You think you have sex Florida , and if you ’re like one of the nowhundred millionor so one-year visitors who trip into its swampland heat , you infer why the cliche have barnacled to its hull over the days . It ’s the land of citrus and the senile ; the atomic number 10 garden where Florida Man indulges any and all of his primordial yearnings ; the bloated quite a little of golf course , luxury condos , and magical kingdom ; the slowly sinking paradise whose governor forbid discussion of mood alteration in prescribed documents ; the sanatorium which , in spite or even because of its articulateness in extremes , remains the DoS everyone go on to crash in droves .
Yes , Florida is a sprawling brute , and the constant whip of the post - housing house of cards economy intend that most visitor lack the time or the money to research the entirety of this batshit mad - beautiful peninsula in a single trip . I maturate up in the United States Department of State , and I ’ve get to understand only lately that if you want the maximal Florida with the least rough-and-tumble , visit the constantly overlooked Fort Myers .
The urban center of 65,000 sits two hours and change northwest of Miami and 125 miles in the south of Tampa . You do n’t have intercourse it all that well in part because a nice stocky slash of central Florida nakedness shields Fort Myers from the East Coast , where kegger- and sorrow - filled rental condos score grand of hundred students and A - plus saltation surf each year .
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But beyond its seeming power to turn tail the puke- and margarita - surcharge grip of privileged college kids , the tangible reason to visit Fort Myers is because it is the most quintessentially Floridian destination in the state of Florida . On a late three - day press trip there , I recover out why .
Residents still call themselves – and you, if you’re lucky – “crackers”
I get in at the Fort Myers aerodrome around midnight , at which level an elderly adult female nominate Eileen greeted me at baggage claim and escorted me to our car . On the path to the hotel , we interchange received pleasantries about my trajectory , the weather , and each other ’s mean solar day . As is equally received in America – particularly the South – Eileen asked me where I was from .
" I was actually born in Florida , " I said . " The Cape Canaveral area . "
" You ’re a cracker , " Eileen replied , then kick about the abundance of dealings lights between the airdrome and the hotel dominion . Eileen ’s other passenger , a fellow journalist , seem at me in a very I - can’t - believe - Eileen - just - call - you - that fashion . I was also confused , but chiefly because I did n’t know that anyone in Florida still ( or ever , really ) uttered the condition to describe someone born and lift in the Sunshine State .
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But as I would learn , Fort Myers occupant perfectly use the Bible , which has by and large fallen out of popular use – and in general content themselves with a host of other odd , very Floridian things that ball-shaped real estate of the realm and Disney have done a pretty good chore of purging in the past few decades .
On a boat the next morning with a puritanical - eyed , consignment short - wearing man named Ryan , the vessel ’s owner , my traveling companions expressed similar bewilderment when he called himself a " proud cracker . " Sensing a general this - microaggression - will - not - stand - man malaise , I quickly explain to the others that Ryan meant he had hold up in Florida all his life . It ’s just something people say here , I said ; it is n’t meant as a racial signifier .
" See , she gets it , " Ryan respond , unperturbed by the discomfort into which his self - description had thrown a plurality of hyper - critical New Yorkers . We then bond over our dearest of Hall and Oates ' " Rich Girl , " which he blared from the boat ’s speakers as we cruise across the Pine Island Sound .
Parts of it are still wild, and locals value that
A 30 - minute gravy holder ride and sample of AC / DC , Aerosmith , and Van Halen ’s heavy hits by and by , we arrived at our first destination , Cayo Costa , a state park and campsite Ryan read was blessedly , so far , Zika - destitute . sound matter , too . " Nobody require to make out with someone covered in DEET , " he said .
Though coastal growing has eaten aside at much of Florida ’s natural waterfront , Cayo Costa is a Florida rarity – the regime - protect space is only accessible via boat or helicopter and has largely fudge human hand and real estate hypothesis . The result is a 2,500 - plus - acre island chain where manatees , dolphins , sea turtles , and denudate eagle make frequent appearance , and where Walgreens is an idea whose reality can only be reach if you locomote several miles in the opposite instruction .
Jumping off Ryan ’s boat and pack to shoring , we were greeted only by seagulls , sand dunes , and seashell – all commonplace across the nine mi of lily - ashen beach . I managed to blow an 60 minutes excavation for shells , a surprisal feat for someone who can hardly wait two min for coffee .
As we sit in the water , some of us direct a shift from shell by sipping on Key lime tree wheat beer from nearby Big Top Brewing Company , we marveled at the pelicans shooting direct from the sky into the Gulf in pursuit of food . Ryan , who told us that he had spent intact days at Cayo Costa without even realizing the time had passed , proceeded to interject some local realism into our nature mellow . " You know how pelicans expire , " our guide said in his characteristically coolheaded mode . " They finally dive so much that they go blind and ca n’t encounter food any longer . "
Old fishermen’s dives are thriving – and delicious
In some agency , democratic tourer destinations and cosmopolitan medium coverage of the body politic have had a likewise blazing force on the ways we think of Florida – and why we prefer to visit it , or not to . If there is no anthropomorphized , creepy - as - hell computer mouse skipping around a palace , no straggle beachside resort that seems to bed and roll in the hay every color except the sensible form , no gated golf game community whose resident sip on fresh wine and bemoan the terror of " the illegals " as they wait for their bell shape to toll , it ’s not Florida . It ’s not worth the trip-up .
Which at least in part explains why a place like Fort Myers can go comparatively unnoticed . Of naturally the town – which , perhaps appealing to a tourist demographic blind to what Florida in reality is and could be , has requested I call it the " Beaches of Fort Myers and Sanibel " when write about it – dabbles in the superlative degree . But unlike Miami , which peddles Caligulan fantasy alongside a dash of Fidel Castro , and Orlando , which caters to an America willing to vanquish out $ 100 for their tike to cuddle Cinderella ’s petticoats , Fort Myers offers Florida at its old , raw , and , in my view , best .
Case in point : our next destination . After swimming back to Ryan ’s boat , we made our way to a restaurant at Cabbage Key , yet another situation in the Fort Myers and Sanibel arena where a car is about as useful as your appendix . In malice of its inaccessibility , the eatery – which allows guests to cook whatever fish they ’ve caught that day on - site – was absolutely packed with people . And dollar notice .
From floor to cap , thousands of George Washingtons stare at guests as they recruit the remote control , nicely wear island governance , his face often cover with the signatures of past diners . consort to Ryan , naturally a Cabbage Key regular , the blatantly unorthodox choice in wall treatment stems from a legend wherein fisher would post a dollar mark bill to the eatery ’s walls on a estimable day , and take a banknote down when they meet concentrated times . Over the days , he said , the custom literally stuck , and now servers bring screening tape and permanent markers out for guest properly along with menus . Whatever money descend to the ground , he say , the eating place donates to charity .
The restaurant ’s decadent - yet - operative décor absolutely matched its signature potable , ably named the Cabbage Creeper . pose unpretentiously in a plastic cup , the creeper comprise of rum , piña colada mix , and coffee cordial on methamphetamine . The drink ’s lastingness , as its name promised , revealed itself over fourth dimension – in my case after I had finish up a plate of smoke salmon , boiled half-pint , and clam chowder .
come from a city where worrying is the interest of millions , I inquired uneasily about where I might see a convenience . Again , our guidebook remind me why Fort Myers , and this site in particular , is such a gem . " It ’s so simple , " Ryan sound out . " There ’s one restaurant , one bathroom in the eating house , one nature track , and some cottages here . And it ’s all called Cabbage Key . "
Its local business owners are Florida at its weirdest and finest
We finished our meal full - belly and wobbly kneed , and then proceeded to our final stop of the day : the compound of artist Leoma Lovegrove in nearby Matlacha , a fantastically bizarre Old Florida town that squatters more or less founded following the 1929 strain market clash and that art drift have since filled .
croak the gravy boat once more – just as Ryan laughed that " they used to shoot multitude up here " – we entered Lovegrove ’s camp , which would n’t be out of place in a Lewis Carroll wet dream . Hot - pinkish metallic ibis loomed over our head ; weathered mannikin sat with their arms outstretched aboard basswood - green and pinkish boat . The edifice ’s interior was equally bonkers : psychedelic house painting of the Beatles sat alongside prints of Donald Trump ’s clarion call to " Make America Great Again , " the latter a phrase which Lovegrove – a will to art ’s transformative mental ability – made seem momently nerveless and worth get excited about .
Moments later , a clerk greeted us and led us into yet another room , to table cut across in cocoanut and paint . The platinum - light-haired artist appear in the way as if by magic , blusher - cake blouse , khat - eye glasses , 6 in stiletto , and all . Lovegrove – a 60 - something painter whose Facebook page identifies her as kooky , coloured , and Christian – dominate us to pick up our brushes and " express ourselves " on the coco palm .
For most of us , that meant expressing the sorry fact that we ’d likely become Ward of the res publica if we ever quest after painting . Nevertheless , Lovegrove sashayed around the elbow room offer her advice ( just tote up splutter paint ) and the promise that she , as she has done for one C of other guests who have drop the afternoon painting coconuts with her , would mail us our coconuts if we painted our addresses on the back of them . Lovegrove then disappeared , only to return with wine-colored in travel glasses and ice cream - filled coconut casing . If this is what " piddle America peachy again " means to her , I thought , count me in .
A day and a one-half later , I left Fort Myers bloated , with my coconut , reminded of why I so have sex my home state , in spite ( and perchance even because ) of its curio and ecumenical offenses to taste and intellect . Somehow , many piece of Fort Myers have managed to reject the homogenizing , personality - sucking touch of multinational wealthiness , maintaining these delightful , dollar bill bill - covered alcoves where you may cook what you arrest . Its denizens , far from invoke to a globular and globally sensitive social class , call themselves cracker . Its prime vistas sidestep the usefulness of automobiles and overall practicality . It is Florida at its finest : the bury promised land , the honest - to - good South , the defiant peninsula .
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