I’ve experienced another city, thanks to riding on the coattails of my smart husband.
My husband went to the Southern States Communication Association convention in Tampa to present the top student paper in political communication, so I tagged along for a couple of days (on our own dime, by the way).
I did this once before when he went to New Orleans.
We love Florida, but neither of us had ever been to Tampa, and we were looking forward to it. Because I’m so busy at work and because I like deadline pressure, I waited till the night before to pack. I hate to pack. It requires decisions about what to wear days before I know what I’ll be in the mood to wear — or what the weather might me.
I crammed everything into a carry-on, plus another bag and my purse. I took only three pairs of shoes, plus the ones I wore. That’s traveling light for me.
I’m a nervous flier. I don’t do it often, and I’m always surprised at the end of a trip that I didn’t die.
Before we could get on the plane, though, we had to get through early-morning interstate and Little Rock traffic.
My husband got it in his head we were leaving later than we had planned, so when he realized what time it was, he dumped his breakfast bowl of oatmeal without taking a bite and starting packing the car.
Almost as soon as we got on the interstate, we slowed down to a snail’s pace. I didn’t help matters by expressing my frustration more than once.
This is as mad as my husband gets: He simply squeezed the steering wheel and said, calmly, “I’m about to explode.” But he did not.
We took an exit, and it wasn’t much better. Got back on the interstate, still slow. Got a nice extended view of the Little Rock skyline while stopped on the Interstate 30 bridge, giving me an opportunity to ask again why he got the wrong time in his head about when we were leaving. In the end, though, we got to the airport in plenty of time.
He did forget to take off his shoes and empty his pockets at the security checkpoint, though, a sign that he was still rattled. I got the pat-down. She was a nice lady, so it wasn’t a big deal.
The plane ride was nice, and our seatmate was a young man. I wasn’t gonna do it, but I asked him where he was from and what he did for a living. He talked as much as I do. It turns out, though, that he knew some of my husband’s students because they were from the same town. Of course he did.
The hotel was beautiful, and it was hot outside. It was on the Riverwalk, and lots of yachts were parked there that cost more than my house. One owner wasn’t shy about it. The name of his boat: Filthy Rich.
Dozens of people ran, walked or bicycled by us as we sat on the hotel patio. They are serious about their exercise, it seems. I’ve also never seen so many dogs in my life. At one restaurant, we were told a certain outside table we wanted was reserved “for people coming with their dog” an hour later. We promised to be gone before people with pooch arrived and got seated.
We made reservations for the oldest restaurant in Florida, as it was advertised, where for an extra $6 apiece, we watched the flamenco dancers. Our table couldn’t have been any closer unless it had been onstage. They were amazing — especially a dancer who was about my mother’s age — and the food lived up to its reputation. I would not put bread pudding on my top-20 list of favorite desserts, but this white-chocolate, rum-soaked bread pudding was about the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I may put it on my last-meal request, should I ever go to prison.
We saw the Norman Rockwell collection at the Tampa Museum of Art, which was wonderful. My husband is still not over not saving $10 on the admission price because he didn’t have his student ID (from working on his doctorate).
I want him to keep doing well in his classes and get another paper accepted, because the convention is in Austin, Texas, next year. I’ve never been. Think they got any good bread puddin’ there, y’all?
Senior writer Tammy Keith can be reached at (501) 327-0370 or tkeith@arkansasonline.com.