Natural Born Floridians
by Barbara Nefer
ou don't have to be a Native Born Floridian to be a Natural Born Floridian.
Indeed, Florida natives have the advantage of enjoying all the perks of paradise from birth. For some this actually dulls their appreciation of things that others only dream of, such as balmy weather year 'round and countless beaches within day-trip distance.
I once chatted with a native at an art show in downtown Celebration, admiring his gorgeous sunset art. He mentioned that he lived near the ocean, and I sighed fondly, “Ah, it must be wonderful to go to the beach any time that you want.”
“No, beaches are boring,” he replied. “I've seen enough to last me a lifetime.”
I can never imagine getting my fill of salt water slapping on the sand and seagulls shrieking overhead. Here in Central Florida, if I want a taste of the beach I simply hop in my car and head east or west. Either way, I'll eventually hit oceanfront. Manatees and dolphins might be fantasy for some, but I can watch them frolic any time.
That's what separates “natural” from “native.” Granted, many native Floridians love their home state and appreciate their luck at being born in a place that draws people from every corner of the globe. But some of those visitors know that while they may have been born elsewhere, it was a mistake of nature. The moment they first catch sight of swaying palm trees and feel the humidity engulf their bodies, they know that they are home. They're destined to keep returning, and to finally put down roots, because they can't escape their destiny any more than a bluebird can escape being blue.
Central Florida embodies the best that the state has to offer. For example, it brings a whole new dimension to shuttle launches when you're neighbors with NASA. Central Floridians don't need to rely on television coverage. We flock to our front yards to watch the launch live, eagerly scanning the sky to spot the space-bound dot and following the vapor trail as the astronauts climb into orbit. The bravest of souls might actually venture down to Cape Canaveral for a close-up view, but the traffic has always scared me away.
Another sense of pride is knowing that you live in a place where the rest of the world flocks to vacation. For them, it's the culmination of months, or perhaps years, of planning. They fly long hours or drive for days just to get a brief taste of what Central Floridians enjoy all year long.
I live in Celebration, which can be a bit like living on Main Street in the Magic Kingdom. At peak tourist times, our streets are packed elbow to elbow. Gluts of visitors arrive for special events like the Fourth of July fireworks or nightly snowfalls (of foamy soap) in the winter. My fellow townsfolk complain about the crowds, and when I sit in traffic for half an hour just to go ten blocks, I'll admit I complain too. But overall I view the tourists as further proof of the wonder of being a Floridian. Their days here are numbered and their joy is tempered with the knowledge that they'll soon return home. For me, vacationland is my home. That was always the most melancholy part of visiting Disney World. We'd come down for a week, and for the first several days I could relax and lose myself in the pixie dust. But once we reached the halfway point and beyond, a downer voice in the back of my head would whisper, “Only three more days...only two more days...you're going home tomorrow.”
As we sat in front of our hotel, waiting for our ride to the airport, I could feel the stuffy gray cloud of depression hanging over my shoulders. I'd see families just arriving, laughing and eager to start their vacation, and my jealousy was palpable.
Now my husband and I can decide at the very last minute to run over to the Disney resort for dinner. Our out-of-state friends have a hard time imaging what it's like to just hop into your car and pull up at House of Blues ten minutes later.
When we've had a hard work day, we can rush over to Epcot and spontaneously regain our cheer by watching Illuminations. If we're in the mood for more adventure, we wield our Premier Passes at Universal or Islands of Adventure, which get us front of the line access after 4 p. m., and ride until our throats are sore from screaming.
Roller coasters are fun, but there are other uniquely Floridian thrill rides. How about an air boat through gator-infested swamps? There are many quirky attractions, too, some left over from the days before Disney and interstates. You can still watch alligator wrestling, admire live “mermaids” dancing under the water's surface, or drive through a Jurassic Park-like jungle where the fiberglass dinosaurs pose no hazard.
All of these things are the little luxuries of living in Central Florida. They don't even take into account the usual amenities of any major population center. In Orlando, we have everything from Shakespearian Theater to professional basketball. Our skyline might not be as impressive as New York's, but it still shines like a jewel against a black velvet backdrop at night.
We also have our countryside escapes. While tourists are drawn to the theme park glitz and glamor, there is a sedate side to Central Florida where the scent of orange blossoms wafts on the breeze and a chain of lakes invites swimming, fishing, boating, or just quiet contemplation on the shore. I'm lucky enough to own a horse, and I've spent many lazy hours on trails in Lake Louisa State Park. The tall, shady pine trees, browsing deer, and shimmering lakes never hint at the fact that it's only 45 minutes from Disney World.
It can be a bit embarrassing to live in Florida. I have to be careful when talking to northern friends in the winter, complaining because the temperature actually dipped below 60. It's hard for them to feel sympathetic as they struggle through snow banks with their teeth chattering and their breath emitting in frozen puffs.
I don't mean to rub in the fact that I live in paradise; truly, I just forget about how others live. In a way I guess I've taken on the acceptance of the native. Balmy winter temperatures are the norm, and I've lost the ability to imagine it any other way.
I may not have the distinction of being a native, but every time I shiver and don my winter coat when the temperatures dip into the 50s or hop into an outdoor swimming pool in March or snicker when someone shouts, “Oh, look, a lizard! Wow!” I know that I am fully assimilated. I may have been born 1200 miles away, and it may have taken more than four decades, but I've finally corrected nature's mistake and found the place where I truly belong.
