Seven months in Florida have been full of twists, turns, and false starts, but it looks like I’ve found a place to settle in (see: “settle in” above). How do I know? Signs. Signs!
The first giveaway that Jacksonville would fit: Dance Trance is within walking distance of my house. Duh. If I drove 10 miles each way for almost 10 years to get there in Virginia, it must be a necessity. Now we’re neighbors.
Second, trees. Jacksonville has real ones. Big, solid, sturdy, leafy trees. Silly palm trees are purely for decorative purposes, and are therefore relegated to shopping boulevards and such. Fine. Good. Stay there.
Third, ginormous, affordable, old apartments. Wood-floor, high-ceiling, giant-window kind of places right near the water. Much appreciated after my recent break-up with homeownership (which didn’t even include central air).
Fourth, above mentioned water. WATER. The St. John’s River is right outside my house with free, daily, front-row performances by the sun himself. He has many moods, and is quite mysterious.
Fifth, flying fish. Keeper has so little to enjoy in his old age. No more long walks or beheading stuffed animals, his poor sight and hearing make it impossible. Until a fish flung itself up on the dock and practically into his mouth. I almost had a seizure, but in canine society, can you imagine what a monumental touchdown this must be? He was gleaming.
Sixth, cats. A pack of them, who live all over our courtyard and wear fluorescent collars despite sex (or sexual orientation). One named Charlie threw himself on top of me when I came to look at the place. I took it as a sign.
Seventh, complete and utter job failure turned small miracle. I came here for a”writing” position at a mega corporation, located in a mega office park, where people wear badges and eat in cafeterias and everything resembles the artist’s rendering. Creepy and also the final straw.
So I’m embarking on a boss-free existence in my spacious abode in historic little San Marco—with runners running by, independent businesses lining the boulevard, a gluten-free restaurant around the corner, and the dock (THE DOCK!), which will come in handy when I worry over keeping clients. When you sit near a river, the concept of work and money become ridiculously obscure. Stress doesn’t have a fighting chance. Nor do useless meetings, blood pressure-raising cubicles, and coma-inducing PowerPoint presentations anymore. We are through. Done. Finished. Over.
Like the fish who found himself in Keeper’s fangs. (Been there, and it ain’t pretty.)
