Best. State. Ever.

by Dave Barry

  This gets a big hand, including from me. Call me a proud American, if you want, but I truly believe that no other nation on Earth possesses the capability to put on a more powerful display of underwater mermaid patriotism.

  After the show, some audience members press close to the glass wall to take photos of and selfies with one of the mermaids.

  Other audience members go to the theater lobby to pose with a mermaid sitting on a chair.

  I walk back out into the sunlight, trying to decide what I think about Weeki Wachee. I conclude that, by modern theme-park standards, it is dated, hokey and unsophisticated. In other words, it’s great. I mean that sincerely. Weeki Wachee is a time machine that takes you back to a different era. I’m not saying it was in all ways a better era. But it was definitely a calmer one. And for just thirteen bucks, you can go back there and mellow out for a day. Using the standard Florida Tourist Attraction Rating System, by which an attraction is rated on a scale of 1 to 5 out-of-order Mold-A-Matics, I would give Weeki Wachee a solid 3½ out-of-order Mold-A-Matics.

  I leave Weeki Wachee, returning to the twenty-first century, and set out southbound on Route 19. If you had to select one stretch of road to validate every negative stereotype about Florida culture, you would be hard put to do better than Route 19, which is a cavalcade of strip bars, porn stores, pawn shops, trailer parks and billboards for personal-injury lawyers. As a bonus, this stretch of Route 19 was once declared by Dateline NBC to be the most dangerous road in America because of the high number of pedestrian deaths.

  But there is a bright spot on Route 19. In Spring Hill, a few miles south of Weeki Wachee on the east side of the highway, there is a twenty-two-foot-tall, fifty-eight-foot-long bright pink concrete dinosaur.

  Why? you might ask. According to the Hernando County Historical Society, the dinosaur was created in 1962 by August Herwede, “who was a local artist that became famous back in the 1950’s and early 1960’s for constructing concrete dinosaur attractions along various highways in West Florida.” Originally, the dinosaur was intended to attract people to a wildlife museum, but that closed because of poor attendance. It was replaced, according to the Historical Society, by a taxidermy shop that “featured over 1,200 stuffed animals which featured a prominent deformity of one kind or another.” Today the dinosaur stands in front of a candy store called Fudge Factory USA.

  I stop to take a picture, but do not linger, because I have to get to the sponges.19 Still, I find the dinosaur to be visually impressive, plus it has been declared a Historical Site, plus it is convenient to fudge. So I award it a Florida Tourist Attraction rating of 1½ out-of-order Mold-A-Matics.

  I resume my southbound journey on the deadly Route 19, somehow managing not to hit a single pedestrian before I reach my destination, Tarpon Springs. This is the U.S. Sponge Capital, the heart of our vital domestic natural-sponge industry. This industry is dominated by Greek-Americans, whose ancestors came here in the early twentieth century to harvest sponges in the Gulf of Mexico. Today, Tarpon Springs has the highest percentage of Greek-American residents of any American city. It’s a quaint and scenic little town on the water, dotted with authentic Greek restaurants and stores featuring sponges and sponge-related merchandise out the wazoo.

  My destination is the granddaddy of all sponge-related attractions: Spongeorama.

  Spongeorama is a combination store and museum devoted to sponges. I go into the museum part first, because—like too many Americans—I have never really given much thought to sponges. I, frankly, don’t even know what a sponge is. If I had to guess, I would say it’s a kind of plant.

  The sponge museum is in the back of the store and it consists of a group of dusty, yellowing exhibits dating back to, I would estimate, roughly the time of Plato. Nevertheless, they are informative, and I learn many sponge facts.

  To begin with, sponges are not plants. They are multi-celled animals, although they have no mouths, internal organs, brains or nervous systems. They cannot move, but they can reproduce, eat, grow and obtain Florida driver's licenses.

  I’m kidding about that last one, sort of.

  There are a number of ways to harvest sponges, including a method called harpooning, which conjures up an image of a brave sponge hunter, out on the sea, doing battle with his nemesis, Moby-Sponge. In fact, harpooning involves using a pole to hook the sponge off the seabed and bring it into the boat. A riskier method is to go down to the seabed personally, wearing a diving suit and helmet attached to an air hose. The Spongeorama museum, quoting Newsweek, says that this method of sponge hunting is probably the country’s “most dangerous occupation.”20 Illustrating this point is a gruesome diorama of a diver lying on a deck, either unconscious or dead, with blood coming out of his nose.

  There are many more exhibits, and many more sponge facts. For example, there is a sponge mentioned in the Bible. Really. It’s the part where Jesus dies.21

  After touring the museum, I go back into the store area, where I encounter a forceful Greek woman Spongeorama employee who tells me I should watch the movie. Far be it from me to generalize about Greek women, but in my experience they do not tend to be shrinking violets. If a Greek woman tells you to do something, you do it.

  The forceful Greek woman directs me and some other tourists into a side room with benches and a movie screen. She informs us that the movie is “very historical,” then turns on the projector and leaves.

  The movie appears to be a few decades old, done in the style of the documentaries you watched in middle school when you had a substitute teacher, with titles like The Story of Baking Soda. The soundtrack quavers, and the colors are murky, tending toward purple and red, as if the scenes were filmed through a pitcher of Kool-Aid.

  The protagonist is a guy—I will call him Spongeorama Man—who presents a detailed explanation of how sponges are processed for sale to the consumer. I would strongly recommend this film for anybody thinking of going into sponge-processing as a career, because Spongeorama Man is extremely thorough, to the point where I am in danger of nodding off. But I perk up when he starts talking about the various types of sponges for sale at Spongeorama, because I know that when I leave this room, I am going to have no choice but to purchase a sponge from the forceful Greek woman, and I need to know which kind I should get.

  This turns out to be a more complicated decision than you might think. At first I lean toward getting a yellow sponge, which Spongeorama Man states is “an excellent all-purpose sponge.” I reject the finger sponge, which is mainly for florists and aquariums, although Spongeorama Man says “the fish enjoy it.” I also pass on the flowerpot sponge,22 which you grow plants in.

  The sponge I settle on is the wool sponge. “This is the Cadillac of sponges,” states Spongeorama Man. “If you’re looking for a top-grade sponge, this is it.” At this point, I am sold; I’m going to splurge on a wool sponge as a gift for my wife. The ladies love a romantic gesture.

  I’m all set to leave the theater and buy a wool sponge when Spongeorama Man, instead of ending the movie, introduces another movie, which is longer, older and murkier than the first one. In terms of production values, it makes the first film look like Star Wars: The Force Awakens. It’s a documentary, with a dramatic narrator, about Greek men heading out on ships and smoking cigarettes and harvesting sponges and just generally being very Greek. In one of the more dramatic moments, we see a man haul a freshly caught sponge into the boat, and we finally get a chance to see a live, pre-processing sponge close up. It looks—and I say this as a person who has nothing but the deepest respect for the sponge as an organism—like a turd.

  We also see scenes of a diver in a helmet and canvas suit collecting sponges on the seafloor while dramatic music plays in the background. If, at that moment, a Weeki Wachee mermaid swam past the diver holding an American flag, it would be the greatest documentary ever made. Unfortunately, that does not happen. Instead, the film goes into a stirring,
surreal finale in which the announcer dramatically lists all the wonderful uses of sponges while, in the background, a dramatic chorus—it might even be Greek—chants, over and over, “Real sponges! Natural sponges!”

  By the time the movie ends, I am fired up and ready to make my sponge purchase. I go back into the store, where I am confronted by a bewildering array of sponges, loofas23 and other products.

  The forceful Greek woman approaches me. I tell her I want to buy my wife a wool sponge, but I don’t know which one. Without hesitating, she picks up a sponge and hands it to me. “Your wife wants this one,” she says, forcefully. She can tell just by looking at me which sponge my wife wants.

  I pay for the sponge. It costs $23, which sounds like a lot until you consider that it is the Cadillac of sponges. It comes with a sheet of instructions titled HOW TO CARE FOR YOUR NATURAL SPONGE. I am confident that my wife will be thrilled.

  So I’m in a fairly positive mood as I leave Spongeorama. It’s not as pleasant or elaborate as Weeki Wachee, but it is an attraction that combines an educational experience with an opportunity to purchase quality household products. After some deliberation, I decide to award it 2 out of 5 out-of-order Mold-A-Matics.

  If you’re in the Tarpon Springs area, you should definitely stop in, check out the museum and catch the movie. And if you’re in the market for a quality natural sponge, your search is over: I’ll sell you the one I got for my wife.

  CASSADAGA

  It’s a week before Halloween and I’m checking into the Hotel Cassadaga. It’s the only hotel in Cassadaga, Florida, a community with a population of a few hundred, unless you count the spirits of the dead, in which case it’s about the same size as L.A.

  Cassadaga is, literally, a ghost town. It was founded in 1894 by a man named George Colby, who belonged to the Spiritualist Movement, which believes that when you die, your spirit lives on and people can communicate with you through mediums. There’s still a Spiritualist community in Cassadaga, centered on the Cassadaga Spiritualist Camp; around it has grown a small industry of mediums and psychics, which is why Cassadaga’s nickname is The Psychic Capital of the World. As you drive into town on Cassadaga Road, you pass house after house with signs that say PSYCHIC.

  This is a place where you might have trouble getting a plumber on the weekend, but if you need an emergency tarot card reading, help is only seconds away.

  The Cassadaga Hotel is across the street from the Spiritualist Camp Welcome Center in the heart of downtown Cassadaga. On the day I arrive at the hotel it is doing its best to look creepy, having been festooned with fake spiderwebs, skeletons, skulls, etc., for Halloween. In Cassadaga, Halloween is, basically, Christmas.

  The hotel was built in the 1920s and it still looks like the 1920s inside. The lobby has been spookified for Halloween, with a skeleton seated on a banquette.

  The hotel check-in counter is a desk inside the gift shop. A nice lady checks me in and tells me that I will be staying in Room 2. She also tells me that the hotel is haunted. I ask her how the ghosts manifest themselves.

  “They may pet you like a kitty cat,” she says. “They may move your glasses. They may move your key.”

  A woman nearby, shopping for gifts, nods her head.

  “They definitely will,” she says.

  I head for my room. It’s on a narrow, dimly lit, creepy hallway that’s straight out of the Haunted Mansion ride at Disney World, except it’s real. I can easily imagine an evil entity lurking behind one of the doors, preparing to spring out at me with an ax, or a knife, or a live lobster.24

  I enter Room 2 without incident. It’s a modest room with an old-fashioned four-poster bed and a window air conditioner with the fan set on “Typhoon.” There’s no TV set, no Wi-Fi. It is probably for the best. If the spirits of the departed are, in fact, hovering all around, they’d probably be angry if you started looking at television or a laptop. They’d be, like, “I’ve been sitting around dead all these years and you finally show up and the first thing you do is go on Facebook?”

  I spend a few minutes in my room, waiting for ghosts to tickle me like a kitty cat or move my keys, but nothing happens. This is understandable; it’s their busy season.

  I head across the street to the Spiritualist Camp Welcome Center. It has a big bookstore and gift shop, offering a wide selection of New Age-y books, candles, incense, tarot cards, crystals and T-shirts, among many other spiritual items; there are bulletin boards cluttered with flyers advertising healing circles, mediumship classes, spirit encounters, etc.

  Off to the side is a room where you can make an appointment with a medium. The way it works is, the mediums write their names and phone numbers on a whiteboard, and you call the one you want to meet. A sign says “We can’t recommend which one you should call. Use your intuition in selecting a medium.” There’s an ATM machine right there in case your medium doesn’t accept credit cards.

  Using my intuition, I start at the top of the list. After getting several voicemail machines, I reach a live medium, whom I will call Judy. She tells me she just had a cancellation, so she has an availability right away. She says the session will last thirty to forty-five minutes and will cost $60, in cash.

  Following Judy’s directions, I walk a few blocks to a small house on a side street. Judy, a plump woman in (I’m guessing) her thirties, ushers me through a kitchen to a darkened living room where candles are burning and New Age music is playing softly. She has me sit on a sofa; she sits on a chair in front of me, with a small table between us.

  Judy tells me a little about the history of Cassadaga and explains that she is a trained medium, affiliated with the Spiritualist Camp. She says she doesn’t use “tools” such as tarot cards. In Cassadaga, the mediums, who claim they can communicate with the dead, tend to look down on the psychics, who use cards, crystals and other items, and who claim they have the ability to see into the future, among other powers.

  Judy produces a sheet of paper and says she will be writing down things as she goes so I’ll have a record of our session. She writes my name in large letters on the paper and begins talking. As she speaks, she often looks past me, as if she’s seeing a spirit I can’t see. Sometimes she talks to the spirit. “Thank you,” she’ll say.

  Judy says she’s seeing canisters and asks if that has any significance to me. I try to think of canisters that have been significant in my life, but nothing comes to mind. To be honest, I can go for months without thinking of canisters. Judy says it might have something to do with oil or an auto shop, and that “placement” is important. She goes on for a while, talking about the placement of the canisters, but it’s not ringing any bells. I’m starting to feel bad, like I’m letting Judy and the spirit community down.

  Judy says she’s seeing the number 76. I wrack my brain, but all I can come up with is the song “Seventy-six Trombones,” which is a rousing show tune but not one with which I feel a deep personal connection. I shake my head.

  Judy says she’s picking up something about bowling balls and brings up “placement” again. I shake my head again; I’m not a bowler. I am totally failing at this.

  Judy asks me if I have trouble eating.

  “I wish,” I say. This is turning into a nightmare.

  Judy says she’s getting something about a woman who maybe has something to do with race cars.

  I shake my head again. My wife happens to be a woman, and she is a fast driver, but not of race cars. She’s an SUV woman. I’m beginning to think the dead people Judy’s talking to have me confused with somebody else.

  Then Judy says she’s getting something about turkey.

  “The bird or the country?” I ask.

  “The bird,” she says.

  “I like turkey,” I say.

  Judy seems pleased. I feel relieved. Finally, we’re getting somewhere!

  Judy says she’s getting something about music. I tell her
I’m in a band. This is true: I’m in an author rock band called the Rock Bottom Remainders. We are not good at music, but we do attempt to play it.

  Judy asks about the name Ron. I tell her my wife’s cousin’s husband is named Ron. We are on a roll now, spiritually. We are 3 for 3.

  Then Judy brings up my parents. “Have they transitioned?” she says.

  “Have they what?” I say.

  “Died,” she says.

  I tell her they have, in fact, transitioned. She asks me if I would like to try to contact them via a Spirit Box, which she says is a device that enables the dead to communicate with us. I say sure. She goes to a closet and brings back a small electronic device, which she connects to a tiny speaker. She explains that the Spirit Box picks up radio transmissions, and the spirits “piggyback” on these transmissions to say things to us.

  She tells me she’s going to record me asking some “validating questions” to prove that it’s my parents I’m connecting with. Speaking into the Spirit Box, I ask a few questions, like where my parents were born and what street I grew up on. Then we go through a process wherein Judy plays back my questions and we both listen intently to the Spirit Box, trying to pick out messages from beyond as the box emits static, random sounds and fragments of radio broadcasts. To you, this probably sounds like a load of hooey, but I can state for a fact, as a person who witnessed it firsthand, that you are absolutely correct: It is a large, steaming, fragrant pile of hooey. I have a hard time keeping a straight face. Judy would say, “Did you hear that?” And I’d say, “What?” And she’d say, “It sounded like ‘love you.’ Listen.” Then she’d play a staticky random sound that could have been “love you,” but also could have been “trampoline,” “fester,” “dirigible,” “Neil Sedaka,” “Montpelier” or pretty much anything else, and I’d go, “Huh.”