We're no longer in Florida, Toto

Leaving any place is hard for me. I’m the type of person who is usually always in the present: I am where I am. But Friday morning sees us up early, packing last minute things, moving odds ‘n sods upstairs to our wonderful American neighbours who have graciously offered to store things for us for the summer. We do last minute cleaning, turn off the water, snap off the power to the hot water tank. Lock up. Squeeze in a few more last minute good-byes, then head up Hwy 19 to find the Shelter, where our donation of foodstuffs from the fridge is gratefully received.

We head north, then east across the top of Florida, then north again, our car so loaded we feel like a two-headed turtle, our house on our back. The divides between the highways here are filled with masses of fuschia pink flowers, miles of them. We see a poor little armadillo – lying on his back in a pose of total submission, feet up – his armour not strong enough to save him from the car that hit him. We pass stall after stall of boiled peanut sellers. They’re irresistible to me but hubby keeps driving. No room in the car, he says. Plenty of room in my stomach, I think. Then through farmland – peanut farmers. Past the Goethe State Park whose tall looming trees remind us of a park we’d seen in south western Australia.

Into Georgia, we follow the 26 into Columbia where we decide to spend the night. We pass an accident - a snatch of a scene – a young lady rubbing her hands up and down the arms of a small boy, his chin on his chest; a white car roof just visible down a ravine, people milling about. Soon, ambulances pass us going to their aid. It’s a sombre reminder how quickly things can go wrong.

Registered at the Days Inn, we walk down the street for the exercise to dins at Chick-Fil-A, a fast food franchise we’ve never been to before. Their advertising campaign is what tickles me: a cow in business-man attire holding a placard that says “Eat chikin”. Hubby tips the order taker (it’s like a McDo’s). She doesn’t notice until we’re seated. She comes to our table, money in hand: “You forgot your change.” She’s pleased when we say “It’s for you.” We surmise people don’t tip in these places.

We can’t get wi-fi in our hotel room but no matter. A little tv, a hot shower and a delightfully soft bed and we’re off to dreamland. In the morning, I notice hubby has stashed the camera under the tv stand (ever security conscious); I stash it in my purse.

Breakfast is at Shoney’s across the street, a buffet of different southern foods: crispy pork rinds, grits, strawberry-glazed bananas, the ubiquitous (tea) biscuits, a strange breaded hamburger thing, chicken nuggets, salads, and the usual other brekkie foods. We are the racial minority in this Shoney’s we notice. We can hardly understand our waitress but we are well served and leave stuffed.

The geography shifts as we enter South Carolina on the I-77. Gone are Georgia’s tidal flats and rivers, replaced by mountainous ridges and vertiginous valleys. The flowers in the highway divides are just as multitudinous as Florida’s but now they appear to be bright red poppies waving us along. Spring has definitely sprung here: I see lilacs, wild cherry and other flowering shrubs in full bloom – purples, pinks and whites. Winter’s dead grasses are turning emerald green and the trees, leaves unfurling in the warm spring sun, are a steady mural of every green under the sun. Seen from afar they look like a coverlet of densely-packed broccoli, softening the contours of the mountain ridges.

This be deer country; we see the odd warning sign not to mention carcasses. The temp has dropped from 30 to 20 – it’s cooler in the mountains and cloudy. But the vistas make us rubber-neck: black and white Jerseys ly peacefullydotting lush meadows; tiny farms interspersed on massive green fields, the odd one littered with old junkers; whole counties spread like real live google maps before us, tiny hamlets like toy villages. We’ve definitely left the tropical feel behind. No palm trees here.

I ask hubby about the camera; did he pick it up? No answer. Either he didn’t hear me or he’s trying to remember. An hour later, he confesses quietly: “I left the camera under the tv; we better turn around.” I can’t help but laugh out loud as I in turn make my confession, “It’s in my purse.” Such are the moments in a marriage.

The state of Virginia has an interesting sign that says: Buckle up, Virginia. It’s a law we can live with. I like that!

Two mountain ranges keep us company on either side of us for a long distance. We enter the Shenandoah Valley, Pennsylvania, looking for both an Econolodge and an Applebee’s but when we find them in proximity, it seems too early to stop. We carry on to a little hole in the wall place: Pine Grove but it has an Econolodge and a restaurant with good home cookin’ called Gooseberry’s.

Our night isn’t the best however: we have amourous neighbours. In all our travels, we’ve never encountered this problem but a problem it is. There’s a locked connecting door between our rooms – perhaps that’s why their ardour is so audible. We keep the volume up on the tv but eventually must turn it off to sleep. We consider changing rooms but thinking they’ll stop eventually, fall asleep to the sounds of their obviously intense coupling. 4:09 am, they’re at it again. Hard to believe. Ever analytical, the variety of ohhs, and ahhhhs, lead me to believe there must be two couples or maybe two women, one man. Whoever it is has the stamina of athletes as they are not soon silent. We’re glad to be quit of that place but as we drive away, we conclude maybe our neighbours were watching pornos with the sound up too loud! We'll never know.

We drive along under grey skies and rain. The temp is 50 degrees. Gradually, the fauna changes as we travel. It’s like going back in time or experiencing a season reversal: in Florida, it was summery, like July, flowers and greenery everywhere. In the middle states, it’s like June with blossoms everywhere, little spots of white, pink or purple amongst the unfolding green leaves. Here in Pennsylvania, it’s truly May. The trees have not yet budded, some still wear last year’s rusty leaves. The grass is greening but winter’s wear is still evident.

We discuss stopping to golf at Malone but the weather and the cost doesn’t encourage us so we opt to head directly home, checking via internet first to see what value we’re permitted to declare to Canada Border Services. Yes, with any thought of entering Canada, one must first think of the government and maintaining good relations. We breeze through after confessing to spending most of our money on golf. I think the young CBS agent has a soft spot for us after that confession, seeing as how he's confined to his little box questioning returning holidayers. Must be an awful job.

And now we’re home! Yeah, Canada!!!!!