I drive to Southwest Florida International Airport to pick up my nephew for his three day visit to Naples – Florida that is – in the heat of humid hurricane season. Y. is flying in from a conference in Atlanta, sent by his university in Switzerland. From what I could gather from his beautifully precise English and articulated later that evening at dinner, the conference discussed iterations gleaned from algorithms to produce variations of a mathematical formula which would, in essence, calculate the most efficient energy needed to squeeze points along a physical object – in this case, opposite ends of the plastic cup that he reaches for and squeezes that night at dinner – which would produce a desired distance between the complimentary points along that same rim. That’s about as good a one sentence summary as any I’d ever be able to come up with or repeat, if anyone were ever to ask of the PhD topic my nephew is writing over there in Lausanne. No worries if you didn’t quite understand that. It’s the last you’ll hear of it here.
But it’s interesting to get to know a mind like this one after years working with English teachers and writers who think and visualize concepts and objects slightly differently. It appears that he sees the world as a mathematically arranged object and from this lens colors it with proofs and variables and numbers. I’m sure his impression of Naples is thus dissected, although I caught only snippets, as he is generously reticent and does not pontificate unnecessarily with what preoccupies him.
I wait in the cell phone lot and am hoping his flight will experience none of the holding patterns needed by aircraft to navigate through stormy, rainy weather. We’re still sitting under a no-name tropical depression which is in its own holding pattern that seizes this drought-drenched region “by storm” – the rain is falling relentlessly for the third day now – intermittently soft, then hard, in short breaks then in longer periods – emulating the outbursts and cries of a solid heart break. The top soil swells like a thirsty stomach, but it can only hold so much. The arid ground is unable to absorb and disperse the water as quickly as it falls; the sidewalks and gutters accommodating the overspill as graciously as they can. The sky this morning shows little variation from the past three days, offering colors that lay bets on where and how much the next cycle will deliver.
Yet, as promised, the plane maintains its on-time ranking, and a young 25 year old stands on the curb with that youthful vigor and optimism that neither flight delay nor duration can offset anyway. Easily recognizable, as it seems to me he hasn’t aged or changed a bit in the last 12 years, which must mean the same good news on that front for me as well. His demeanor still appears to be just as light and spirited – none of the heavy burdens and woes we cast upon ourselves in the 30s and still living off of dreams and paths of golden opportunity laid out in our 20s – yet his eyes have deepened and now carry the qualities of introspection and thought, as if he had been waiting for membership into this club since a young child and has now finally been allowed in.
As we drive down to Naples, the skies look promising: sheets of gray and rolling charcoal have folded back to reveal pockets of blue, and the light in the surrounding air suggest thinning cloud cover overall. He updates me on his life and we exchange information on the infrastructures of Switzerland and Florida. I outline the plan for him: today, a 25-mile bike loop to reset his circulation after sitting for the past three days at his conference and which will introduce him to areas in Naples for a comprehensive survey. We get home and I make him, as he indicated he would like, a “big American breakfast.” I previously bought Canadian bacon, chicken sausage breakfast links, eggs, peanut butter, fig jam, avocados, two cheeses, and a variety of breads, and I get to work as he settles in. He proceeds to eat like I recall 25 year olds eat: essentially, everything I no longer do, and wolfs down in order to go in for seconds before it’s cleared away. We sit on the lanai, and he gets a kick out of the moskovie ducks coming up the lawn and peering in through the screen. I scoop some wild bird seed, open the screened porch and toss it out there which keeps them preoccupied, and as we observe this tranquil Norman Rockwell scene, the rain returns. Gentle drops fall on the lake. Y. chuckles in glee. There are bits of my sister here now, bits he’s brought with him. Maybe a slight gesture, a manner, a demeanor. We watch the rain fall that brings a common familiarity as well – is it from my father – his grandfather? Is it a meeting of the old and young – one having returned to the instinctual common home, and the other not yet having left the instinctual common home?
The drops remain slight and so we air up the bike tires, fill the water bottles, and he the ardent cyclist, dons rain gear and helmet. By contrast, I throw on a tank top. Now the rain is heavier, but alas, what is a cyclist to do? Change plans? I doubt that was ever in the manual. After all, it’s on the agenda. We head out into the summer rain, heavy now, the wind pushing the rain in off the Gulf and pelting us sideways, and by the time we see the corner of Creakside and Immokalee, only 5 minutes into the ride, the lightning and thunder take over the sky. I’m forced to lead us to shelter outside of McAlister’s Deli and the gluten free bakery Epiphany. “It’s very rare a cyclist gets struck by lightning,” he says, reviewing for me the behavior for lightning to seek out and alight on the nearest object to the sky which will satisfy even the most vicious of electrical currents needing closure – and if we are in residential areas with large trees and high reaching condos, lightning will not elect to be choosy. Still, every year I hear the same warnings about the veracity and spontaneity of lightning and I’ve done well to heed it and head for shelter when the familiar and frequent lightning siren warnings blast out. I point to a rack of Florida Weekly newspapers. “If you can’t see Naples, at least you can read about it.” He reaches for one to tarry the storm. Indeed, the forecasts indicate in no uncertain terms that he may not get any proper viewing of Naples except from the Real Estate section, and that the rain will last till Friday at least as the current lightning and thunder lasting well into a half hour is promising. As we wait, he reads up on the meager arts and entertainment offerings in off season Naples; I mentally count the distance between strikes and thunder. When it drops to a few minutes, I decide it’s safe to venture out from under, and indeed, within a few minutes the lightning subsides overhead and is probably throwing down strikes at the old bald cypress trees further east in Big Cypress Preserve.
I take him through “the degrees of nice” neighborhoods in Naples on our way downtown. We enter Naples Park at 106th street from Tamiami Trail, heading east with a barrage of water arrows piercing us from the bow of Poseidon himself, taking aim a mile away on the coast. In this nice area, the houses are small ranch bungalows with small front gardens, each neatly adorned with potted desert rose planters and variations of the palm tree, were my Swiss guest able to raise his head and look around. Many of these have withstood the need to demolish and build bigger, and as a result, maintain a kind of working-class, blue-collar, remote-work feel to this community that have residents neatly nested in property values that have increased by a third since Covid.
Closer now to the shore, we turn left on Vanderbilt Drive, whose name alone should indicate to him how nice a neighborhood this is, but I am unsure, seeing that most of his studies focus on formulas and variables. But maybe with his early training in bridge design… I turn to my cycle mate and ask if he has ever heard of Vanderbilt. “No,” and laughs merrily. “Does he live here?” I enjoy this naivete, and explain that Vanderbilt was a famous American industry mogul who invested in steel and essentially helped build the American railroad. “No, he doesn’t live here, but they sure like the name around here.” The drive we’re on ends at Vanderbilt Beach Road, not to be confused with Vanderbilt Drive (which I have been doing for 5 years) and the beach, simply Vanderbilt Beach. We shout to one another these names he is likely to forget as we attempt to ride side by side, but the lane here doesn’t give cyclists much shoulder, so we pedal onwards in silence, and make a stop at the aforementioned.
The waves are coming in strong today, the visibility is roughly 50 yards in either direction, and his North Face rain jacket is billowing out in puffs of sailing potential as he makes his way onto the sand, body angling into the wind to combat the force. He appears to take some pictures and rushes back to my relatively protected shelter under mangrove trees demarcating the entrance. However, I later learned that it was “raining so hard that the touchscreen … became so unresponsive” and he “couldn’t even unlock the phone.” We head out west, back onto Vanderbilt Beach Drive, and shortly turn right onto North Point Drive, which takes us onto Pelican Bay Boulevard, the nice high rise condo area meandering gracefully along the inner edge of the coast. Here the condo complexes nod to names like Claridge, Stratford, Montenero, St. Raphael, St, Tropez, names that might remind you of memories and associations to that vacation spot where you sat and sipped a glass of claret and rubbed shoulders with possibly famous people at some Mediterranean resort or that time when you sat, surrounded in marble, in a Mayfair hotel lobby for high tea, or at least make you think that you once did.
The rain continues, as do we. Commanding the water route south onto Crayton, I mention more to the blustery blows than to my nephew that the houses now begin to grow a little more spacious, the trees a little older and wider, the lawns carefully crafted and trimmed. “Over there,” I shout between the rain gusts and pointing to my right, “just behind those big houses, are boat slips and access to the gulf. If you glance right through there -” as we pedal by “- it affords you a quick glance.” And that’s all the attention it gets that day, as now the wind is really picking up, and soon we head into a type of gust storm that pushes the bikes nearly over and tears palm branches and dead limbs from the otherwise placid trees. “I’m not so sure about this,” I turn to say to him over my shoulder, “this just doesn’t look so smart anymore.” I am thinking a quick abort over to Gulf Shore Drive to find shelter under a carport somewhere or even turn back and head home – my rational mind must be finally kicking in – but then the wind stops just as abruptly as it started, and allows us to enter the nice Old Naples neighborhood accompanied by a gentler pounding rain righting itself and us back up vertically. “Take note of the variation in architecture and design!” I shout st him, and down 3rd Street North we pedal, midway point now within easy reach. There is probably little mental room left over after the determination and grit needed to combat the elements and move forward and through to really appreciate and assess the aesthetic qualities of the uniquely designed houses passing by us on both sides and how they appeal to the senses of space and form, but I’m hoping he catches glimpses of them through the darts and shards of rain. By the time we reach 5th Avenue, we enter an oasis of civilization of sorts, waiters from Del Mar waving and cheering us on who must be cautiously eyeing the increasing water level flowing down the street. Indeed, this whole surreal adventure could mimic a clip from the Amazing Race or cycling challenge you would tune into if you ever found yourself in the dull lull of a sterile waiting room.
Encouraged by the waiters and arriving at the halfway point on the tour, we turn north and then west on Central Avenue, which takes us across Tamiami Trail, then Goodlette Frank and then into Baker’s Park. We have the park to ourselves, obviously, so no need for bells to alert pedestrians and their fluffy dogs. We ride the pavement through thick mangrove forests, over boardwalks bridging the Gordon River, pass the red trunks of the Gumbo Limbo, the scrappy Cabbage Palms, and the high reaching Bald Cypress. “This is really beautiful,” he turns to me and for the first time issues an impression of his environment. Yes it is, I think. No Spanish tile or granite polished slab can ever rival the verdant ceilings and tapestries of woven vines growing with fervor and sourcing itself out to us right here.
Exiting from the north end of the park onto Golden Gate, then back east to Goodlette Frank to take us north, we find our speed. The wind pushes us favorably from the south to the north moving us along at a quick clip. Drenched since the beginning of the tour, I become more noticeable of being chilled, and measure out the miles home by the major arteries we pass: Pine Ridge, again Vanderbilt Beach, and finally up to Immokalee. “I had your mom memorize all these major grid streets running north/south and east/west” I told him while we wait for our turn at a light, “but since you’re here for only three days, I’ll only test you on the nearest to where I live.” He laughs and seems relieved about that. Maybe also because we’re close to being back. We pedal and plow and laugh through flooded streets like two young kids told to get outside.
We finally arrive home. A few minutes later the rain stops, the storm abates, the sky clears, and Day One is seized.
Write Down the Road 