Day 25 - FLORIDA

Day 25 in Florida was a strange day. I woke up at 3:30 AM in the dirtiest, worst motel room I've stayed in yet. There were cigarette burns in the pillow case. I tried to go back to sleep but couldn't so I packed my bag and sat in the chair until sunrise.

By 9 AM I was on the campus of Florida State University (Tallahassee). I went over to the English building, to see if I could connect with some of the poets and fiction writers on campus, but no one was around. In fact, the entire campus was deserted except for 3,000 beautiful girls in sundresses. I'm in Heaven, I thought. Why did I not go to Florida State? "What's going on?" I asked someone. "Sorority recruitment day!!!!!!!" The sun got a little hotter and the make-up began to melt and I thought: okay, it's possible I'm in hell.

After lunch I found a place called Railroad Square. What a cool spot! It's basically a verdant little artists colony, an "art park," hidden inside the city, thirty or so studios all in the same block.

That's where I found this guy, Matt. He builds giant xylophones and other percussion instruments completely from scratch. The one he was working on at the moment was bound for the New York Symphony Orchestra.



That night I officially made it coast to coast - all within seven days, in fact. I explored the oldest town in America, St. Augustine, with my buddy Andy, and got a good night's rest before heading north to Savannah.

Interlude - Beauty and Danger in the Desert

The following are scraps from my journal. I've made no attempt to shape them dramatically, or to make sense of them, though I may someday.

I’m driving in the blur of night when suddenly I smell smoke. There are so many different kinds of smoke, I think. White smoke, black smoke, gray smoke, blue smoke. Cigarette smoke, cigar smoke. Billowing smoke, curling smoke. Thick smoke, wispy smoke. Even when it’s invisible we still call it smoke.

I’m driving in the blur of night when suddenly my engine is on fire. The flames are bright orange. I’m in the Arizona desert at 4:00 am and I have two choices: I can dump what’s left of my bottled water on the flames - try to get it out quickly - or save the water and let it burn. How does one get into such a situation? What does one do?

I imagined the last part. There are no flames. There’s not even smoke. Just the smell of smoke.

I punch myself hard in the ribs. When fading behind the wheel, a solid shot to the midsection—knuckles between ribs—is far more effective than a slap to the face. The slap wears off faster.

I coast to the side of the road. Put my flashers on. Now I feel safe. The smoke isn't coming from the car. For a moment I sit atop the hood, back on the windshield. I’ve covered hundreds of miles since I left San Diego. I’ve climbed 4,000 feet above sea level. Yellow lights flash : stars fall above.

Two days before, in San Fran, my cousin told me a story about breaking down in the desert. “Slept with my dog beside the car,” he said. “Woke up to the most beautiful blue sky. Then I looked a little closer: there were four jackals atop the hill, watching me. The dog stepped toward them. He didn’t understand they were different from him."