Last weekend, Joe had an interview to do up in Orlando and I
tagged along so that afterwards we could spend the day exploring the city
together. We looked for things to do
that might keep us from spending a fortune, but nothing really fit the
bill. And since Orlando was also mobbed
with people, we looked up places nearby that might be historically
interesting and walk-able.
“How about Kissimmee?” I suggested, seeing “Historic
Kissimmee” pop up as one of the first results in my map search. It was a mere 15 or 20 miles away, and in the
direction we would have to go in anyway.
I tapped the "Main Street" location as our destination and we set off to
enjoy a day in ol’ Kissimmee. We looked
forward to finding a decent pizza shop and ice cream parlor to enjoy as we took
in the sights of a charming old Florida town.
However, as we neared closer to the red dot on my map screen, we were
not exactly immediately charmed.
“Ah, here’s the historic O’Reilly’s Auto Parts, nestled
quaintly betwixt IHOP and Ye Old Towne Walgreens,” we joked as we passed big
box stores and strip malls.
Fortunately, with a few turns, we suddenly emerged from the
commercialized highways and found a cute tree and lamppost-lined main street. We parked, found a pretty decent and hip pizza
restaurant for lunch and then set out to spend a few hours ducking into art
galleries and antique shops.
If Orlando was overrun with people, my guess is that half
the people there were from Kissimmee. As
we walked along we rarely saw another human being, though most of the stores we
passed were open and ready for business.
Unfortunately, there were a good number that looked as though they had
been shut down years ago, with scraggly faded posters still clinging to the
front facade. It felt a little eerie,
like an episode of the Twilight Zone.
Finally we found an antique shop to cool off in and explore. As we walked in, we immediately beheld a long
room filled everywhere with knickknacks vintage items. On the right, a middle-aged woman sat on a
stool, flipping through the newspaper.
We offered warm and friendly “hellos” while she merely glanced up with a
sufficient “hello” and went back to her paper.
Joe dove deep into the back of the store to treasure hunt,
while I was entranced by the big display of costume jewelry.
I’m always on the hunt for unique vintage jewelry, and in this
one store I hit a mother lode. I played
dress up for a few minutes and even found a necklace I really liked. It hung close to my neck and was a series of
white leaves or feathers strung around.
It was beautifully simple and elegant, yet unique. As I glanced at myself in the old wooden
mirror they had on the wall, I couldn’t decide if I liked it enough to
buy it. Would I wear it? Does it go with anything I own? I put it back down on the felt pad, deciding I would look around for
a few more minutes and if I really kept thinking about it, I would get it for
myself as an early birthday present.
Meanwhile, Joe nodded at me to follow him and when we were
out of earshot, he whispered in my ear.
“There’s a really creepy effect happening in that small
room,” he said, indicating this odd office in the middle of the store. The door was closed and inside a curtain was drawn,
yet a fan must’ve been on because the curtain was billowing so frantically that
it almost looked as though someone was inside and trying to escape or call for
help. It gave us both the creeps and Joe
remarked how it reminded him of the movie, In
the Mouth of Madness.
As we began to make our way towards the exit, my eye was drawn to the racks of firearms on the walls and a pretty racist card in a glass display case featuring a
cartoonish African-American man. At
that, I abandoned hope for the necklace, said our polite goodbyes and quickly
hustled ourselves out the door.
We commented on the awkwardness of the store, but had high
hopes for the next one we happened into.
Thankfully, the owners of the next store were much more welcoming,
smiling as we entered and encouraging us to simply look around. It was a very friendly vibe, and as Joe
pointed out to me later on, the overly-friendly vibe was coming from other
customers as well. After we had made our
way through the huge store, Joe asked if I noticed the family that was walking
around. I said I did but didn’t comment
about noticing anything out of the ordinary.
“Yeah, I was definitely getting a little bit of an incest-vibe
from them,” Joe said gritting his teeth.
When I pressed him for more info, he just said, “the father was just way
too hands-y with his daughter, constantly touching her. And even the son seemed a little touched- he
was maniacally typing something over and over again on the old typewriter,
without any paper in it.”
Where the hell were we?
We expected to find Mayberry and instead we stumbled upon Caligula's resort town.
Finally deciding we had had enough “charm” we sought out a
sweet and innocent ice cream shop to cool our senses (and sweeten the distaste
in our mouths). We found a little
open-air ice cream stand called "Abracadabra Ice Cream" right around the corner,
with kids and parents all milling about.
I was excited to stand in front of a nice big freezer case enshrining
all my favorite flavors. Instead, there
was nothing but a solid counter.
We perused the giant chalkboard sign overhead, but didn’t
see anything about flavor options, just additional toppings we could mix in. Mix in with what? I wondered. Disheartened by
the lack of selection, we both just opted for simple classic chocolate
milkshakes.
Rather than pulling up rich, old-fashioned, full dairy and
fat ice cream from a drum, they began pulling odd bottles out, pouring them
into a wide silver bowl, and then shooting it with liquid nitrogen. When the whole science experiment was
complete, they presented us with our shakes.
I took one sip, expecting that for all this pomp and circumstance, this
must be the finest shake I will ever taste.
“It tastes like vanilla,” I said, wrinkling my nose, unable
to hide my disappointment.
“No, it tastes like chocolate,” Joe said, tasting it again, “it
tastes like that crappy chocolate you get in those prepackaged chocolate and vanilla
containers with the small wooden paddle.
You know, the kind they used to give you at birthday parties when you
were a kid,” Joe said.
We got back in the car, sipping our bland “futuristic”
milkshakes, chatting about the odd day we had, and letting charming historic
Kissimmee fade into the background. We pulled
back into the thoroughfare of commercialism, knowing that this would be a trip
that we would laugh about for years to come.
But for now, we were happy just to rejoin modern, tolerant, non-dysfunctional,
and normal ice cream-enjoying society.
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