I’m not much of a “controversial takes” person. As a people-pleaser, I don’t generally love pushing buttons. But there is one belief I hold that most people find downright disgusting.
The best state in the U.S. is Florida.
If you’ve brought up this beautiful, cursed, incredible location in my presence, you’ve probably watched me enter a reverie, with little images of seabirds winging across my eyeballs. Florida is the place I’m always trying to get back to, the place I always want to hide inside. Since quarantine started, I’ve fantasized daily about throwing a dozen bathing suits in a backpack and driving south with my partner until we hit the Green Parrot Bar in Key West. Its jukebox is intimidating and impeccable, there’s as much free semi-stale buttery popcorn as you can scarf down, and the drinks are strong enough to make you shudder with every sip.
I first spent time in Florida when I was a mere baby, and my dad’s band was recording an album in Miami. (Yes, I’m genetically cool, which is a blessing and a curse.) Pictures of me from that trip are of a cheery ball of flesh in a floppy sun hat, bobbing around the surface of a pool. They were followed up by countless moments in various Florida locales: visiting my great aunt and uncle in Vero Beach, terrified next to Donald Duck at Disney World, on some boardwalk, slathered in so much sunscreen that I look like I’m starring in a children’s production of the movie Powder.
As adults in Normal Times, my partner and I visited Florida at least twice a year, to admire stolen goods at the Fort Lauderdale Swap Shop, see so many mesh-covered butts in Miami, and drive down the Overseas Highway until we hit Keys Fisheries, where you can dip stone crab claws into mini pots of mayonnaise on the rickety second-floor bar that overlooks the bay.
I love so much about Florida: The thick smell of the air, the gargantuan Jurassic Park plants, the lawlessness, the theme parks, the water, the diversity, Parrot-head culture, the sun-faded roadside kitsch, the CVSes full of beach equipment. Plus, there are like 20 different versions of Florida, so every trip can be an entirely different experience. It’s also the home of my favorite restaurant on the planet: The Mai-Kai, a Tiki institution with a bar that’s modeled to look like you’re inside a sunken pirate ship. The “windows” are just cut-outs that look into an aquarium.
I’m always prefacing my pro-Florida rants by admitting that I’ve only been a frequent visitor and not a resident. (Yet.) It’s all fun and games for me to fly in, eat a Cuban sandwich, and hop back on a direct flight home to a place where people don’t have year-round wrap-around Oakleys facial tans. But I maintain that Florida is the Spam of states, in that people mock it constantly in a hacky way, without having experienced it with an open mind.
What about all that keeeerazy crime in Florida? The whole “Florida man” thing is partly due to the state’s public-records laws, which allow near-instant and total access to crime reports and arrest bookings. That provides a wealth of cuckoo stories for reporters, and helps support the narrative that Florida somehow has more, and weirder, crime than other states. I can’t accurately calculate the relative bizarreness of the crimes committed in FL—my weird-o-meter has been broken and the repair guy keeps postponing—but I think we can agree that all of America is packed with absolute maniacs.
Still, Florida’s politics are frequently terrifying, and me being able to waltz around like a hyped-up anthropologist is due to outrageous privilege. But I maintain that it’s possible for me to appreciate what it has to offer, and to argue that it doesn’t deserve to be cut off the bottom of the U.S., like that Bugs Bunny gif.
If you still think Florida is repulsive, look at it this way: America needs Florida. It’s our escape valve, our mirage, our punching bag, our final destination. Compared to Florida, most other states are powdered mashed potatoes. They’re the part of Pleasantville before it becomes full-color. They’re the expression “hump day.” So enjoy your visit to a place where things make sense. I’ll be roasting in the heat at the edge of the water, nearly about to tip in.