The Dogleg Left to Mobile

Yesterday Susan and I crossed the midpoint of our fortnight vacation in the Southeast. While we won't be Marching through Georgia (shades of Sherman), by the time we're done with our maneuvers will have had boots on the ground (or at least sandals) in Florida, Alabama, and Louisiana.

We celebrated Pi Day by wrapping up our Florida visit, and renting a one-way Elantra from Alamo for a one-day run from Tampa to Mobile, about 530 miles. Today's entry is an amalgam of our observations en route.

—We awoke Thursday morning in Sarasota, where we had been graciously hosted by Susan's brother and sister-in-law—Chuck and Lana—since the southbound Silver Meteor deposited us in state March 8. They live more-or-less in the midst of the retirement stretch from Tarpon Springs to Fort Myers. According to Chuck the Gulf Coast specializes in Midwesterners, while the Atlantic side draws more Easterners. (What do I know, they all look alike.)

In any event, our visit coincided with spring break, so the age profile at the beaches and tiki bars was seriously leavened by an infusion of youth.

—After Chuck delivered us to the Alamo lot in downtown Tampa and we executed the paperwork, it didn't take us long to get of town and leave retirement Florida behind. The first third of our trip was up the spine of the state on I-75. I was curious to see what we'd see away from glamor of the coast…

There were occasional wetlands, woods, agricultural fields, and then, increasingly as we wound north, horse paddocks. We saw signs for bags of oranges and pecans at welcome centers, but did not see a single live example of the Sunshine State's iconic fruit producer: an orange tree. This was a disappointment both from a visual and odiferous perspective, and contrasted sharply with my olfactory memories of a family trip in 1967 at the same time of year—from which I recall the magic of driving through acre after acre of orange tress in bloom. Fifty-two years later there were no trees. (Where is Florida growing all its citrus these days—oranges are still reported to be its top export?)

—Right around the point where I-10 intersected I-75 (the site of our dogleg lefthand turn, near Lake City) the terrain changed. Instead of continuing on to Valdosta GA, the drive west through the panhandle was characterized by pine trees left and right.

—At the turn there were a couple of billboards that got our attention, advertising how firing automatic weapons was "fun for the whole family, so come on down to Guns America!" Eh? 

Invariably these ads (I've seen their ilk at McCarran Airport in Las Vegas also) feature a buxom woman cradling an automatic weapon. I reckon those NRA dues have to go somewhere (other than directly into the pockets of legislators), in their desperate rearguard attempt to slow the groundswell for gun control. Sigh.

—While the pine pollen season was just ending (for which we were thankful), we were sobered driving through miles and miles of damaged trees and twisted billboards, the devastating after effects of Hurricane Michael, that roared through here last October. Road crews were still cleaning up downed trees five months later, and there were untold numbers of standing trees that had been snapped off halfway up their trunk. It will take a long time for the panhandle to fully recover.

—For some reason, we saw almost no motorcycles in Florida, but we encountered plenty as soon as we crossed the line into 'Bama. I have no idea what that means.

—While we didn't see any oranges on our trip, we saw plenty of large billboards for personal injury lawyers. Three firms in particular advertised the entire length of our journey, even into Alabama. It struck me that all of these firms must be wildly successful if their business income compensates them for such outrageous advertising budgets. Undoubtedly there's more money in lawyering than orcharding.

—Right at the FL/AL border we noticed a billboard advertising the Lambert Cafe in Foley, located just south of Fairhope, where Guy & Elaine (my brother and sister-in-law, and our hosts for the next couple days) have lived happily since 2010. 

Lambert's is home of Home of the Throwed Rolls, and is a phenomenon I'm familiar with as an experienced Missourian. The mothership for this modest three-restaurant chain is in Sikeston MO and I've stopped there a couple times over the course of my years in the Show-Me State. It's a family style restaurant where, for a fixed price, you have access to servings of all the predictable components of southern cuisine (mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, overcooked green beans, hush puppies, cole slaw, ham slices, fried chicken, etc.). While there is nothing exceptional about the food, their gimmick is that when the roll guy comes around, he doesn't deliver to your table, he tosses you rolls from across the room—and you better be ready.

—The directions for our trip were relatively straight forward but we fumbled the ball at the end relying on the GPS on Susan' iPhone to bring us safely to the Mobile Regional Airport, and we lost about an hour wandering around the northwest quadrant of Mobile in search of a small airport. (Who know they could hide like that?)

Back in Tampa we made a deal with Alamo to buy the gas in the car, freeing us up from needing to leave any in it at end. In order to "win" our gamble we wanted to come in on fumes. Without intending to cut it that close, our unintended meandering meant we had exhausted our cushion such that the "get gas" idiot light was flashing at us as we finally eased into the Alamo car return parking slot at the airport. Whew.

—Guy & Elaine collected us there and we repaired to a nearby Winchell's Restaurant for a much-deserved round of cold adult beverages, up-tempo conversation, and a dozen raw, juicy gulf oysters. I satisfying ending to a long, yet informative day.