’im leaving Miami. This is my first ride on the new-to-me motorcycle I bought. Two months ago, I purchased it from someone who hadn’t ridden it for two years. Now, I’m finally out of the city traffic, embracing the open road.
Two and a half hours of riding through flat landscapes. For the first time, I see an orange grove. I pass a massive orange farm. The place looks like it’s seen better days. The sight takes me back in time. It’s not just déjà vu – I’m sure this is the same place.
Thirty-six years ago, at the age of 23, I bought a Yamaha TT 550 in Miami and set off on an adventure to Central America. On the way, I stopped here, at one of the farms, to fill my pockets with cash from hard work.
And now, I’m here again. I try to recognize the place – the entrance to the farm, the office building – but nothing looks like I remember. The trees seem neglected, the buildings are different, and I wonder if the farm even exists anymore.
I notice a large building by the roadside. It looks familiar, but I keep going. After five kilometers, something inside me insists, and I make a U-turn.
I enter the building and ask the owner, “Say, there used to be an orange farm here, right?”
He looks at me with a confused expression and replies, “I’m not sure. I’m Milton. I set this place up two years ago. Now I make wine from tropical fruits.”
Milton invites me to taste his wine, and I don’t refuse. He also serves some excellent meat, and the atmosphere is warm and unique. I ask him about the farm that used to be here, trying to describe the buildings and telling him that 36 years ago, I worked here.
Something clicks for him: “I bought this land a few years ago. I built the winery and this restaurant,” he says and continues to tell me about the farm that’s still here. “Everything has changed,” he concludes.
We exchange phone numbers.
I take out my camera and capture the moment before continuing on my way. I glance back at the wine shelves and the round tables on the other side. People are sitting around them, chatting and sipping wine. Two waitresses in casual outfits serve cheese and meat. Pleasant music plays in the background, and the air is filled with the scent of wine.
As I return to the road, I see myself here, 36 years ago. Everything has changed – and so have I.
When I get back to Miami, I’ll finish preparing the motorcycle for the journey. Hopefully, tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be able to head toward the reserve and explore the wetlands.
My plan is to reach Brazil through a route that takes me through Florida, Louisiana, Texas, Mexico, and Central America. In Panama, I’ll take a ferry to Colombia, and from there, I’ll find my way to Brazil.
I leave Miami in the afternoon to explore the Everglades National Park wetlands. The ride takes about an hour and a half. The heat and humidity catch me off guard. Even at high speeds, the wind offers no relief. The area itself is lush and green, with tall trees and impressive scenery, but the humidity is overwhelming. I don’t think I’ve ever ridden in such conditions.
I notice something on the road ahead. I slow down and approach carefully – an alligator! Yes, a real alligator crossing the road. It’s clear I’m in swamp territory. And the smell… it’s unmistakable.
I continue on my way toward a small town where I plan to spend the night. Suddenly, my dashboard flashes a warning about low air pressure in the front tire. I stop and find the tire nearly flat. The tire is brand new – what a hassle.
I pull out my small compressor and start inflating it. While working, I look around and realize I’m surrounded by a vast, endless swamp. The thought of the alligator I saw earlier suddenly pops into my mind, urging me to work faster.
By evening, I arrive at a small-town hotel. Finally, a place to rest after a challenging day. The contrast between the big city and this quiet town feels refreshing. It’s peaceful here.
I bring my bags into the room, peel off my sweat-soaked riding gear, and change into lighter clothes. A short two-minute ride without a helmet – I simply can’t bear the heat and humidity anymore – finally cools me down a bit.
When I park the motorcycle and turn off the engine, the roar fades, replaced by the soft strumming of country music. I push open the wooden door of the restaurant and step inside. The atmosphere hits me instantly. It’s a cozy, homey place, worlds apart from any big chain.
Personal or family-sized pizza? I’m far too hungry to deliberate and go for the family size, paired with a cold beer. While I wait, I take in the details: the country music playing in the background, the locals chatting over their meals, and the servers who seem to know almost everyone by name. Lighthearted conversations fill the air, and I think to myself, “This is just like in the movies.”
I head back to the hotel, full and content. After a refreshing shower, I collapse into bed.
5 a.m.
I’m back on the motorcycle, riding through the quiet streets of the small town. There’s a special kind of magic at this hour. The town is just beginning to wake up, and the cool morning air clings to me, though I know it won’t last much longer.
I leave the town behind and merge onto the main road. The highway is almost empty, with only a few cars passing me by. I enjoy the slow ride, keeping an eye on the roadside, wondering if I’ll spot another alligator.
Swamps line both sides of the road. Towering trees form a canopy above, and the heat, combined with the humidity, creates a unique, almost otherworldly sensation—so far removed from the bustle of the city. As I ride, memories of what I read about the area’s history last night come flooding back.
Here, in these very swamps, pivotal battles of the American Civil War unfolded. Florida, then part of the Southern Confederacy, bore witness to brutal struggles over the nation’s future. Riding through this land now, surrounded by the swampy terrain, dense vegetation, and the occasional lurking alligator, I can feel the weight of history saturating the landscape.
I stick to the backroads, exploring what feels like the real Florida. A narrow road stretches ahead, flanked by rows of trees that arch above, forming a green tunnel. I pass old, weathered wooden houses full of character. The urge to stop and take photos is strong—but I keep moving, letting the road and the moment carry me forward.
The weather is overcast, with rain biding its time. All around me is quiet and serene: simple wooden houses, cattle farms stretching seemingly to the horizon, and old gas stations beside small wells.
I find myself observing the locals. Wide-brimmed hats, sturdy boots—everything about them exudes a simple life, deeply rooted in the rhythms of the land.
4 p.m.
Two hours of relaxed riding pass, and I notice a sign: Cedar Key. Something about the name catches my attention. A quick search reveals it’s a small fishing village, and I decide to take a detour.
The road leading there is narrow, surrounded by dense greenery and water, until I reach a long bridge connecting small islands. The salty sea air fills my lungs as I near Cedar Key. Slowing down, curiosity takes hold—I’m eager to discover this place.
The main street, perched right by the water, is lined with old wooden buildings, small restaurants, shops, and bars. There’s no trace of modern hustle here—just a pleasant sense of nostalgia.
I park my motorcycle near the pier and take in the sight of fishing boats bobbing in the water. After a short walk, I find a small Italian restaurant on the second floor of an old building. Sitting by a large window overlooking the sea, I enjoy a plate of pasta with Italian sauce, a cold beer, and a sunset painting everything golden.
It feels like the perfect moment to learn more about this town’s story.
I hadn’t expected a place with so much character and history. This little town, nestled in the Gulf of Mexico, was once a hub for the cedar lumber and pencil industries in the 19th century. Over the years, it survived natural disasters and economic decline, evolving into a quiet, unique spot that now attracts artists, fishermen, and travelers seeking tranquility.
The old wooden buildings, small restaurants, narrow streets, and surrounding nature transport me to another era.
It’s no surprise that this town hosts an annual art festival and is renowned for its excellent local cuisine, especially for those who love fish and seafood.
Across the road lies the hotel where I’m staying. The proprietor, an elderly woman with silver hair neatly tied back, greets me warmly. A small silver bell on the counter invites me to ring it, and a ginger cat appears, rubbing against my legs as if offering his own welcome
I park the motorcycle next to my room and begin unloading my gear. Next to me, a pickup truck is parked, and an older couple steps out of the vehicle, accompanied by an elderly dog walking slowly. They begin unloading their equipment, including a large cooler that looks heavy. “Hey, do you need help?” I ask.
“No thanks,” the man replies with a smile. “This is the dog’s food. We’ll leave it in the truck and take some for his meal.”
While everyone is busy unloading their gear, we exchange a few words. It turns out they are from Canada and stayed in Atlantic City the night before. Tomorrow, they will continue south.
The room I booked is small, simple, and cozy. The air conditioner feels like the discovery of the century. It removes the humidity from the room. I settle in, organize my things, and plan for tomorrow. It’s better to wake up early; it will be nice to ride in the cool hours of the morning.
5 a.m.
I’m back on the motorcycle, leaving behind the small hotel. I ride slowly, waking up with the sun. The sky begins to turn shades of orange and pink. This feeling—of the open road and the quiet of the morning—is exactly what I love about trips like these.
The destination for today is Panama City. I hope to find a mechanic willing to help me install the spare fuel tanks I brought from Greece. The distance is about five hours, but the journey itself is the real enjoyment. I stop in small towns, walk through their streets, sip coffee in cozy cafes, and read a little about the local history.
However, reality changes my plans. I realize I won’t make it to Panama City today. A small sign by the side of the road directs me to a nearby campground. I follow it and find a lovely spot. A stream flows next to a wooded area with trees providing shade. It’s peaceful and quiet. Aside from a young couple with two children in a caravan, there’s no one else here.
There’s no reception office, but there are restrooms and showers, and the area looks well-kept. I approach the family and ask, “How do I register here?”
“We register online,” the man, David, explains. He pulls out a sheet with instructions: “Sign up on this website, and then call this number – they’ll tell you where to park.”
I try registering through my phone, but the signal is poor in the area. “You can use my phone,” David offers without hesitation. He dials the number for me, speaks with the representative, and hands me the instructions.
The conversation continues.
David tells me that fifteen years ago, he was in Israel, volunteering on a kibbutz. He shares stories about the places he visited, especially fond of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv.
I set up my tent near a picnic table. On the table, I prepare dinner—it turns out surprisingly well this time. Afterward, I grab a towel and toiletries, walking to the public showers to wash off the sweat and stickiness of the day’s ride. Thankfully, the mosquitoes seem to spare me tonight, though their presence is unmistakable.
Lying in my tent, I pore over maps and plan the next leg of my journey. The destination: Panama City. There, I’ll finally install the spare fuel tank I brought from Greece. From there, my path continues westward, through Texas, to the border at Laredo.
Outside, the sound of raindrops begins to patter on the tent, their steady rhythm soothing. I close my eyes, letting the rain lull me to sleep.
8 a.m.
I emerge from the tent to blue skies, the ground still damp from the night’s rain. The air is crisp, and I slip on my flip-flops, heading to the showers. The warm water washes away the remnants of the humid night, leaving me refreshed.
Returning to my campsite, I prepare a cup of coffee and take a moment to sit and enjoy the tranquility. It’s a rare moment of peace, but the thought of the road to Panama City reminds me it’s time to move on.
After packing my gear onto the motorcycle, I hit the road. The highway stretches ahead, winding through small towns. The scenery remains unchanged, but the monotony doesn’t bother me. I take a deep breath, savoring the freedom of the backroads.
By noon, I arrive in Panama City. The city streets are lively, a stark contrast to the quiet of the road. My objective is clear: find a workshop to finally install the additional fuel tank.
After a short search, I locate a small garage and pull in. While the mechanic works on the bike, I sit nearby, waiting patiently and watching life in the city go by.
The sound of my phone ringing breaks the rhythm of the day. A coworker is on the line, his voice tense. “Did you hear about the hurricane? It’s heading your way,” he warns. My pulse quickens. I check the weather forecast on my phone, and the screen confirms the bad news: a massive hurricane with winds reaching 150 mph is barreling toward the area.
It’s a serious situation. Without hesitation, I book a room in a solid hotel for two nights—safe, secure, and far from the potential chaos of the storm. Staying exposed on the road isn’t an option. I decide to leave the bike at the hotel and catch a flight to Manhattan for a couple of workdays. By the time I return, the storm will have passed, and the roads will be clear.
Despite the anxiety, there’s relief in making a decisive plan. Sometimes, even on the road, you have to pause and wait for the storm to pass.
I dodge the hurricane unscathed. The trip to Manhattan proves productive, and I avoid any risk. On the taxi ride back from the airport to the hotel, I glimpse the hurricane’s aftermath: minor flooding by the roadside and hints of the storm’s ferocity, though no significant damage seems evident.
Back on the bike, I join Highway 90, which hugs the coast. The road leads me to a colossal bridge spanning the mighty Mississippi River. The landscape shifts, and now I’m surrounded by lush, waterlogged greenery. My goal for the day is clear: reach New Orleans.
I ride on, eventually merging onto Highway 10. The pace picks up, and a group of Harley riders overtakes me. I rev up and join their convoy, exhilarated by the shared momentum. Road signs hint that I’m nearing the city. Leaving the highway, I weave through New Orleans’ suburbs until I finally reach the vibrant heart of the city.
On impulse, I veer toward the French Quarter. The first sight that grabs my attention is a jazz band performing on the sidewalk. Parking the bike nearby, I sit and soak in the music, captivated. Drawn further in, I find a cozy café across the street.
With a steaming cup of coffee and a slice of apple pie, I relish the perfect blend of flavors and live music. The French Quarter buzzes with life; the streets brim with people, melodies, and vibrant colors. Strolling through its narrow alleys, I immerse myself in everything the city offers.
New Orleans is stunning—alive with spirit and culture. Tomorrow, I’ll cross the border into Texas, but tonight I’m fully present here, in the music, flavors, and one-of-a-kind atmosphere of this magical city.
