My Country Tales

15 February 2022

I have landed in middle-class America, from the comfortable seat on the plane, in a small, simple hotel right on the beach in Fort Pierce. The waves are crashing, there’s a strong wind blowing into the land, after a short time the salt from the air sticks to my skin, it smells like a vacation, and the view out to sea stretches into eternity. I simply had to get away from this Germany of masks, of ideological struggle, with a government that I have little faith in, the cold, not just meteorological. My family understood, and nowadays you take everyone with you in your reel on Insta or the photos you can send just seconds after an experience. However, you often run the risk of barely experiencing it yourself. 

The beach is more earthly, mainly made of plastic; someone had collected old net lines and secured them in a pile. It’s not a dream beach of the Caribbean, more one for the wide view, every now and then a table with benches, and the sea only invites kite surfers, nobody goes swimming here. Yesterday a small lizard, I named him Jonny, was sunbathing in the parking lot, briefly disturbed by a smaller one, which he immediately chased away. It was his sunbathing spot, and he had it for another 6 minutes, then a larger rubber enemy came along, and four of them, Jonny disappeared into the bushes, I wish him lots of sunshine. It was the pickup truck of the workman who had chased him away, and he got out, took a break and then got in my ear with his orbital sander for the rest of the morning. I didn’t make up a name for him, only animals, or cars, sometimes get that. In any case, I noticed the next day that there is a lot of swinging to be done at the Dune Bar. It’s still pre-season and the preparations for making money are in full swing, from next week the rooms on the Treasure Coast will cost twice as much, but actually business is always good here. The middle class, mostly the lower 50s, she with the typical Florida cap and he carrying the folding chairs, wander onto the beach, I always wonder what exactly they are doing there all day. Few have something to read in their hands, some of course a cell phone, they seem to be waiting for something, maybe the end? In any case, their surroundings seem to be of little interest to them, yes, they are friendly, how are you today, good and you, Great. But even at breakfast in the Captain’s Galley, people’s interest extends only millimeters beyond her table. Right up to the waitress, small, wiry, shaved skull, a pink tuft of hair on top of her head, because her shirts are also pink, tattoos on her legs, of course. Like everyone else, she delivers a breakfast for 21 dollars that lasts until dinner without any complications and is only not the right person to talk to when it comes to technical questions about the area. With a slight tone of hopeful threat, she also asks at the end if you would like Change back, no Honey, all yours, she is satisfied. Half an old people’s home is already sitting outside on the waiting bench hoping for a table, at least mine is now free, six people instead of one, good money. But basically the company here lives side by side except for random overlaps, through services, a question, an event, no one pays attention to anything other than their table, just me, and the grandson sitting at the table opposite with his Granny reminded me of Sandy, from Flipper. Porter Ricks is probably here somewhere in one of the harbors with his boat.