Tripping Orlando

By Cody Bond

It’s after 8 when I turn off Interstate 4—dark out in most places, but Orlando blazes with a million neon squiggles and block after block of twinkling enticements. It hums like a bug zapper. The vacationers have ironed out the wrinkles in their dinner clothes and are ambling up and down International Drive, wallets stuffed, stomachs grumbling, drawn inexorably toward the light.

I’m in town for just 16 hours. The trip is one of those spur-of-the-moment, skin-of-my-teeth excursions squeezed in between work and classes. Call it a mental holiday. I have vague notions of avoiding the tourist sectors in favor of something more genuine, but nothing approaching a plan. Nor do I have a map, for that matter, but I figure I can pick up these things as I go.

My room at the Econo Lodge is a faux-resort mishmash of army green and spoiled-salmon pink. That doesn’t bother me so much, but something is amiss. Every bulb is burning. The AC’s on full blast. The beds are suspiciously disheveled. My first thought is that the hotel has double booked and any second some frenzied Midwestern behemoth is going to come charging out of the bathroom and break my legs in a defensive fury. After a moment of paranoia, I realize there’s no luggage around. Still, I hazard a cautious “Hello” before closing the door and possibly sealing my fate. I realize later that the Goldilocks treatment (“Someone’s been sleeping in my bed!”) is likely some hotel protocol intended to project a sense of welcome and domestic comfort—the same rationale behind the ubiquitous Bible in the dresser drawer and those ridiculous two-cup coffee pots. The assumption here is that most people want to feel at home while they’re traveling, which is probably true and, if so, downright depressing. Travel is supposed to be about finding something new.

Shooting back up I-4, past the spotlights of The Holy Land Experience and miles of outlet malls, downtown Orlando slowly fills my windshield. I turn off on South Street and make a couple of passes around the city before settling, begrudgingly, on a $5 parking spot beneath Wachovia Tower. It’s early yet. The bars are still pretty quiet. The beggars and musicians are laying claim to street corners and setting up for the night. Some of them play guitar; some of them drum on buckets; but most just hold up their hands or their soda cups and say “God bless you” for a quarter.

Out front of the Central Station Bar are a couple of tables and a greasy orange puddle. Fliers plaster the windows. The tables have a nice view of the intersection, which is blocked at the moment by a big Ford Excursion limo full of rapper-types. The place is nothing fancy, but I’m thirsty, and pools of vomit this early in the evening are usually a telltale sign of cheap drinks—so I step inside.
I order a round of 2-for-$3 beers and sit down to take in the atmosphere. Oversized paintings of Gibson guitars hang on the far wall. The bar stretches out beneath a crusty baroque chandelier that looks like it was pulled from the bowels of the Titanic. There’s a small stage tucked away in the back corner, through the cigarette smoke. The general ambience lends itself to a pleasant grunginess, which is horribly interrupted by the endless progression of Jack Johnson songs on the P.A. I take this up with the bartender, who says it’s her Jack Johnson playlist but is kind enough to put on some Dropkick Murphys instead. I make sure to tip her well before I leave.
Outside, the streets are swelling with people. Muffled bass lines blend with the staccato of high heels on sidewalk bricks and the general din of voices. Bike taxis scurry by, bells ringing. Sirens wail. A believer on the corner brandishes a righteous megaphone. “There is a God,” he yells. “I am not him.”

I wander a bit. Grab a slice of pizza and a few more beers. There are gangs of keen-eyed chicks in matching miniskirts out front of the nicer clubs. They schmooze with the spenders, which means they ignore me completely. As the night goes on I find myself more and more underdressed. I try convincing a couple bouncers that the holes in my jeans are designer, without success. In the end, I stick to the places that aren’t charging cover and drink whatever they have on special. There’s still plenty to choose from. Around midnight, I find my car and head back to the hotel, satisfied with the knowledge that you don’t have to dress sharp or drop a fortune to have a good time—you just have to look around.

I’m up and out of the hotel by 9 the next morning. A damnable curiosity finds me in line for a cup of coffee at one of the world’s largest McDonald’s. There’s a little Asian couple in front of me, huddled together in their visors and fanny packs, whispering in whatever their native tongue is—or maybe not—presumably about what they want to eat. Up at the counter, a raging Latino woman is laying an earful of heated Spanish on one of the cashiers. I understand her ranting a little better than I do the Asians’ hushed deliberations, but not by much. I am confident, at least, that I would be unqualified to work here.

With a couple hours left before I have to get home, I head back downtown. The clubs are all shut up. Empty beer bottles stick to the window frames. I park my car on Magnolia Avenue, pay the meter and walk down the hill to Lake Eola.

The carpe diem crowd is jogging round the lake with their dogs and strollers. Fat-footed swans line the path. They stretch their necks to snap at ankles and remorselessly shit on everything. I have to tread lightly, but on the far bank, looking west across the water, I find an immaculate view of the city. It is quiet and warm, and in that moment, it stands just for me.