Nancy and I have been married thirty years. Yesterday was our anniversary, so that makes it thirty plus one.
I'm in Jacksonville, Florida. When my brother Homer and sister Lorrie heard we were headed there, I won't go so far as to say they rolled their eyes, but there was a tell-tale wobble around the corneas that suggested they were about to roll. Homer said, "Let me see if I can think of some good restaurants for you to go to in Jacksonville." He considered carefully and said, "I don't think there are any good restaurants in Jacksonville."
The first thing we discovered upon reaching Jacksonville is that everyone here rides a bicycle. It's like it's required. This may sound like a good thing, idyllic, even. But it's not quite as jolly when you're navigating through nomadic herds of two-wheelers in your rented Buick. Bicycles are like blue-footed boobies. They're cute, and you might wish there were more of them around, but you reach a point of satiation. Enough is enough.
We were informed three times in a three minute conversation with the desk clerk that Jacksonville has a great bar scene. Maybe, but I have been to the Florabama. Nothing in the way of bars can impress me now.
Let me say now that I LOVE Jacksonville. I have a broad and deep streak of the Vulgarian in me, and there's a part of me that just loves to get down and roll in it once in a while. Jacksonville is crass. Jacksonville is tacky.
Feels like home.
But then again, anywhere with a woman you've loved and lived with thirty years and a day is home. Right?
