and the high-pressured wand! I guess you can take the man out of the janitorial business, but you can’t take the janitor out of the man: N. worked as one when he first immigrated to the U.S. and his skills never left him. When there are bathrooms to be cleaned, there’s no janitor I trust more!

The day began with an important task: getting limited tickets to a ranger-led tour on a national park. I had already made reservations for a campsite nearby; we had a two-day window; tickets were released 30 days before each tour date at 8 am MST. I had set up timers and reminders on my phone and taken time zones differences into account. If I did not snag these tickets, all my preparations that hinged on them would be for nothing.

7:30 am MST: my first “heads up” alarm went off

7:45 am MST: my second “heads up” alarm went off

7:50am MST: I signed into the website and logged into my account

7:55 am MST: I selected the tour and got ready to refresh the page

7:59 am MST: I flexed my fingers

8:00 am MST: Before I could complete my order, I had to prove that I was not a robot by clicking on traffic lights, bicycles, and pedestrian crossings

8:01 am MST: message on the website: “Tickets for the date selected are not available. Please select another date.”

I felt like Retsuko in a raaaaage!

***

The rest of the day was devoted to exploring historic St. Augustine.

At the harbor on the old town was the Castillo de San Marcos National Monument, a well-preserved Spanish fortress. We were lucky to arrive before a park ranger began his presentation; he was still in the “warm up the crowd” phase:

“Who’s here from the South of the United States? Where? Texas? Oh, sorry about that!”

“Who’s here from the North of the United States? New Hampshire? You’re far from home!”

“And who’s here from Central America? Where Ma’ am? Iowa? You didn’t learn your geography right, if you think Iowa is in Central America!”

My guess was that he was working on material for his comedy special on Netflix. (He’s obviously my competition.)

Strangely, the most enjoyable part of my visit to the monument was to see all the school kids on field trips. It brought memories of the days when I used to sign up to chaperone as many of my children’s trips as possible, despite their protests.

Historic St. Augustine was pedestrian-friendly, with many old narrow roads where cars were banned altogether. It was ready-made for tourists with lots of souvenir shops and food vendors interspersed with historical sites such as the Pena-Peck House and the Saint Photios Greek Orthodox National Shrine.

We also got roped into a tour of the historic Ponce de Leon Hotel, considered a National Historic Landmark. I write “roped in” because more transparent advertising would have clearly stated that this was actually a tour of Flagler College. Of architectural interest — although not necessarily mine — were highlights of the lobby with a golden domed ceiling, the dining room, which contained 79 Louis Tiffany stained glass windows, and the Women’s Grand Parlor, home to Tiffany’s handcrafted Austrian crystal chandeliers and personal photos and mementos of Mr. Henry Flagler.

I’m not yet certain why I was feeling detached and a bit put off by this particular tour. I usually love to explore museums, monuments, and places of historical significance. I found this one irritating. And this is no reflection on the very eager student who led the the tour itself (double major in graphic design and fine arts). Perhaps it was the fact that we were now being allowed into spaces — and paying for the privilege! — that we would not have been allowed into in their heyday. I wondered if a couple of hundred years from now, the public would go on historical tours of Mark Zuckerberg’s house.

***

We had to find a place to watch a World Cup match. N.’s beloved team was playing for a spot out of the group stage and into the elimination round. But what sports bar is open at 10 am?

I searched for a few bars around our campground, but listings online indicated that most were closed. In case one might have made an exception for the World Cup, I also called a couple of places. No luck. I have no idea why I called a diner next, but the person who answered the phone mentioned she had a couple of TV’s and even put me on hold to search through the channels to see if she could find the match. What an angel! And yes, the game was on TV.

We arrived to a cute diner serving breakfast to a mostly older crowd. We parked ourselves at the bar, ordered pancakes, and gulped mug after mug of coffee while watching the game: the other team had already scored one goal, and N. kept fidgeting, nervously chewing his lips and quietly sipping his coffee.

Suddenly, we could not contain our excitement: we kept cheering as N.’s team attacked, with players running the ball down the line and then passing to a player in the box who shot it into the net! Goooooooool! We yelped and cheered and startled the other customers. In particular, three older guys, who had been chatting loudly while nursing their beers — at 10 in the morning! — jumped in their stools when we screamed in excitement and pretended to complain:

“What the heck?!?”

“What do I have to do to drink my beer in peace around here?”

“I almost had a heart attack!”

They laughed and wished us luck and went on their way.

In the end, N.’s team won the match and a spot in the elimination stage!

We spent the rest of the afternoon in the beach at Anastasia State Park. We had learned our lesson and so checked the forecast: 2% chance of rain.