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“We’re almost there,” Evan says. “I’m going to look for parking.”
“Okay.” I pay attention to our surroundings, and I’m glad I do because the architecture around us is very neat and what you would expect to see in the oldest city in the United States.
“Is that a river?” I ask, pointing at the majestic body of water nearby, one with a pretty bridge going over it.
“That’s the Intracoastal Waterway,” Evan says with such pride you’d think he filled the thing with water himself. “It runs three thousand miles across multiple states.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah, and that’s the Bridge of Lions.” He gestures to the right at the pretty bridge, one that not very surprisingly features lion statues. “Had we stayed on A1A, we would have eventually crossed it.”
“Awesome. Will we walk over it to get to our destination?”
“No,” he says. “But we can go for a stroll there later if you wish. After the sun sets.”
Hmm. That sounds a bit too suddenly romantic, but I don’t rule it out. Despite it being a bad idea for us to engage in something resembling a date activity, I owe it to Jolene and Dorothy to relax on this vacation, and an evening stroll across that bridge might just do the trick.
“Okay, since I’m playing tour guide, over there is the Castillo de San Marcos.” Evan gestures to the right again. “It was built in 1695 and was declared a National Monument almost a hundred years ago.”
“Damn.” It’s an honest-to-goodness castle. I’m not sure why I find that surprising, considering the “Castillo” bit. “Your grandfather should’ve hidden the treasure clue in the castle instead of at a college that used to be a hotel. That’s what Dan Brown would have done.”
Then again, in a Dan Brown book, an albino priest would be waiting for us at the Castillo, biding his time with self-flagellation or watching The Emoji Movie.
“The college is open to the public,” Evan says. “Castillo, on the other hand, requires tickets. Despite being wealthy, my grandfather was thrifty. Or as he’d say, one caused the other.”
“But how much is a ticket?” I ask.
Evan grins. “Fifteen bucks. ‘Thrifty’ might be a bit of an understatement when describing Gramp.”
“Huh. At that price, I want to check it out, after we get our clue.”
“Gladly,” he says. “It’s been a while since I’ve been there.”
Shit. I’ve just strong-armed him into another date-like activity.
But Evan doesn’t seem to notice or care because he keeps pointing out more attractions, like Ripley's Believe It or Not—a place Reagan would love—and the historic St. George Street.
Speaking of said street, as soon as we park, we take it to get to our destination.
Wow. This reminds of New York’s most touristy spots. There are snacks on every corner, various bars and restaurants, clothing shops, and people dressed in pirate costumes. Okay, that last bit isn’t like New York. In New York, we have unauthorized Disney characters.
“Want to try the best ice pop, ever?” Evan asks.
“Would oxazepam be a good Scrabble word?” It’s a medication used to treat anxiety—for people, not horses.
Smiling, Evan herds me to make a turn. “I thought we already agreed not to use pharmacological terms in Scrabble.”
Ah. Right. “Is this the place?”
Nodding, he opens the door and challenges me to pick the Watermelon Jalapeño Margarita pop, so I do.
Scanning the other flavors, I see Peanut Butter Apple Pie, which would’ve been Reagan’s pick, for sure.
Though it seems like a weird combo, I love my ice pop, but Evan’s company might have something to do with that.
As he leads me down St. George Street, he tells me about the hilarious flavor combos he would have the ice pop place make if he were in charge. Flavors that include—but are not limited to—chicken tempura, spicy tuna, and sea urchin gonads.
“That marketing degree is clearly being put to good use,” I say. “Ice pops that taste like Japanese food. Why not Italian? Mexican? Indian?”
