UNSTUCK: 30A (THE EMERALD COAST)

Reflection, Rumination & Rhetoric from the Road

After almost two weeks on the road, not more than two nights in any one place, I hit The Low Ebb after pulling into Rosemary Beach on Florida’s panhandle, which is more about Alabama than The Sunshine State (including its time zone, one hour behind the peninsula).

I understand you cannot have highs without lows. The key is to embrace the lows, feel them deeply, just as you might enjoy the highs.

As always, it takes a good sleep (less frequent while traveling) and fresh eyes to recognize whatever delusions are cast by demons.

For, come morning, I discover the sweetest beachside resort town I’ve ever seen, felt, breathed in.

Rosemary Beach is ten miles east of Seaside, the idyllic community that Jim Carrey as Truman Burbank could not escape.

The sand all along 30A (as the natives call it) is soft and powdery and white as snow, contrasting the emerald green Gulf water that merely ripples, does not wave.

This is the Deep South in all but name. The folks that work here, visit here, exude warmth and friendliness—the very essence of southern hospitality. (Rosemary Beach is full of folks from Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama). 

I adore their sweet as pie accent, which I’d love to cultivate and make my own, so melodic to the ear, to my soul.

Kevin, a former golf pro who valets at The Pearl, exudes such sincere good cheer, it feels like you’ve known him your whole life.

Families abound, well behaved young children and toddlers. The older teens ride bikes and play sports on the village green instead of glueing their eyes to smart phones.

As in Europe, females take pride in their femininity. Unlike the slovenly female gender in California clad in sweats and sneakers, these gals wear colorful dresses and smile.

The America I once knew. And miss.

Back to my Low Ebb:

Dinner at Edward’s opposite The Pearl was a disappointment and led to these kind of thoughts while I nursed a pinot noir back at the Hemingway-themed Havana Beach Bar & Grill:

What am I doing?

Where am I going?

A middle-aged couple from New Orleans sat beside me. We began to talk, and though my tongue was not properly connected to my brain (from road exhaustion, not booze), we had a significant chat.

While traveling, I’m always listening out for messages from the universe, sometimes delivered by muses, sirens or spiritual dynamos.

This was their message: Go to Fairhope, Alabama, stay at The Grand Hotel.

So that’s where I’m rolling next.

Meantime, a blissful four night stay in Rosemary Beach, best represented by a montage of imagery.