Florida

I sit in the booth of a seaside diner across from my Dad, chomping down, of all things, a buffalo burger, something I could easily acquire back in Colorado. In my experience all weighty things happen in diners. Tactics are shared, plans hatched, romances begin, diets end, unforeseen possibilities broil back in the joint’s aging, spavined kitchen.

Daytona Beach fascinates. A town long past its prime, it is the home of melancholy, a sentiment portrayed most famously in Ashley Judd’s break-out movie, Ruby in Paradise. But nostalgia is a dangerous thing. Perhaps I like the place because the weather is generous, the people are open, and it is, most importantly, Somewhere Else Other Than Colorado.

You want one? I’ll buy you one. Dad is continuing our conversation about the 30 some odd gingerbread houses for sale perched in the foyer of the diner. Most of the structures are homogenous, but one stands out boldly in its design. A roof crafted from wheat bix cereal gives it a beckoning, beach hut appearance. M and M candies are scattered across the front yard.

No, thanks. I don’t really need a gingerbread house. I need a mountain cabin with a wrap-around porch and a stone fireplace.

Dad chuckles, gives me an appraising look. You sure? He’s using his New York City, no-nonsense, let’s make a deal interrogation voice. I relish these moments. That’s one good thing about reaching the Middle Period. No time is dead time.

We drive toward Ormond, past the old beach house, and I marvel at the height of the front yard’s sago palm, not to mention the town’s soaring real estate prices. Back at the house, I rake sycamore leaves the size of tortillas into giant crunchy piles while Dad recharges with an afternoon nap. His neighbor ambles over and hands me a mesh bag full of pink grapefruit and we discuss life on Wisteria Lane.

The job completed, I grab my sneakers and run around the lake in Ormond Beach’s Central Park, where raccoon babies scuttle across the jogging path, and tanned older women walk their small, hyper-caffeinated dogs.

A fisherman shouts in my direction, I’m timing you! But you’re going the wrong way! He clutches a paper bag with what resembles an oil can and traces large circles in the air. I am navigating counter-clockwise around the lake, pepped up on lowland oxygen, charging against the grain in central Florida. Because, why not?