A Portrait of Place

Written in imitation of Truman Capote's In Cold Blood

From the air, Amelia Island resembles any other marshy East Coast land mass. Its dimensions have been compared to Key Biscayne and Cumberland Island, other lofty places where the upper-middle class likes to set up camp and blow off some steam. Thirteen miles of shrinking beaches line the coast of this lonely, haunting museum with country to the east and vast blue abyss to the west. The marsh invades the island from the inland side, bringing those unwelcome swamp creatures a little too close to the immaculately tailored lawns. State road A1A wistfully carries the final whispers of Key West up the ocean side, but the forcibly tropical houses along the beach emphasize the island’s perpetual game of catch-up. From the air, life looks still and quiet. The unsuspecting watcher would see the painting of an island; heavy, incessant traffic being the only indication that it has nearly reached full capacity.

The endless line of cars crosses from the beach to the east, where a grid system soon takes over. The rows of streets named First, Second, Third attempt to create a “New York of the South” on Amelia, down to a miniature Central Park–complete with sun-baked tennis courts and a baseball field small enough to fit in the back of a U-Haul. The metropolitan inspiration stops there, however, the buildings that line the main street barely hinting at Manhattan’s unmistakable townhouses. Each storefront and restaurant draws your attention away from rotting parts of their skeletons through an assortment of conspicuous decorations and signs. Flashing lights and monogrammed displays are enough to distract any first-timer from the failing post office and the sleepy old house.

The cobblestones in the town’s center shamelessly claim a history worth preserving, the island’s many nicknames trying to accomplish the same. “Historical this, historical that.” The heavy, green society plaques are uncharacteristically large, so large in fact that they can sometimes fit entire narratives, where the average historical marker fits but a few descriptive words. They aren’t meant to be read closely for their stories are just fluff pieces saying something like “This Very Important, historically significant person most likely let their horse stop to drink here.” The helplessly irritated people living behind those plaques resist the urge to throw their hands up and yell at the ogling passerby. Restraint of this kind is common because the News Leader says that Amelia Island is successful when tourism booms, and tourism booms when new history is made. So the introverts coexist with the mammoth signs in their front yards, they are money after all.

The island now floats independent of any conquerors, despite the ongoing desperate claims from both Georgia and Florida. The eight flags proudly flown over every town-sponsored event–not meaning anything besides an exploited history of forgotten violence–attract one and all of the nation’s best tourists. An old train depot (the recent recipient of a facelift) stands idle and empty aside from the shelves of happy travel brochures and magazines. Its dusty brick façade shudders as the lonely coal cars rumble back and forth past the lounging statue of David Levy Yulee, the Great Floridian, the father of this dirty, detested train. The horn blasts at inopportune moments, an inconvenience that locals have grown accustomed to, almost fond of. The wheels kick up dirt and sand which coat the equally inefficient, hurricane-ravaged marina whose trickling stream of happy hour customers keep it alive. The patio sign reads “Florida’s First Sunset,” a geographically incorrect statistic that has survived, even through the storms, for years. Despite rumors, the marina’s crumbling foundation has not led to its closing, a result of its “historical value,” no doubt. Inside, there hangs a grainy black and white photograph of the marina restaurant blanketed in snow, cold hard proof that the marina restaurant dares to stand the test of time. Welcoming customers, a monstrous anchor rests in the grass, offering a point of interest for the island’s youngest critics, who could really care less about the history of it all.

A quietly successful store has the largest windows of any Downtown building, the sun hitting at just the right angle to stir the air. The occasional tourist stops in, but the luxury of spending time there can only be enjoyed by someone who knows it well. It is two levels of floor to ceiling bookcases, a collection that Rory Gilmore herself would be proud of. Slightly off-kilter varnished shelves hold classics with the dignity and respect they deserve. It’s a fun experiment to observe which titles need replacement more often than not: Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 takes the gold. Lisa, always smiling and willing to help, seems as immortal as the books she cares for. From inside, the chaos outside blurs to the point where you can almost inhale, close your eyes, forget.

Horse carriages jingle by, carrying their passengers towards an ice cream shop gasping for breath amid the sticky little hands that hover over its milky windows. The scuffed front step leads to a door to heaven, thick with layers of tin soldier paint concealing the years of tiny chocolate fingerprints underneath. The door is heavy, but never swings closed until the lights go off and the lock turns. Fantastic Fudge is one of the only constants in the city center, the world around it constantly evolving. Returners insist on stopping there every time they grace the island with their presence, recommending it to their friends as if they were the first to discover it, eons ago. While attractive to visitors, the many gimmicks on the main street are mostly just places for people–who never actually come to the island–to slap their money. Most of these are restaurants that ooze with unfulfilled promises of success and contribution. Fernandina Beach High Schoolers apathetically take orders and deliver checks, only working to have something to do. Their grey faces show no aspirations, no goals.

The struggle between principles and money defines the Amelia Island of today,  It is common practice for there to be unspoken boycotts of certain establishments that have failed to appeal to the no-nonsense locals. For example, a new restaurant will likely cater to the tropic hunting tastebuds of the roaming tourist, repelling any strong-willed resident. An older restaurant, in the hopes of keeping up, may install an ordering counter,  a soft-drink dispenser, losing fifteen years of loyal customers in the process. The growth of the island is a game of tug-of-war between appeasing the status-quo and preserving the oasis that had survived for so long.