Florida

And so we' begin the last leg of our year-plus adventure.

Won't be needing these any more.

It's strange not to need them but a bit of a relief as well.  One language, one monetary unit (which I have at last remastered) will make things easier for the next 5,000 km, er 3,000 miles (we're not on the metric system any more, so the boys keep telling me).

It was a bittersweet moment as we pulled out of Krissi's driveway.  More bitter than sweet, actually.  The realization that this is the last bit of it.  Hard to believe.

So we're going to make the most of what is left although in typical Ionescu style we have no concrete plans.  The only fundamental fact is that we must transport ourselves (and our crap) from Florida to California.  How long it will take and which route we will follow, well, we'll wing it like we always do.

The best way to ensure that you'll leave important stuff behind is to depart a place in the wee hours of the morning. Especially a place where you've sprawled for eight days.  I really don't want to become the modern day Hansel and Gretel, strewing bits and pieces of ourselves behind us as we cross half the world.  We left enough things in Romania, thank you very much.
So we planned on a late morning departure which meant the first stop had to be relatively close by.

And thus we come to the Florida Panhandle.

You know those places that are such dives that they become awesome?  The motel we stayed in was one such place. (and yes, I am back to using the word awesome once again).

Rather than being a motel, it was a mixture of cottages and apartments, built circa 1972 right on the water's edge and then maintained only to the point of preventing the structures from collapsing into the Gulf.

The flat, sandy areas that passed for a parking lot were filled with trucks from Ontario, Montana and Arkansas. Men with grey-streaked ponytails stood around with beer cans in their hands, talking to one another about fishing and guitars.  To a man, they all admired the boys' hats and stopped and stared as we brought the electric guitar and portable amp in from the van.  "Right on," I heard one say.

A flock of peacocks roamed the grounds and the grizzled men took great pains to try and count them all. I admit it was charming but for the fishermen it transformed this cluster of shacks and palm trees into "the best resort on earth, man."

They comforted me somehow, these burned out dudes.  They reminded me of home, of Santa Cruz, and it made my heart flutter a bit at the thought of being there soon.

We were five miles from Appalaciacola so we took a quick drive across the bridge for a dinner of oysters and other offerings from the sea in which we could over-indulge.
Afterward, since it was so balmy and and since we were so unbearably full, we took a stroll around town and were thoroughly charmed by what we saw.
The Santa Cruz vibe continued in the local coffee shop the next morning where the first sight that greeted us was a photo of Sarah Palin with a beard and mustache painted on, as well as espresso sipping patrons wearing Keens.
A little blip of liberalism amongst the otherwise predominant FoxNews-watching populace.

Apalachicola was an unexpected surprise: hippie Vietnam vets, palm sized oysters, Republican-bashing coffee drinkers.  A little taste of home before we even get there.
Right on.