You can feel it as soon as you get off the plane: It’s hot, humid and the middle of December. The drive home from the airport is lined with palm trees leaning in towards the ocean bordering the highway. It’s one of those days when it’s so hot that the road appears as though it is steaming and covered with water. Florida hasn’t quite caught on to the idea of seasons yet, but it seems like some people are grateful for it.
But to live here, in Clearwater, Fla. is an entirely different story. Some days I will hear people jokingly sigh:
“It’s just another day in paradise.”
Maybe it is paradise and maybe I am ungrateful. Either way, living in a giant vacation resort for tourists can get tiring. The roads are lined with out-of-state license plates, the term “snowbirds” is muttered often and people walk around with more shades of tan than I ever knew existed. Who could blame them though? In a place that rarely sees temperatures below 70 degrees Fahrenheit, it’s the perfect place, for a vacation.
This city is trying desperately to grow up into something that is just out of its reach. Construction runs rampant and the small buildings that once gave the coast character have now been reduced to rubble. Profane behemoths take their place in a sad display of wealthy conformity. And every time I go to the beach (which is far less often than many would think), the sand gets whiter, the tourist shops multiply and the people become more caricatured.
Clearwater had charm and character before the decision was made that large, conforming and imposing buildings would be a great idea for the coastline. Any little motel that got in the way was soon reduced to dust and replaced with a big display of wealth. Some went out in grandiose style, such as The Spyglass Hotel. It was once known for its hot air balloon mural and strange space needle structure on top of it, but then, with much local controversy, Criss Angel decided to “escape” from the imploding building.
Besides building implosions, Clearwater is not exactly eventful. It seems as though the elderly population that lives here determines the city’s bedtime. After about nine o’clock, the stores and most restaurants settle in for the night, leaving young wanderers searching for adventure.
To give Clearwater some credit, it is not anywhere near being the armpit I make it sound like. Many people I’ve grown up with love it and can’t imagine why I would go somewhere so cold, somewhere that requires you to wear jackets outside. It’s almost as if I’ve betrayed them. I do love shocking them with Evanston’s negative temperatures though; while they bemoan the 60-degree weather in the frigid hills of Gainesville, it’s always nice to feign sympathy and then tell them it hasn’t gotten above zero all day.
There are some parts of my hometown that I look back at fondly. No matter how much we complain about it, I can’t think of a more cathartic way to spend my time than driving around late at night, trying to think of some sort of destination in this worn-out town.
So we drive on the empty roads through empty parking lots, past lonely beaches lined with restaurants where bands play weary music to no one. And we complain. We complain about there being nothing to do. We plan what it will be like when we will someday be somewhere else, where there are things to do. Some place where people stay up and populate these empty places we wander.
But really, I enjoy the wandering; I enjoy the emptiness, the endless search for something to do. To be truthful, I don’t think we’d know what to do if we eventually found that excitement we seek.