To be forever known as \"I hate Florida Day\", this day taught me to have little respect for this state. As we rode eastward I daydreamed of the end of our voyage in the States and our imminent departure for Europe. Anything to keep me from thinking about how unfriendly the people are in Florida. I have the distinct sensation that the African American folks resent our whiteness and the rednecks despise our yankeehood. My suspicions were verified by the jeers and catcalls from passing drivers of all colors. Cars whizzed by at barely subsonic speeds so close we could feel their trim.
When they weren't yelling epithets at us they were honking and gesticulating. The sheriff of one county even tried to run us off the road. Adding to our riding experience were the trash strewn road shoulders. The day was not without distraction. On the outskirts of Chatahoochee we came across our first of many Floridian correctional institutions. It seemed to be surrounded by levies of brillo pads. As we rode closer we discovered it was razor wire. Our map showed that we could take a shortcut on a road that ran close to the prison and we were interested in getting a better look.
We wanted to take a photo of the premises but warning signs advised us not to. As we biked the perimeter (against my better judgment) Andy goaded me into taking a picture. Without stopping I reached into my handlebar bag, turned on the camera, lifted it over my head and took two shots. The action did not go unnoticed. A mile away from the prison a pick-up truck with official markings zinged up to us and rode on the grassy shoulder to our right. The shotgun-wielding guard advised us that we had been riding close to a prison and that we should not have been.
Andy started to insist that it was a public road. I cut him off and started replying with \"yessirs\" and \"nosirs\". Spending the day with this type of flatfooted buffoon was not what I had in mind. Coasting into Tallahassee was not an option. The terrain was the hilliest we had seen since the hill country of Texas. The city was no exception; roads laid out in a grid over steep slopes made it difficult to shop for a hotel with all of our gear aboard. I was especially cranky and ready to be off my bike as quickly as possible.
Looked all over town for a place to rest our heads to no avail. Finally we decided to eat. Popeye's across from the rescue mission gave us an opportunity to collect some nourishment before reinitiating our search. We shopped with our stomachs, sampling the complimentary chocolate chip cookies at several hotels. Finally settling on one that had been decorated by an iron curtain era designer. When we reached our room we realized that the sliding glass door had been sealed by the hotel. One of the benefits of traveling with enough tools to disassemble a bicycle is that we can correct this type of problem.
After my minor hotel remodeling job we proceeded to update our website in the newly fresh air. Afterwards we decided to hit the town for a drink. We got into the cab cautiously when I noticed there was no meter. When the driver quoted us \$10 for a ten block trip I bargained with my feet, opening the door and getting out. Quickly backpedaling our driver corrected himself saying that was for a two-way trip, further demonstrating the sleaziness of Floridians. The bar, called \"Brothers\" was a bust, too. We had gone anticipating viewing fictitious Ellen becoming a lesbian on t.v.
in the company of some simpatico homo brethren, but the bar wasn't showing it. There wasn't a single sister to be found at Brothers, which Susan had told us was Tallahassee's one and only queer bar. All we found were a few scary-looking alkies slumped over the bar. An admitted former heroin addict from New York asked Andy if he wanted to step outside to taste some moonshine that he had stashed there. We took this as our cue to return to our hotel, where I was soon dreaming of our arrival on the east coast.