Punta People
Nov 4 · 5 min read

TRAVEL IN THE 1980’S AS TOLD BY A TEN YEAR OLD BOY SITTING ALONE IN THE BACK OF A CAR

by David Kovacs

When you grow up in Northwestern Ontario in the 1980’s, there are few long haul destinations worth the bother. Toronto was too far and certainly wasn`t for us. Nor was Montreal. Or even Winnipeg. It was always south to the United States.

Our usual long-distance destination was Florida, or more specifically the Florida that existed during Canadian winter. I firmly believe that most Canadians, young and old, harbour a great resentment towards the location of our country. That, our country was doomed to pay a penance for some original sin it committed long before our arrival I believe that the beavers were quite aware of what the landmass did. And it wasn’t good. So bad, in fact, that it was thrown into a perpetual cycle of atonement every November to April. Or if you reside anywhere away from our shared border with the United States, from September to June.

So to Florida we would go. By chilled car over frozen highway. My parents would occupy the front pilot and co-pilot seats. I would take up the back seat along with the luggage. My in-flight entertainment was the windows to the left and to the right of me.

We would leave Northern Ontario and start our migration south, passing through a largely frozen patch of desolation called the American Midwest. Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Indiana: I remember almost nothing of you. You are a long barren highway, with no discernible geographical features. Except for one. Each journey, we passed the Wisconsin Dells, an aquatic park frozen over for the winter. Its’ principle attraction was water skiing costumed women. A very specific niche in the tourist amusement market. Each time we drove past, a large billboard with one of the ``Dells`` would greet me. Its’ spokesperson, a waterskiing siren, would acknowledge the young boy in the back of the car. Her head always managed to peek out of the high drift snow around it. I never really understood the entertainment value of it, but I did look out for her on every journey. She winked at this Canadian child, who sat alone, trying to test the limits of his imagination against an otherwise featureless canvass.

Next were Kentucky and Tennessee. Where the ice sheets of the north stopped. This was the land of billboards, and things that ``may`` be open. I would see turnoffs to family restaurants where large American families would enjoy large American meals. And state specific amusements, where those large American families would go to after their large American meals. We never did stop at any of these attractions. We weren’t a large American family, and thus weren’t allowed entrance. Or so I thought.

Georgia. For the life of the 10 year old version of me, I don’t know why people made a big deal about you. All I remember of this land was roadside peanut brittle stand after roadside peanut brittle stand. I had heard that Atlanta was somewhere in the state. But never once saw it. I assumed that it had been destroyed during the war, and never rebuilt. As had Macon, Savannah, and all those sweeping southern manor houses I had seen in the movies. Georgia did, however, have a wonderful multi-lane interstate highway system, that successfully bypassed all the destroyed ruins of the once proud South.

Civilization started at the Florida border. And so did our conversion from remorseless driving machine to something resembling a family of tourists. We would stop at a tourist information centre before heading to sanctuary in a place called Daytona Beach. Apparently, the state was secure enough to allow for more than the most minimum of stops. We had a particular tradition once we entered Florida. Within the first twenty-four hours, we would turn off the Interstate to pick its native oranges. Apparently, Floridians had a looser concept of theft. And welcomed foreigners to freely sample all that the state had to offer. As long as the fruit picked came off a branch that overhung a fence. Oranges picked, we would continue on to Daytona.

The first explorers to the Daytona region discovered two things. The first, a large circular track in which the locals tested the endurance of their vehicles at high speeds. The other, an odd type of mollusk: the googly-eyed clam. The indigenous population had maintained strict control on this wily invasive species, until the people of the North arrived. Both northerner and clam, each differently damaging species, bonded quickly. They thoroughly amused each other and became inseparable. And the clams found their way onto every return vessel of the tourist clan, quickly spreading to all corners of the globe. My googly-eyed bivalve would go as far as the Great Lakes. And live out its’ later life in a rarely opened dresser drawer.

Our Floridian stay did require some pilgrimages to lands of cultural significance. One run by a mouse god, another by a Lord of the drink. All those who went paid tribute. And for their reverence, were allowed to enjoy all the lands’ delights. Amusements both spinning and coasting. Ceremonial garb was greatly encouraged, usually a hat with ears that mimicked their deity. Or a t-shirt from their high priests, Anheuser and Busch.

But like all pilgrims to a foreign land, we were not allowed to stay. Only to visit and taste. Then to return to our icy home, where we would spread the word of Florida to all those poor souls enduring yet another Canadian penance. I would see my Wisconsin dell once more on the way back, and then induce hibernation in the back seat. A learned skill developed by the ultra-bored. I’d wake up at the Canadian border. Our house, forty minutes away. From the back seat, I would wave to the border guard, more frost than man. And then continue staring off into nothingness until we got home. I was unloaded with the luggage, and then left to my own devices to find my darkened cold bedroom, which neither welcomed nor spurned me, after I had abandoned it two weeks before. Under the covers I would go, taking my new googly-eyed friend with me. Then fall asleep.

The clam, being nocturnal, would have the night alone to explore its new home. And establish an outpost for all of clam-kind in the hinterland of Northern Ontario.

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