I made my first trip to Florida at the age of 10. It took us three days to drive from Lexington to Miami. 

It was January. We’d left the cold behind by day two of our drive, but even so the balminess of the Florida air was a surprise. It was nighttime when we finally pulled into our motel near Biscayne Bay, and the combination of darkness and sultriness has stayed with me all these years, potent memories of a place different from any other I’d visited. 

Florida has changed drastically since then, but it retains that other-worldliness. Like the lush Northwest, Florida is its own place, and it’s a privilege to spend a week a year savoring its big sky, palm trees and sugar-sand beach. It’s a combination I’ve come to think of as scenic hospitality, and this morning, back in Virginia, I’m appreciating it all the more.

(A picket fence I walked by every morning on my way to the beach. It’s decorated with pineapples, the symbol of hospitality.)