Here's a Tip Fella, Don't Eat Yellow Snow

I read somewhere that Wales is Europe’s Florida. Since I’ve never been to Wales, I'm going to assume it’s awful. Florida has giant flying bugs, hurricanes, “I’m-with-stupid T-shirts”, meth and lots of reality TV in the making. 

People under the age of 60 only go to Florida if they like sporting the least fashionable Tommy Bahama beach wear available, enjoy a good deal on a steak as long as they are cool eating dinner at 3:45 or have parents that retired there. I fall squarely into bucket three and have spent more than my fair share of time in Florida.  By the time I was 17 my parents were fully retired and each September, they would hit the road and if we wanted to see them it meant trekking to the Sunshine State. Wheeeeeeeeeee.

Each year I visited, they would entertain me with one adventure or another that they were certain I could experience exclusively in Florida. Enormous swap meets, fishing charters, pizza joints with crusty dollar bills and enormous frilly bras tacked to the ceiling (mom and dad were so very progressive) and of course water aerobics. If it weren’t for mom and dad I never would have experienced “Sweating to the oldies” in a giant pool with a dozen 80 year olds. Thanks guys!

     

My visits to Florida were and still are some of my fondest memories. One of my most favorite adventures started out like any other routine day in Retiree-land. Up and out of the house early, running errands, doing chores, listening to my dad pass judgment on all of the other terrible drivers. “Sure dad, they suck, but you sir are still stellar.” Ahem, anyway after a morning of busyness dad was hungry and when the subject of lunch came up, he got that twinkle in his eye that he only gets when he’s about to share something that he thinks is pretty legit.

“I’ve got just the place!! Your mom and I stumbled on it a few years back, it’s the best deal in town. Burger, fries and drinks for 2 bucks and the best part is, YOU DON’T HAVE TO TIP!!! Boy was he ever pleased with himself.

To be fair my father is not a cheap man, however he is great at sniffing out deals and stretching those hard earned dollars, so off we go. When we pull into the Kmart parking lot, I’m confused. “Dad what’re we doing here?” It seemed like a reasonable question.

“Didn’t I just tell you we were going to lunch?” Dad’s sugar is low and clearly he’s getting fussy. Silly me for not knowing there was a restaurant inside of Kmart. Actually it wasn’t so much a restaurant as it was the Kmart employee cafeteria. Dad promptly clears up my confusion. “See it’s for the employees, but everyone’s allowed”. Terrific.

2 burgers, 2 orders of fries, 2 cokes. $4 dollars (no tip).  Dad proudly introducing me to the best lunch deal in town. Priceless.

Vote for Pedro

Being good, God fearing Catholics, my parents married young and had three children one after another after another in record time; then waited 10 years, had one too many bourbon sours at the Elk’s Lodge Annual Dinner Dance and BOOM along came number 4. 

SURPRISE!

After raising the first three kids in a mostly normal fashion, they decided that my youth would be significantly enriched by splitting time, half the year in upstate New York, the other half in mainland Florida. You see there’s an unwritten rule, actually I have no ideas if it’s written or unwritten, that says if you’re from Upstate New York, you’re required to vacation exclusively and retire in Florida. My parents were over achievers and took it one step further.

Every September they packed me up into our green Ford LTD and with Johnny Cash blaring on the 8-track away we went.  It was three days of bliss really, dad did the driving and mom worked the map. This formula guaranteed lots of huffing and puffing, hollering and then the ensuing silent treatment. I was in the back seat wondering what all the fuss was about and trying to figure out how much longer until we hit Pedro's South of the Border. For anyone who hasn’t trekked the eastern seaboard, Pedro's is a filthy tourist trap slash motel slash diner turned meth haven on I95 on the border between North and South Carolina.  It’s a thin slice of heaven. At the time it was the best part of the trip.

For the 50 miles leading up to the joint there is some of the campiest advertising ever conjured. Every mile a new sign, each more ridiculous than the last, but it kept me glued to the windows and occupied so for about an hour everyone in the LTD was happy.

Once we arrived, I couldn’t get out of the car fast enough. There was so much to see and take in. The165 foot statue topped with a giant sombrero, Pedro’s Coffee Casa where mom let me eat whatever I wanted to just get us the hell out of there and then finally the enormous gift shop where I was allowed to wander around unattended while mom and dad slammed Bloody Marys at the bar.

“Here’s $5 bucks, get whatever you want, but don’t forget to buy some fireworks for your Uncle and for Christ sake don’t talk to any foreigners, we’ll be back to get you in a half hour, maybe 45.”

"Sure Dad" I was picking up what he was putting down.

$5 bucks went along way in the seventies and even further if you were at Pedro’s so after slowly inspecting every dusty item in every cramped aisle and chatting with a few squatters I loaded up on candy, gum, Mad Libs, t-shirts, toys and of course the fireworks for my Uncle that were illegal in both New York and Florida. 

As soon as we drove away I was already hopped up on Fun Dips and calculating how long until we saw Pedro again in the spring.