My mouth feels like a crime scene.
On the up side, no vampire would venture within miles... I’m just hoping that Coronavirus is equally repelled.
We went out last night. Yes, in the age of Covid. Yes, in Florida, where cases are off the charts. And yes, there were a group of us NOT FROM THE SAME HOUSEHOLD.
We risked the deadly virus to laugh and walk and browse and finally sit all together in a restaurant. Not just any restaurant though. It was THE GARLIC.
A whimsical wild place where trees grow through ceilings and the garlic is roasted by the hundreds of bulbs in an open pizza style oven, where the fire shines and pops and sizzles as you pass on your way to be seated.
And is it coincidental that their mascot, the pervasive logo, is the ‘plague doctor’ from Italy’s Commedia Dell’Arte?! Presumably his mask was meant to protect against the garlic smell, but in 2020 it takes on a much more sinister connotation.
The fresh bread was served with a whole garlic for spreading. My supper was succulent lamb, roasted in garlic, with garlic mashed potatoes.
There is a theme here. An aromatic, funky, smelly, delicious theme. It was a wonderful evening. It’s a place you can’t forget as the scent follows you home, sleeps with you and then escapes slowly through your pores the entire next day. And maybe the day after that…
We did wear masks. Except while eating! And drinking. And that was a lot of the time to be fair.
We’ve been wearing masks. We’ve been trying to stay outdoors. But we have not been sitting inside our boat, completely isolating. I guess we were spoiled during the first wave of Covid 19, where we sat aboard in the remote, uninhabited Ragged islands of the Bahamas. We walked the beaches, we swam, we sat with cocktails, immersed to our shoulders as the sun went down, naturally socially distanced by the water… There were no shops full of masked people coughing and sneezing. No temptations of restaurants, just our tiny gang and the turquoise waters.
Here we are unequipped. Mentally, emotionally. We wander, masked, through the throngs of Walmartians… still in awe at the plethora of choices, the prices, the way life carries on. Here, you have to remind yourself every few minutes that there is a global pandemic and you are at risk here. Each masked cougher in the narrow aisle, cruising along in their electric wheelchair carts is spewing aerosol particles that could make you a statistic.
But there are many many other days. Days where we walk our nearby parks and watch the turtles and alligators in the lakes and ponds, doing their thing, basking in the sun, oblivious to 2020.
We are tied up on a dock in Titusville. A town that sits between other towns. It’s not Cocoa or New Smyrna or Orlando, but it links them all. There’s not much to write about in Titusville. But the end of our dock, where Shiloh and Alleycat currently live, is the perfect viewing point for rocket launches. We are just a few miles north of Cape Canaveral, and between Nasa and Spacex, we are treated to the most spectacular unobstructed view of these fiery sky-bound displays every few days.
We will be here for at least another month. Bahamas remote beach anchorages will have to wait. Covid testing and retesting and health visas for entry will have to wait. For now, Shiloh is crippled. Her port engine is being replaced. And all her little cosmetic issues are being lovingly attended to. The dinghy is leaking air, the anchor is rusty. The caulking is mouldy. The boat jobs, they never really end. One day you just decide you’ve done what you can do for this season and the Caribbean sea calls.
Until then, we will try to feel the Christmas season. We will celebrate carefully and sparsely. We will love each other and try to stay alive. Good riddance 2020, may the next year bring vaccines and hugs and friends unabashedly being together – even with garlic breath!!!
