"WELCOME SNOW BIRDS HELP WANTED," says the sign outside the Crystal Inn on 34th Street South, and I start to wonder vaguely if this little fishing jaunt down to Pass-a-Grille – during the first truly gorgeous weekend of the year – is maybe not such a good idea. By the time I get to the queue on the St. Pete side of the tollbooth for the Pinellas Bayway, I'm sure I've made a horrible mistake. It isn't too bad here at the moment, but cars, pickups and minivans keep cutting out of the one manned lane that offers change and receipts, and I can't help but assume it's because that's the lane most frequently used by folks who don't know where the hell they're going, and need an actual person to hear them ask the same question six or seven different ways before deciding they can figure it out for themselves.
It's one bridge later that the real gridlock begins, a quarter mile or so before the two left-hand turn lanes that lead eventually to Mullet Key and Fort DeSoto Park; naturally, that's where nearly everyone in the far-right lane wants to go. To be fair, most of the vehicles are sporting one of the 72 varieties of Florida license plate available to Tampa Bay residents. There are plenty of others, though. Ontario. Michigan. North Carolina. Pennsylvania.
Yes, the snowbirds are here en masse. There was a day back in mid-February when the freeway traffic seemed to double overnight, and now the height of sandals-and-black-socks season is upon us. It's a glorious time of year, when thousands of travelers descend upon our roadways, shores and promenades to remind us of all the wonderful elements of West Central Florida that we've begun to take for granted.
Of course, once reminded of such splendors, we can't really appreciate them just now, because our view of them is blocked by a horde of folks who talk funny. And by the time they leave, we'll have forgotten what was so special about whatever they were looking at until they return next year. But that's not their fault. They provide us with an opportunity to appreciate our environment through new eyes; whether or not we recognize it as such is our problem.
In the 15 years and however many Carl Hiaasen novels that have transpired since I moved here, I've shouted at my share of out-of-state plates, and smiled cruelly at my share of bumper stickers like "Welcome to Florida – Now Go Home." But I'm mostly accepting, even appreciative, of the snowbirds, mostly for the aforementioned reminder that I live in a beautiful place, but also for the hours of people-watching entertainment they've afforded me, be it in the form of beach fashion, creative motoring, inexplicable spending habits, or whatever.
And I'd like to give a little back, by hopefully contributing to the enjoyment of their visit.
While in Chicago last week, I was subjected to the same onslaught of tired pro-Florida advertising that Northern residents endure each winter. The "come to the Sunshine State" spiel hasn't changed much over the last 30 years or so: dolphin, bikini girl, dolphin, sunset, dolphin, Mickey Mouse, drink in coconut with umbrella, parrot, dolphin, fisherman battling tarpon, dolphin. They added a golfer launching his ball out of a sand trap in slow motion somewhere along the way, but other than that, it's the same old shit. Really, it's insulting, to them and us. I mean, Tampa Bay is so much more than that.
And so, in the interest of intercultural relations, here is my list of the things every snowbird should do while visiting our sunny community. You won't find them in the tourist literature, and some of them may not be in keeping with your usual habits, but all will contribute to making this year's vacation one of your most memorable. And hey, whatever keeps you off the road for a couple hours or a day…
Go to the Castle on a Monday night. Fat old man in the black tutu and micro-thong, meet Mr. and Mrs. Stan Stanton of Bible Falls, Ohio. Mr. and Mrs. Stanton, allow me to present The Senator.
Visit the secluded beach on the northwest edge of Fort DeSoto Park. Just in case meeting The Senator left too much to the imagination.
Attend an early-season Devil Rays game. Come on, do us a favor. We promise we'll sit on whichever side is more poorly attended at your next wedding.
Buy pot. In the big Northern cities, you can get it from the guy outside your building, or even have it delivered. Where's the adventure in that? Copping weed in the South is often an unpredictable all-day endeavor, and can include anything from twin ferrets with mange to sitting in the dark and listening to four hours' worth of death metal with a dude who'll pronounce you lame if you don't smoke at least half of the bag you bought from him, with him.
Cruise North Tampa in a vehicle sporting a prominently displayed pro-Bush sticker, looking for angry, extroverted left-wingers to engage in political debate. Because Busch Gardens doesn't have a ride called Liberal Road-Rager.
Show up at Mastry's when it opens, and stay until it closes. Not only will you spend less than $40 and hear more good fishing advice than you could possibly remember, but you'll also get a concert's worth of Bob Seger tunes from the juke, and might have to fight a bearded, pungently aromatic guy in a soiled Mister Bubble T-shirt over something that happened to him in 1981. (Plus, I believe this counts toward fieldwork in most accredited universities' Anthropology programs.)
scott.harrell@weeklyplanet.com
This article appears in Mar 16-22, 2005.