I was having a bad few months. I became very prone to violence, and I found myself clenching my teeth at lazy people blocking the subway doors while I was on my way to work. So when my friend Fletch invited me to go with him on vacation to Florida, I jumped at the chance, forgetting momentarily that I hated the sun and the beach.

He assured me that I would relax; we would be staying in a condo right on a private beach. I bought a bathing suit (after staring at my almost-naked body in a department store dressing room in horror). I packed some clothes, five Jim Thompson novels, and a bunch of Beach Boys albums. I was set!

When we arrived at the airport, the heat almost knocked me over. Oh my god, I thought, what am I doing down here? Fletch's cousin came to pick us up, and his face was as red as a lobster. He looked like he was in pain, but he just smiled and said, "Welcome to Florida!". He drove us to the condo, telling us about all the things we were going to do that day. I just wanted to lay in the shade and not think about anything, but I went along.

We barely had time to unpack before we were in the car driving to meet people at a bar about 30 minutes from where we were staying. I looked out the window. There was water everywhere: lakes, lagoons, ocean, and rivers. I couldn't believe it. As we went further inland, I realized that there were what looked to be makeshift churches on every corner, in storefronts and houses. They seemed almost threatening in their squalor, and the run-down signs proclaiming Church of Salvation sort of frightened me. To top it off, every other car had pro-Bush and pro-life bumper stickers on them. Creepy.

We reached the bar, and I quickly discovered that the bar was actually on the beach. I had to take my shoes off, and with my foot phobia thing, I was not comfortable. I ordered a margarita and dug my toes in the sand so no one could see them. We met up with three other people whose faces were also the color of candy apples. I couldn't believe people still lay out in the sun. After a few minutes, a singer with a guitar got on the makeshift stage. Next to the stage was a big wooden sign shaped like a flip flop with the singer's name on it. As he strummed the first notes of his extremely long set, I choked on my margarita. I am in Margaritaville, I thought miserably. I started to panic, almost realizing for the first time that every single person in Florida was a Jimmy Buffet fan. Everyone was clapping and hollering at the terrible singer. No one seemed as horrified by his red toes as I was.

When I woke up the next morning, we went to the beach. I slathered 45spf sun block on my body, very careful to cover every exposed inch of my blue-white flesh. I was planning on lying under an umbrella with my books all day, enjoying the sound of the ocean. When I got there, the beach was deserted. I remembered it was a private beach, and then took of my shirt to show my ugly bathing suit underneath. I ran into the ocean, which was surprisingly warm and calm. It felt so exhilarating, and I realized that it wasn't so bad. I spent the day running from the ocean to ducking for cover under the umbrella, where I would reapply sunscreen.

When I finally took a shower, my body began to burn, and I could see a clear difference between the color of my ass and the purple-red thighs underneath. This was only my first day.

I could've slept out there all night, and I felt calm and serene. I got used to Florida, putting flip-flops on instead of sneakers. Wearing hats all day. I went to a national park and spent the day looking for wild animals.

My days were spent sightseeing and fishing; I saw alligators, dolphins, manatees, and my all-time favorites, buzzards. My nights were the best part of my trip. Each night, I sat on a lounge chair on the beach, listening to the ocean and drinking a glass or two of wine. I felt my calmest during these moments, and I could've easily fallen asleep out there. I slept soundly each night, and as the days progressed, I got used to being in Florida. I wore a sunhat and flipflops. I wore a bathing suit every day. If my friends could see my now, I thought, remembering all of the times I made fun of anyone who wanted to go the beach, remembering the times I would yell at stranger for showing their toes in public. I was a sunburnt hypocrite.

Still, when it was time to go to the dinky airport, I was ready to go back to New York. I thought of my apartment and all of my fun things in it: my movies, my records, and my books. I realized that I wasn't able to speak to one person in Florida about anything that excited me. No one knew who Roger Corona was, and they didn't understand why Jerry Lewis was so funny that I almost choked when I watched his movies. I was going to go home, pour a glass of bourbon and put on some old, sleazy R&B music.

I checked into the airport and was informed that my plane was delayed four hours. I sat looking out the window at the flat land before me, listening to old couples talk, and couldn't wait for the loudspeaker to inform me that I could board the plane.