2005-09-08 - 4:32 p.m.

The thing about southern Florida in September is�it�s closed. This makes writing about it a bit tricky, as you can imagine.

From Fort Lauderdale, I drove to Everglades City. I did this along Alligator Alley, which is more alley than alligator, but since I was still kind of spaced out about driving on the right, it�s probably good that dodging carnivorous toothy reptiles wasn�t thrown into the mix as well.

So�.Everglades City. That�s a �city�, is it? OK, and I�m a �lexical engineer�.

A couple of airboat tour operators, a bed and breakfast and a local economy based on the bartering of mosquito bites does not a metropolis make. I�ve seen sand dunes that are more urban. At 9pm, the most sophisticated dining option was a day-old sandwich from the refrigerated compartment in the local gas station. It was a five minute walk from the B&B, so luckily I was able to collect an impressive amount of bites on the way. I got back to feast on my gourmet treat to find my face looking like a condom full of walnuts. Quite a look. Cheers.

Now I�m in Venice, via Naples. And Punta Gorda@. And several wrong turns on almost every major highway on the west coast of the state. My driving on the left is erratic at best � my driving on the right gives amateur hour a whole new definition.

My B&B in Punta Gord@ (�Fat Point� � the name comes from the all-lard breakfasts that are unavoidable here) was most welcoming � on the door was a huge poster which said �We don�t call 911� and underneath was a picture of a smoking pistol. You just know you�re going to relax in a place like that, yessiree, one great night�s sleep coming RIGHT up.

I met the local CVB person for a romantic sunset cruise � CVB people love to take journalists on sunset cruises. They can�t get enough of that shit. I need some kind of badge that says �The colours are really amazing� to save me having to repeat it ad nauseaum. Anyway, it would have been romantic apart from our slight clash of interests. Me: swearing and booze. Her: Jesus, quilting and defending George Bush. The sushi dinner afterwards was even more of a stretch.

And so to Venice.

Listen, September in Venice is a RIOT, and don�t let anyone tell you any different. Never MIND that I am the youngest person in town by about 40 years � if there�s anything better than hanging out in an Irish bar whilst decrepit retirees slow dance to Beatles b-sides, pausing only to digest another spoonful of congealed Shepherd�s Pie, then I want to hear about it.

It�s such a hot, hip and happening destination that the woman in charge of the PR for the region had to recruit her grandmother to give me the tour, so little did she know about a place on her own beat. Jesus. I feel like I�m in one of the Florida Seinfeld episodes � there�s only me not staying in Del Boca Vista.

I�m staying in somewhere with much more character - the Island Breeze Motel. If the Ritz Carlton is the Rolls-Royce of hotels, then the Island Breeze is kind of a burned out vehicle shell of no discernable make that will only stop burning when enough tramps urinate on it. The only island in sight is the traffic island conveniently located just outside my window, the breeze in question being created by trucks downshifting as they approach it.

As luck would have it, the drone of the juggernauts is drowned out by the air conditioning unit, which is slightly less loud than putting your ear to a Chinese commercial airliner, and doubles up as a dirty water dispersal contraption. My only entertainment is watching four hours of Everybody Loves Raymond on TV. Travel journalism basically involves watching insane levels of this programme and an unnatural intake of non-dairy creamer, and sunset cruises. That�s the job in a fucking nutshell.

Tomorrow � fucking Sarasota, then the fucking mermaid theme park, then fucking G@torland. I�m quite cross at this point in the trip, as you might guess.