When flying from Mexico City to Miami, you descend over the west coast of Florida and get a good view of Naples. Ten miles to Naples’ south – and probably visible from the windows on the other side of the plane – is Marco Island.
These two cities are the last blips of humanity on the west coast of Florida. Beyond their limits, Florida is swallowed by the swampland that is the Everglades National Park and its surrounding preserves.
I’ve never been to the Everglades. But I’m from Florida. I spent a good chunk of my childhood swimming in a spring-fed river. I know what a gator sounds like. I’m a fricking rockstar at the stingray shuffle.
I have a pretty good idea of what to expect from the Everglades: Bugs. Gators. Bugs. Sweat. Ooh, a pretty bird! Bugs. Sweat.
I think the scientific term is “swampy hot mess”.
Now don’t get me wrong. I want to go to the Everglades. And writing this post makes me want to go sooner rather than later. But if I’m not covered in mosquito bites and sweat within the first five minutes of my voyage, I will give everyone who comments on this post $5.*
*No I won’t.