It’s a clear cool morning and we’re feeling peppy. Today we will say goodbye to Florida – sayonara, see ya later alligator! When we cross the St. Mary’s River for Cumberland Island we’ll be in Georgia.
But first, we have to continue questing for Doug’s phone case. We get coffee and bagels in a busy little bakery on Centre Street, browse a fine independent bookstore, and start strolling east – past stately old Victorian homes and Spanish Moss draped parks.
The quest is not immediately promising. We debate whether to consult a local oracle or perhaps just turn back. Then we come to a computer store in a former 7-11. Maybe here? Alas, it’s still closed at this early hour. Too bad, I say, because this is IT. Says IT right on the sign, “Your source for all IT needs.” I’m certain IT is inside.
I shake the door again, discouraged.
Suddenly a black van emblazoned with a hair salon sign drives up, and out steps a young native. (His mom the chauffeur?) He has metal tubes distending his ear lobes in dramatic fashion, shaggy black locks, and baggy black pantaloons draped about the waist with chrome chains that swing extravagantly as he lopes toward us. Symbols of some kind are tattooed on his arms. Perhaps he is a resident shaman.
“We were wondering if you might have a case to hold this Galaxy we’re carrying around in our pocket?”
“Which Galaxy?”
“A26”
“Nope. You might try the Target.”
“Bullseye. Where is that?”
He points vaguely off in the distance to the south.
We continue walking a few more blocks. But with nothing in sight, decide it’s too far. Maybe there isn’t such a place, and like other natives he’s just mis-directing us away. We give up and turn back.
Circling back toward the harbor, we wander through the residential village, and soon come to a rustic Trading Post set off in trees. We stop and consider. Whatever they have in there must be very valuable – there are bars on all the windows and doors.
There’s a sign that says “1 Student at a time”. Maybe it’s the temple of a priest or spiritual guide?
Doug decides we need some supplies. He will forage inside while I make inquiries.
A bell jangles when we open the door. Inside is a curated collection of regional foods and dubious delectations: deep fried pork rinds, dried beef jerky (is it really beef?), pickled bird eggs, dried and salted sliced tubers. Live worms and minnows. There’s a strong odor of old fish. Deer heads and stuffed bobcats on the walls. Faded photos of hunters and fishermen proudly posing with their kills. Marvelous, really, but nothing we want for the larder.
Some sort of soothsayer is held captive in a magical cage made of thick glasslike crystal, apparently forced to watch over the trade goods. Maybe he is under a spell and imprisoned as punishment for offending a local chieftain. Caution is advised, I think. I have to speak to him through a slot in the translucent cube.
“Would you have anything that would hold a Galaxy?” Shakes head, does not appear to speak English. “The Fountain of Youth?” Again, shakes head. If it’s here, he will not divulge its location. Or maybe the spell has also made him mute.
Through pantomimes try to negotiate a trade for some cow’s milk. But he won’t accept the plastic cards issued by the bank of our king. Nor pieces of paper on which we offer to write our names. Digging into various pockets we find a few shiny coins made of fake silver and copper. These he will accept, but only for a smaller vial of cow’s milk. A sharp trader, this holy man.
We wend our way back to the harbor, ampule of cow’s milk in hand. The quest continues . . .
