I’m eventually going to abandon this blog in the interest of starting a new one. When I created Recovery: Not Otherwise Specified, my intention was to help people in early recovery, or people contemplating early recovery. To be completely honest, I’ve willingly strayed from that mission. Recovery is a part of my life – an important part – but there are so many other things I’m interested in writing about, like travel and, as a student chaplain, interspirituality. I also believe that addiction is the Achilles’ heel of our civilization. In the decade-plus I’ve been doing this thing, I’ve learned that it’s not just drugs and alcohol that are problematic, but our universal proclivity for avoidance and distraction. Recovery, therefore, is not an exclusive club, but something that’s an intrinsic part of human-ing. So, it stands to reason, that to write about recovery is to write about being human. I might dive more into that in another post (and I know I’ve mentioned it at least a half-dozen times before) but my objective, at the moment, is to document our latest trip to Florida. I take a lot of photos but those don’t account for the details that are easy to forget, like the fish JL saved from a tidal pool or the owl that came to call in the evenings.
First, I have to acknowledge it’s still a strange time to travel. COVID-19 has diminished in the states but certainly hasn’t disappeared. Tensions in Israel have reached a boiling point and people are rushing to gas stations. In Naples, the city we visited, there’s a wild juxtaposition between places like the Baker Museum, which times entries, sterilizes bathroom doors, and takes your temperature, and shops kept by owners who can’t be bothered to put on a mask. The contrast between the haves and the have-nots is also more apparent than anywhere I’ve ever been. On one trip to the beach, we drove down a gated, brick-paved street, which was lined on both sides by multi-million dollar homes. Convinced Siri was sorely misinformed from a GPS perspective, I pulled my towel around my bikini-clad chest, suddenly conscious of my bare stomach. Needless to say, we were relieved when we spotted a park attendant, who joked about the volume of traffic in the neighborhood.
While there’s no doubt we were vacationing, we also had a more practical agenda, which is to feel the area out from a real estate perspective. I would love to live in Naples but couldn’t afford the house I want, which is essentially an updated bungalow. It’s not a good time to buy across the board, but in one so-called middle class neighborhood, $400,000 will get you a bungalow that needs to be completely gutted. There are other things that are missing for me, too, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t have a great time, or that I wouldn’t come back.
Even though my family is currently priced out of most real estate markets, the privilege we enjoy is striking. I was reading an article about the conditions migrant farm workers endure. They provide our nation with fruits and vegetables, and yet they don’t have enough to eat. Instead of the fresh produce they harvest with their own hands, they eat stale bread. Thinking about that really puts things into perspective when I start playing the comparison game or getting envious of what other people have. Travel writing, at least for me, isn’t just about preserving memories or making recommendations, it’s also about relentlessly connecting with gratitude, as well as compassion for others.
Here’s an example: I don’t know what it is about Naples, but they know how to make a mean Starbucks. The baristas have it down to a science. One morning we were in line behind someone whose vehicle suggested we might have very different political perspectives. I made a snarky comment. Three minutes later, he paid for my drink. When the Universe sets out to teach me a lesson – especially about kindness – it is never subtle. It has always been that way. I require a slap across the face to get the point.
It has taken almost a full year of chaplaincy training to realize that I have a mystical relationship with the west coast of Florida. As much as I’d like to live in Florida, the impact of overdevelopment and overconsumption is never far from my mind, nor is my own part in these problems. In the backyard of our rental, I saw a bunny, a black snake, dozens of lizards, an owl, male and female cardinals, blue jays, butterflies and more. When landscapers came to the neighboring property and fired up a leaf blower, I felt the shared fear of the snake and rabbit, both of whom are just trying to carve out a home in a shrunken ecosystem.
Something ancient stirs in me on the Gulf of Mexico, beckoning me toward a shapeless, nameless task. Perhaps it is in need of my eyes or my voice, or even just my undivided attention. Perhaps it just needs to be witnessed.
If you’re looking for the best things to do in Naples, don’t skip the Botanical Garden or the Baker Museum. The Marcus Jansen exhibit alone is worth the price of admission. Skip the crowds at the Naples Pier (unless that’s your thing) and go to Delanor-Wiggins Pass State Park or Barefoot Beach. The shells are abundant at both. After the beach, try the gelato at Cesibon.
My primary recommendations, however, aren’t Trip Advisor-esque. First, make sure to draw the smell of the Gulf through your nose with ecstatic enthusiasm. Similarly, never miss an opportunity to inhale whatever flower might be wafting along the humid breeze. When the smell of plant decay hits you, thank the undergrowth for housing so many precious creatures, even if you do so warily. Greet the pelicans and herons with the reverence they deserve, and wave to the park rangers who protect them. Listen to the mourning doves and the palm fronds, and the birds squawking over power lines. Allow the salt to shape sticky curls in your hair and, when the skies darken, as they invariably will, notice the way the color green looks electric.
On our last night of the trip, I couldn’t follow my own advice. Inhaling the Gulf air meant exacerbated coughing and sneezing. By the time we left the beach, I was practically choking. The red tide had worsened over the course of the day and, by sunset, dozens and dozens of dead fish bobbed on the receding waves. I passed those shiny, beautiful creatures, and wished I could bring each one to my cheek. “I love you. I’m sorry,” I said to a few.
I think that’s what I would say to Florida, if I could speak a language it would understand: “I love you. I’m sorry”.
Not Otherwise Specified 