I’m From a Blue State and Traveled to Florida. Here’s What it Was Like.
Imagine a seaside restaurant at sunset.
A mixed bag of retirees out for a lovely meal, family gatherings with kids being as loud as the environment could allow, couples celebrating anniversaries, birthdays or first dates. A full house of people enjoying themselves, smiles on their faces, living their life.
That’s hard to imagine in Illinois in May 2021, but not in Florida.
My wife and I needed a break. Our kids are great, but a winter in the pandemic wasn’t fun. No different than anyone else, or so I thought. Our friends suggested Destin. It’s beautiful down there.
Never heard of it.
Looked it up, looks beautiful, seems quiet, maybe enough sights and sounds to fill up a visit. So we booked a hotel, let’s go. Figured we’ll make the 14-hour drive over the course of two days and spend a week there. We could use some sun, a few drinks, maybe a few more. You know the drill.
With the pandemic cases subsiding and the vaccination push on the rise, we figured it’s as safe as it’s been in the 15 months.
Driving to Florida and making stops for gas and fast food along the way, the big question was about masks. A route that takes you out of Illinois and then through Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, Alabama and then Florida won’t produce a lot of masks. Yet it wasn’t void of them either. The element of “wear ’em if you want” was socially acceptable.
At the resort we stayed at, we watched the evolution of re-opening in real time. When we checked in, there were masks at the front desk and Plexiglas shields on the counter top. The concierge had the same set up. By the end of our stay, the shields were gone. The masks were loosely worn by staff in a way where you felt as comfortable as they were.
There were personal milestones along the way. Let’s start with staying in a hotel. Neither my wife and I had done that since March 2020. We even moved across the country last year and sought out AirBNB that had a full 24-hour gap between reservations in order to guarantee cleaning safety. That’s how far we’ve come. That’s how far many of us have come.
The first elevator ride with other people in more than a year. Sitting at a bar without a mask. Having the bartender without a mask lean in to ask you to repeat your order because the music is too loud. Talk about a moment of pause. Asking someone to take a picture of you and your wife means handing your phone to a stranger. Has it really been that long since I’ve done that?
When you go to Crab Island, you brace yourself for the sandbar party. Busy and wild during peak season, but this was early in the day. It allowed for socializing. It allowed for conversations with people from all over the country. A car dealer from Southern Illinois, a first grade teacher from Ohio, 20-something’s from Dallas. We stood in circles as we spoke with couples, unconsciously respective of social distance, but something that wasn’t top of mind either. As the week went on, you just couldn’t help but relax and be yourself, something that hasn’t happened in the Land of Lincoln in a long time.
We took a group selfie on a tiki boat with strangers, can’t remember the last time I did that. We were asked to join partiers for lunch. A casual invitation that makes sense during a time of normalcy. The boardwalk in Destin was bustling. The outside dining establishments didn’t have many seats open. Parking lots full. Servers without masks. Money being made.
Local after local explained to us in repetition that Florida shutdown for two weeks and that was it. They seemed marveled by the wide-eyed tourists like us who may have imagined a world that was open and normal, but were taken back actually seeing it. Over the past few months as the push to re-open has rolled forward and added to the polarization of our current state of politics, the panhandle didn’t feel that sense of “Hell yeah, we’re open, take that America.” It felt more like accepting that this is what they do. This is who they are.
My wife and I felt like checking out the nightlife one evening early in our trip. As we got closer and closer to the music, we knew there were a lot of people inside. Door man checks the ID, and off we go. Get through the door and a wave of anxiety overcomes you a bit. This is crowded (for a Monday), this is full, and let’s go to the side bar away from the 20-somethings, but I’m glad they’re having fun.
We ended up chatting with a couple newly married, enjoying a mini-honeymoon from Mississippi. They drove their boat seven hours to get here. Now that’s livin’! The conversation was fun. He works with old cars. She’s a dental assistant. They’re in their late 30’s, almost the same age, and starting again in relationships. We do shots, we take pictures, we friend each other on Facebook, we laugh, we pay the bill, we head back to the hotel (safely).
My wife and I were completely amused at what we had just done. We socialized, we conversed and we enjoyed a night out. We might not remember when we last did it, but it felt good to remember how to do it.
The whole trip was sort of a renaissance of life. The feeling that normalcy will return to us all. It was nice to rediscover some of the little things that have been missing all this time. Zoom will stay in our workplace culture, but nothing replaces a face-to-face conversation. Nothing sticks with you like engagement and interaction.
Overall, we have to recognize that there will never be a zero-sum solution to COVID-19. That’s not a political statement, that’s just fact. At some point, if you want to experience normalcy, you’re going to take some calculated risks. A trip out of the preverbal comfort zone proved to be a much needed break from the world around us. The only thing that wasn’t normal was a trip to Florida where it didn’t rain for seven straight days!
The vaccine push will get stronger, it will get younger, it won’t go away and it won’t not be polarizing. You can end the pandemic, but you can’t end COVID-19.
Florida understands that, that’s why it feels so normal.
Matt Rodewald is an Emmy Award-winning journalist, spending nearly two decades in local news.
