--- There’s really nothing quite

--- There’s really nothing quite like getting back to your regularly
scheduled programming after a week on the beach. It’s one of the
hardest things a person can do. Logy is the word that describes what
I’m feeling right now. But it’s a good logy; it’s not a I
hate my life and everyone in it, so I’m just going to sit on the
sofa, watch TV and pretend I don’t exist because my life is shit logy. It’s a I feel good
logy; my body is calm (and tan); my mind feels clean, like it’s had a
good, gentle detailing at the expensive car wash and someone’s used a
Q-tip to clean the gunk out of the crevices in my gray matter. I feel
better, and I suppose if that’s the goal of a good vacation---to be
relaxed when you come home---then this vacation was a success. I
don’t know if I can get it across, but for me the beach is probably
the most relaxing place I can go. Some people love mountains; some love
deserts; some love camping in the forest (why, I have no idea, but
I’m not going to begrudge someone the “joy” of camping because I
can’t comprehend it); some enjoy the bristling hubbub of foreign
cities; for me, however, it’s the beach. I’m assuming my parents’
choices in vacations as I was growing up have something to do with my
preferences in this matter, but the why
is irrelevant. I simply love expanses of sand, sea and sun. It’s
probably because I grew up in Nebraska, stuck on the plains during my
adolescence, but the combination of the three is a heady elixir; it’s
the stuff I need when I get stressed out. There is really nothing quite
as refreshing to my soul as watching the waves crash on the beach,
sniffing the warm, moist salt air, feeling the hot sun transforming the
color of my skin while I dig huge holes in the white sand with my toes.
It doesn’t hurt to have a beer in your hand, either, while doing
nothing on the beach. I know. I know. You’re thinking why does a haus
frau/unpublished novelist need a vacation? She
doesn’t do anything all damn day long but type irrelevant shit on
this blog and iron the husband’s shirts. Why should she get to go to
the beach while I sit here in my cubicle, massively frustrated and
underpaid, and do actual work. I have no answer for you,
unfortunately. I, too, was in your situation a few years back,
wondering why one of my housewife customers got a whole month in the
Bahamas when it didn’t seem like she did anything but shop at the
pricey stores and cart her kids around. I wondered at the injustice of
it until she told me her husband had a job that required him to travel
forty-eight weeks a year and that this was her treat from him for
keeping all the balls of their life in the air when he was gone. Then I
decided that she deserved a month with no children nipping at her heels
at a pricey resort on Paradise Island. You see, for all the things you do know about me, there are
many you don’t, simply because I haven’t shared them. And I’m not
planning to, either. Suffice it to say, however, it’s been a rough
year. The husband’s and my life took a big ol’ dive into the toilet
bowl in mid-February and has been circling ever since. I am finally
willing to admit I’ve been in a slump for a while now; my doctor said
so in July, tried to prescribe something for it, but I didn’t want to
think drugs could solve the problem. I’m tough. I’m strong. If you
can dish it out, chances are I can probably take it without too much of
a fuss. It would get better just as soon as… the problem du
jour passed. Well, it hasn’t gotten better. It hasn’t gotten worse,
either, it’s just been holding steady and I’ve been stuck in the
doldrums, trying to find my way out of that dreadful place without the
help of Mother Pharmaceutical. I think the beach finally did it: I feel
better now. I can see now how badly I needed to get away from it all,
and what seemed like an eternity spent with my parents before I left,
in all actuality turned out to be too short. Last Thursday I found
myself wishing it didn’t cost $100 to change my plane ticket to allow
for a few more days on the beach. But I boarded the planes on Friday,
anyway, arrived at home and was glad for it. We’ll have to see if
this new and improved me holds up. I hope it does. I have a feeling the
whiny, self-obsessed me hasn’t been impressing anyone. --- As far as
the details of the trip are concerned, well, there aren’t that many
of them. I barely did anything other than sit on the beach, miss the
husband, read and go for the occasional dip in the sea while I wondered
if we were really going to get a Cubbie-Red Sox World Series or if
they’d both choke, as usual. Instead, I’ll describe the situation,
the place and other assorted tidbits to keep you from surfing your
daily allotment of Asian lesbians, hard at work.
My folks rent out a condo in Northern Florida every year for the month
of October. It’s still warm then, though, technically speaking,
it’s off-season, hence the condo is cheaper, and the beaches are
relatively empty. The spot they prefer to take this month-long breather
is on the Emerald Coast, in between Pensacola and Panama City on the
panhandle, in a town called Ft. Walton Beach. You might also know of
the area because of its nickname: the Redneck Riviera---and there’s a
reason for that, but I’ll get to it soon enough. Those of you in the
military will be familiar with Ft. Walton, as it’s the home of Eglin
Air Force Base and Hurlburt Field---the home of the Special Forces Air
Operations---is just down the road in Mary Esther. Also, Pensacola
Naval Station is just forty or so miles away, so there’s a fair
chance you’ll see a carrier group out in the Gulf, performing
training activities. It’s also not usual to see C-130 troop
transports flying over the Gulf; nor is it to see military helicopters
flying right over you as you sit on the beach. (But damnit, there
weren’t any Blackhawks this time around: those things are cool!
Alas, they were elsewhere and that’s probably just as well.) It’s
not hard to remember the military is one of the main reasons for the
relative prosperity of this area; in fact, it’s kind of hard to
ignore, particularly when you see Navy frogmen descending stealthily
from helicopters in the middle of the night, as part of a training
exercise. It’s a gorgeous area: the beaches are comprised of a sand
so white it hurts your eyes to look at it under the sun, the sea is a
clear, Caribbean green, and the combination is smashing. Particularly
when it’s free and clear of the annoying detritus of Atlanta yuppies,
who are just down for a quick weekend of drinking on the beach and
hitting the titty bars in the off-hours. The beaches are clean;
there’s no annoying tar from off-shore oil rigs floating up to
besmirch your skin and swimsuit when you take a dip in the sea, like on
South Padre Island. The people are friendly. This time of year you have
a combination of snowbirds and families, taking their “fall break”
in a warmer climate than where they live. And best of all, it’s
pretty darn cheap. This ain’t Orlando, in fact, it’s better:
there’s not a Mouse to be found around Ft. Walton, but as in any
situation, there are trade-offs to be made, but I’ll get to that a
bit later. My family has been traveling to Ft. Walton for
years---partly for vacations and partly to visit extended family.
It’s kind of a convoluted tale so I’ll try to sum up quickly. My
mother had two sisters who were respectively thirteen and ten years
older than she. Sadly, they’re both gone now, but they were both
married to military men. My eldest auntie, MH, was married to an Air
Force man, and he was stationed at Eglin right after WWII. As a result,
my mother’s first trip to visit her sister in Ft. Walton was in 1948,
when she was sixteen. Brave girl that she was, she traveled solo on the
train from Omaha all the way down to Mobile and caught a bus that would
take her the seventy or so miles to Ft. Walton. She’s never forgotten
that trip; it’s memorable for reasons I will probably divulge
sometime down the line, but the beauty of the place struck her and
she’s loved it ever since. Mom’s other sister, B., lived in Omaha
for quite some time, but she and her military husband decided to retire
in Ft. Walton, partly because MH and her husband still lived there and
partly because she, too, loved it. It’s probably the only place other
than Omaha and rural Nebraska that my family has serious roots. The
folks like to keep those roots going, despite the change in familial
circumstance, and it seems my siblings have followed the trend. I’m
the third one who’s vacationed there this year: the other two had a
grand time during the summer, when they could travel there and not have
to pull the kids out of school to do so. Ft. Walton in itself is an
interesting little town. It’s part tourist claptrap, part redneck
haven, part base town, and part small town: the contrast is sharp
everywhere you drive. I have a tendency to stick by the beach, because
that’s where I know where everything is. If I need to go to the
grocery store to buy some wine (No blue laws---hallelujah! I always
seem to forget that other states---duh---allow you to buy booze after 8
and on Sundays), I know to take a left, go over the bridge and the
supermarket is right at the base of it, but the folks know how to get
around down there without getting lost (for the most part). As such,
they take you around town and the contrast can be either striking or
mild, depending upon which part of town you’re in and how many days
you’re fresh off the plane. I suppose Ft. Walton’s major problem is
that they don’t have any zoning laws. I know. Pick your jaw up off
the floor. According to my father, who had it from my uncle who lived
there for twenty years, there’s not a single zoning restriction on
the books, so you’re just as liable to see a bingo parlor that caters
to vacationing grannies parked right next to a church, which is parked
right next to a fishmonger which is right next to a strip club. It’s
quite striking when you come from the extremely tidy Twin Cities to see
all of this action, and no one really objecting to the action in the
first place: it’s the way things are. Unfortunately, the lack of
zoning action is also why Ft. Walton is lumped into the Redneck Riviera
description of northern Florida: the people like it that way, I
suppose. Mullets are big in northern Florida, and no I’m not talking
about the fish, I’m referring to the haircut. The fancy grocery store
which peddles expensive wine also has a sign on the door that states it
accepts WIC vouchers. Everyone smokes except for the
tourists. Bellies are big and liable to droop over the waistbands,
belches fly, toothpicks dangle, and thick southern accents flavor the
air wherever you go. Except on the beach. It’s easy to ignore the
rednecks when you’re on the beach because they’re not there. It’s
only when you venture off the island where the condo resides that
you’re confronted with the unappealing aesthetics of Ft. Walton.
There are people—mainly from northern states or Canada---who stay at
the same resort as my parents who I know for a fact stay the heck away
from town as much as possible, preferring their island retreat to being
confronted with the locals. I consider this to be a huge shame because
most of the locals are wonderful people. They’re really nice;
they’re very chatty and friendly and more than willing to help you
out should you need it. It’s sometimes a little too surprising at how
friendly the people are, particularly when you live in Cake Eater Land,
where people rarely say ‘hello’ as they pass each other on the
street, and store clerks are just as likely to sneer at you as they are
to actually do their job. But, fortunately, the folks in Ft. Walton are
savvy enough to realize that perhaps everyone isn’t used to their
particular brand of friendliness, so they’ll cut you some slack
rather than being offended your jaw dropped to the floor when they
asked you---sincerely---if you were having a good day. If you really
wanted to look at it in a big-picture sort of way, perhaps they’ve
got it right: it doesn’t matter what kind of possessions you’ve got
or how nice your town looks: if you’ve got friendly people, who cares
if the paint’s peeling or if there’s a shingle that’s ready to
fly? It’ll get done when they’re good and ready to do it; it’s
much more interesting to chat instead. After a few days, you become
accustomed to everyone chatting with you, and you begin to chat back
and not feel like an idiot for doing so. You stop going into town and
sighing at the claptrap-iness of it. You stop wishing they’d fix
things up a little better so you could recommend the place to your
friends up north. You don’t travel fifteen miles down the coast, to
Destin, to hang out with the cool people in a town with zoning laws. In
other words, you find yourself accustomed to and enjoying the
shabbiness. You start to enjoy this distinct little slice of life that
you’ve opened yourself up to by visiting and realize that maybe your
standards are just a little too high; that maybe taking it easy,
sitting back and getting to know people, even if it is just over the
purchase of a bottle of water and some sunscreen, isn’t such a bad
thing to aspire to.
--- About the only annoying thing about this trip was the traveling to
get there. It used to be that I would look forward to the journey as
much as reaching my destination: not so anymore. Flying has been ruined
for me. I don’t know who’s ultimately more responsible for my lack
of enjoyment in air travel, the terrorists or the TSA, but I can tell
you who’s more annoying nowadays: the TSA. I realize they’re just
doing the job they were assigned, but honestly, does pulling me over
every time my bracelet (At LAX it was my wedding ring) or my underwire
bra causes the metal detector to beep---loudly---make anyone in this
country feel safer? I know I don’t feel any safer. Particularly not
when I read stories like this one.
I’ve flown more since 9/11 than I did before. Accompanying the
husband on business trips and actually being able to afford airfare in
this Northworst Airlines controlled hub has ramped up the mileage in my
frequent flyer account. But just because I didn’t fly much before
9/11 doesn’t mean I don’t remember how easy flying was in
comparison to now. You could zip through metal detectors, because they
didn’t have them turned up to the most sensitive level where an
underwire bra would set it off, and would result in being felt up which
was no less intrusive because it was done by a female. Your laptop
wasn’t checked for explosive residue. Your shoes and coats stayed on.
You didn’t have to wait in interminable lines to have your boarding
pass and ID checked, and if you didn’t have a boarding pass, you
could actually meet your loved one at the gate instead of at baggage
claim. You didn’t have to show up at the airport two hours in advance
for a domestic flight. No one looked at you suspiciously or subjected
you to extra scrutiny if you grumbled about the long lines or the
monstrous injustice of how freaking long it takes to clear security.
Air travel was easy.
It got you to from point A to point B in the shortest amount of time
possible, and if you’d gotten a cheap fare, well, hell, you thought
you were lucky that you got to hobnob with the bigwig business
travelers who did this on a daily basis and maybe you could pick up
some tips about how to do it better from them.
Now, flying is just an annoying, first level contrivance of Dante’s
inferno. Honestly, I’m getting to the point where I wouldn’t mind
spending more than six hours in a car, driving somewhere, just so I
don’t have deal with putting a lot of thought into how I pack my
suitcase and what I’ll carry onto the plane with me. Driving
somewhere will give me what I like most: options. I like taking too
many clothes with me on a trip, even if it means extra suitcases. I
like having lots of reading material. I like taking a portable CD
player and my CD case with me because then I’ll have music. In short,
I’m my mother’s daughter: I will
take the kitchen sink along if it will fit into my suitcase. At one
point in time I had actually stopped fighting the urge to improve
myself in this regard. This is no longer the case. Flying nowadays
limits my options and forces me to think about this and that’s what I
find the most offensive about all of this. Northworst has taken full
advantage of 9/11 to reduce the number of bags people can bring with
them and how much they weigh. If your one bag---which has things in it
for two people---weighs more than fifty pounds whammo! you’re
busted for $25 for every twenty-five pounds over the standard fifty.
Christ, people, the suitcase alone weighs seven pounds, you’re limiting my options!
You’re telling me to suck it up, I’m sure. That we’re all in this
together; that this is making our skyways safer for everyone involved.
But the truth of the matter is we’re not
in this together, and I have serious doubts about whether the skyways
are, in fact, safer because of all this noosey-nonsense. The airlines
have made a deal with the TSA that someone from first class can skip
the security lines altogether because they’ve paid more for their
ticket: it’s one of the perks nowadays: you not only get a better
seat, better booze and better service, you get less hassle, too, if you
can afford it. The rest of us coach-flyers are pretty much the
equivalent of steerage on the Titanic, stuck belowdecks as the ship
starts sinking. I’ve flown a lot this past year and I have yet to see
someone who’s gotten to skip the lines be subjected to the same
amount of scrutiny as me. In particular, on this last jaunt, one guy at
the airport in Ft. Walton, who’d stood in front of me in the check-in
line, who had a first class ticket and was slobbered on by the counter
attendant, set off the metal detector. Was he pulled out of line to be
subjected to a personal search? No. He was waved through. He was
allowed to go get his bags, and I watched all of this while I was being
searched because my bracelet had, once again, set the metal detector
off. This is not fair.
Nor is all of this scrutiny, in my humble opinion, making any of us
safer. To my mind, it’s about the perception
of safety; the perception that the TSA is actually doing things to make
us safer when we fly, that they’re preventing another 9/11 from
happening. I don’t think they are. The horse is long gone and
the barn door was shut two years ago. All of this hustle and bustle
isn’t going to prevent another 9/11. It might prevent a clumsy
attempt from someone like the shoe bomber, but I have my doubts about
it preventing someone who is very serious and very committed. Yes, the
hijackers made it through security at Boston, Newark and Dulles; the
security was lax, I will agree. But I’ve always been of the mind that
where there is a will, there is a way, and if hijackers really want to
take out another high-rise with another jetliner, they will find a way
to do it, despite the added security the government has added. Like I
said, it’s about perceptions. Screened baggage, searches, and
added scrutiny may make you feel safer when you fly, but they don’t
do anything for me. It’s all a big show. If someone really wants to
hijack another plane, or four, they will find a way to do it,
regardless of whether or not we have these security features in place.
The main problem I suppose I have with all of this is that I didn’t
feel unsafe before 9/11. I wasn’t naïve by any means; I knew
hijackings could happen, but that it was unlikely they would happen on
a non-stop flight to Omaha. It was all a matter of probabilities; of
playing the odds. If you flew to Europe or the Middle East, well, the
chances something might happen to your plane went up. I had no
fairy-tale notions of the security of the planes I flew on that I
needed to be disabused of. Shit happens, in other words. Then again,
I’m different than most people. When a kid falls down a well, I
don’t automatically assume that well needs to be closed up now so it
doesn’t happen again. When there’s a particularly bad car accident,
I don’t automatically go looking for something---anything---to make
sure it doesn’t happen again. Lower
the speed limits; make sure everyone’s car is road-worthy; change the
traffic lights; rework the intersection; sue the hell out of the car
manufacturer to make sure this sort of thing never, ever happens again.
Yes, we can make things better and it is certainly a sad part of our
thinking as human beings that we do not adequately prepare ourselves
for certain situations; that we just hope they won’t happen, or that
we never thought of them in the first place; that it took a horrific
accident to point out the flaws in the system. However, there are
always going to be certain things that are just unavoidable, and I
truly believe we’re kidding ourselves if we think we can safeguard
our lives from anything unpleasant or adverse. Shit happens, in other
words, and while it’s unfair, there’s not a goddamn thing you can
do about it. Life isn’t fair and reacting to that unfairness, just in
an effort to try to counterbalance it, to make sure no one ever has to
go through the pain and suffering ever again is somewhat naïve,
don’t you think? This is the deal with airport security nowadays.
Yes, the security was lax before 9/11. You were just as likely to see a
security guard sleeping as you were to see them doing their jobs. I’m
not going to deny that. Nor is this in anyway meant to imply I think
that shit happened on 9/11; that all of those poor people deserved to
die and that we shouldn’t do anything about it in the meanwhile. But
we have gone overboard.
Completely overboard in terms of airport security. I wouldn’t have a
problem if I actually felt safer, but like I said above, it’s all for
show. We’re doing something, so come and fly again, the skies are friendly again.
I don’t feel safer because I, who have never even seen a plastic
explosive in real life, have to have my laptop checked to make sure
it’s not filled with it; that there are actual innards inside as
opposed to a chunk of C-4 that will take the entire plane out. I
don’t know where to start on making it better. But something has got
to be done. If the airlines were worried that people wouldn’t fly
without better security, they should now be equally worried that people
will not fly because they don’t want to have to deal with the hassle
of it all.