Palatka, Florida

 

A thick overcast greeted me when I arrived at the Amtrak station in Orlando after thirty-six hours of train travel, first to Washington, D.C., then down the coast to Florida. Even though the clouds threatened rain, I was glad to see them, as they’d spare my pale skin from an immediate blast of sun and would also make the eighty degree temperature seem less hot than it was. The forecast called for a possibility of rain during a two-hour mid-afternoon window, which would be manageable.

Rain in Florida was no surprise.  I had just read in “Oranges,” an early John McPhee book from 1967, that Florida was one of the two or three rainiest states.  I was fortunate to have read it before my departure, as I’d had it on reserve from the Chicago Public Library for over a month, it finally coming in a couple days before I was to leave.  I had been able to track down his other twenty-nine books from various local libraries in the previous two months of my project to see how often the bicycle turned up in his writing—in twenty-two of his books, but not with as much commentary as I’d hoped. 

I thought I might have to wait until Florida for “Oranges” and spend an afternoon at the Jacksonville library, 150 miles north of Orlando, to complete my binge of McPhee. That wouldn’t have been all that bad, as the Jacksonville library was a Carnegie.  It would be the third of this trip, completing the state for me, as I’d gotten to the other six still standing Carnegies on the west side of the state in February of 2020 on a ride from Miami to New Orleans after two months in South America pre-pandemic.  Florida had had fourteen Carnegies, but five have gone the way of the wrecking ball. 

My departure from the Orlando station was almost delayed by a near disaster when my bike was overlooked in the baggage car by the guy emptying it.  I was greatly relieved to see my duffle come off, as I feared it might not have made the transfer in DC.  As I awaited my bike I was talking with a fellow cyclist, who was also awaiting his bike.  We were distracted when the friend he was going to ride with down to the Keys showed up, launching us into further conversation. After several minutes we realized our bikes had yet to be unloaded so called over to the baggage handler, who was distributing bags on the platform, and asked if someone was going to get our bikes.  He hurried over to grab them before the train pulled out.  That was a close one, and wouldn’t have been the first time Amtrak bungled my bike, once neglecting to put it on my train to Grand Junction from Chicago and another time removing it in Champagne, mistaking the CHI tag for CHA.

I had considered flying to Orlando, as the airfare was comparable to the train fare, but I preferred the ease and pleasure of the train, and not having to box up my bike. I was rewarded with a most interesting seatmate on my first leg to DC, a young man who had come from Philadelphia for the eclipse.  He worked for Amtrak as an architect of its stations, so could travel for free.  He would have been in a sleeper if they hadn’t been full.  He’d spent the previous two nights in a tent in southern Indiana.  

When he said he had driven down to Indiana from Chicago with a couple friends for the eclipse, I  thought I might have an example of “it’s a small world.”  I asked him if he’d watched the eclipse on Dwight’s farm, who’d had a gathering of several hundred outside of Bloomington, as I’d considered, but no, he was in a state park that wasn’t even full and knew nothing of Dwight.  If he had, it wouldn’t have been the first time I had a seatmate who knew friends of mine, as I once sat with a young woman who’d attended Principia High School and swam in the pool of my good friends the Towle’s across the street from the school. And she also knew friends in Humboldt County, where she was returning to.  That we shared that set of disparate friends was absolutely boggling.

I was rewarded with a second most interesting companion on the second leg of this trip to Orlando, the fellow touring cyclist.  Though we weren’t assigned seats together, we had good conversations in the station before departure and then aboard the train.  Peter was retired and had taken to biking at the urging of his son when his knees could no longer endure the running he had subjected them to.  He’d had several trips and was loving it enough to be planning a coast-to-coast ride.  He had come down from Boston for a ride with his friend who lived in Florida. He’d lived in Sweden for a while and Hong Kong too.  He and his son had undertaken a two-week kayak trip through the fiords of Norway.  His son was presently completing a PhD in degrowth at a university in Vienna.  It’s one of just two schools that offer such a degree, the other in Barcelona.  He’s already been involved in degrowth projects in the EU for NGOs.

I slept well the first night on the train being able to put my sleeping bag on the floor behind seats at the end of the car I was assigned to.  That wasn’t possible the second night.  I was kept awake by a couple of loud-talking Bubbas, who had a long litany of complaints.  One hated his job in construction and was hoping to become a tattoo artist, but first he had to learn to draw.  The other was on the verge of renting a storage locker and making it his home, as he knows a lot of people who do. They were perplexed that one parks in driveways and drives on parkways.   They both went on and on about Dollar Stores ringing up prices higher than the shelf price.  They were also incensed about paying for an eight-ounce steak in a restaurant that is cooked down to four-ounces.  It’s thievery everywhere.

I thought I was going to begin these travels with one of those replica Statue of Liberties that the Boy Scouts scattered around the US.  Wikipedia listed one at the intersection of Orange and Magnolia a mile north of the Amtrak Station right on my way.  The location was a small park with a lake, but there was no statue to be found.  I asked half a dozen people, including a security guard and a homeless guy pushing a cart and an officer issuing parking tickets, and none knew of it.

But I only had six miles to my first Carnegie on the campus of Rollins College in Winter Park with an enrollment of 3,000 students.  The Carnegie was now home to the proud English Department.  A desk had small business cards with “What are you going to do with an English Major?  Teach?” on one side and a long explanation on the other side: “My English major is all about the long game.  While some may mock our initial low salaries, it’s a fact that English majors out-earn pre-professional students in mid-career.  CEO’s love what I’m learning in my courses: communication, leadership and thinking on my feet.  Plus, the average American changes careers over five times throughout their lives.  My English major will keep doors open for me.  We score higher in graduate exams, tell better stories and understand how to pitch a project.  What will I do with my English major?  Anything I want.”

Not far down the road from the Carnegie the clouds burst a heavy downpour.  I was able to wait it out under the awning of one of the many surgery centers, cosmetic and otherwise, that seemed to be the predominant business in the area, more than even injury lawyers. It was just a fifteen minute break.  The next Carnegie was forty miles north in DeLand at Stetson University, Florida’s oldest private college established in 1883.  It was a most charming campus on the fringe of this city of 37,351.  

Palms trees were in abundance with a cluster in front of the columned library, now Sampson Hall and home to the Arts and Language departments.  “Education Is Power” in block letters stretched over the entrance.  Over the second floor the building was ringed on all four sides by authors and other distinguished figures including Lee and Lincoln next to each other on the backside of the building along with Napoleon and Tolstoi. Chaucer, Shakespeare Browning, Tennyson, Longfellow and Lanier had the honor of the front.  Washington, Jefferson and Marshall were on the west facing side and Homer, Virgil and Dante on the east facing wall.

 Beyond DeLand I finally escaped the sprawl of all the communities extending from Orlando and had a pleasant corridor of forest for twenty-five miles until dark and an idyllic campsite in a thick pine forest, finding along the way the first license plate of the trip already.