Florida, 2024
CRUISING ON GAS, BOREDOM, AND HORMONES
Driving in Florida is as dull as dishwater.
To make the ride more interesting, I floor the accelerator of the huge brick-like rental at every traffic light until I reach 35 mph, then abruptly lift off. The car jerks and rocks. I can do this twice before my wife starts to grumble and my dog turns towards me with a puzzling look in his eyes, wondering if I am suffering from another hormonal malfunction.
I don't. I'm just bored stiff.
My last hormonal malfunction must have been when I was in my forties. I didn’t enjoy it for long. My wife remedied it just as soon as the first symptoms of my 'malaise' materialized. Women can be harsh healers. Efficient too…
Florida State Road 60 utterly lacks any sense of drama. It carries white or black copycat SUVs in a single 55 mph file from an Atlantic beach to the Gulf of Mexico through tedious farmland while their drivers check their feed on X (formerly Twitter).
The only distractions are a handful of whitewashed rail fences that border properties with long tree-lined driveways leading to immaculate ranch houses. They stand out among the countless nondescript farms growing strawberries, peaches, and blackberries that are sold unripe to Publix, guaranteeing you won't taste the difference between one fruit and the other.
Florida Southern College Sports Complex, Lakeland, FL, USA
Then there's sprawling, leafy suburbia.
The traffic draws to a crawl between the pristine residences and their manicured front lawns. Drivers' heads bob in every direction, reminiscent of the nodding toy dogs once common on the rear shelves of dull sedans. They don't miss any of the action: the Davises' dog stupidly chases a squirrel leaping up a sugarberry tree; Mrs. Perry's grandson attempts wheelies on his electric toy motorcycle; and Mrs. Schmitt—her slender frame tightly wrapped in a black spandex crop top—does side planks on a yoga mat in her garage, its door wide open for all to observe her abs at work. She smiles and waves in perfect balance. Great move to improve core strength.
You'd miss out on all the fun once you hit 20 mph.
Florida Southern College Sports Complex, Lakeland, FL, USA
It took me more than a week to master 4-way stops; it's an exercise in clairvoyance. You stop, look at all the other stopped cars, and, despite having no way to gauge any intentions, you rely on your untapped prophetic powers to predict which will move first. If one inches forward, ever so gently, you let it go. Once the box is clear, you repeat the exercise. Miraculously, there comes a time when you inch forward, head-swiveling incessantly, even without Mrs. Schmitt's sweaty abs on display.
Florida Southern College Frank Lloyd Wright Campus Esplanade (1938-1958), Lakeland, FL, USA
Florida Southern College Frank Lloyd Wright Campus Buildings (1938-1958), Lakeland, FL, USA
I can imagine installing 4-way stops in Rome or Athens—even in cities famed for their oracles, such intersections would be a panel beater's dream come true. If Americans are supposed to be bold, loud, and boisterous, they become meek as lambs on Easter Day when you put them behind the wheel of a two-ton automobile. If Europeans are supposed to be gentle and elegant—the spirited Dutch might be an exception—they transform into absolute maniacs when you put them in even the tiniest Fiat.
Perhaps my dog is onto something about men's hormonal misfires in cars. I'm unsure if my wife will find as easy a fix for the testosterone-laden 'malaises' of 40-year-old Italians or Greeks.
Chart House Restaurant, Kendrick Bangs Kellogg (1982), Jacksonville, FL, USA
Subscribe to get full access to the newsletter and publication archives.
