Tampa

We exit the chill of the hotel lobby and run smack into a wall of tropical heat. It's blazing sun and big coastal clouds overhead as we dash across the street and into a small grove of palm trees.

A woman inside the tiny shack greets us warmly and then informs us she's out of half of the day's menu. Supply chain issues finally hit the jerk shack industry. Hungry and undaunted, we settle on plates of pork and rice. Try the Kola Champagne, you say. You loved it as a kid. I agree, another in many signs that I've left my world of the cold and efficient North and am in the full embrace of yours, the slow and gentle South.

We nestle into chairs that lean way back, farther than I've ever seen at an eating establishment in my part of the world. We watch as the humid breeze softly stirs the trees. You doubt the day's forecast as you watch a great purple haze gather toward the gulf. A runner, scantily clad and drenched in sweat, passes by and then returns. I guess they have peacocks down here, too.

As we await our roasted meat we crack open the Kola Champagnes. It's a sweet taste of your youth. We make idle chat and then fall into sweet silence. Arms behind head; eyes shut; faces sunward.

I am, implausibly learning to relax. Thank you for showing me the way.