Farewell Fucking Florida

Using the f-word in the title is a cheap tactic and I do not want to offend the people who call Florida their home. But such is my sentiment — so far Florida has been the worst place in America where I lived. A dream sun-filled destination for some. A place that I don’t want to even visit — let alone reside in — unless I really have to.

It’s not as easy to write this story, as it might seem. My kids liked Florida. My youngest son is crazy about fishing, and every single day, he’d find time to go to a local lake.

My other two kids are tennis players — tennis is why we experimented with Florida in the first place — like Florida too; they made many friends, and they like their routines. And us, the parents, the adults? Well, like everywhere in America, we were welcomed. The neighbors were friendly. Well, when I was doing my runs, I noticed that the grey-haired folks often ignored the stop signs when they were driving out of their compounds or when turning on major roads when the pedestrian cross sign was on.

But I hated the place. It’s very rare for me to “hate” and whine this strongly. I can usually adapt to any place. Happiness is not related to where you live. Or is it? In Florida, I could never be happy.

Stepping out of the airport — I usually land in Fort Lauderdale — you’re greeted by heat and humidity. Always. No matter…