SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAY!

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Life can ‘sooooo’ wear on a person, both mentally and emotionally. I find myself once again facing this very familiar internal anguish as I dolefully watch time fade away from yet another Sunday afternoon. A quick somber glance at the cell phone screen simply confirms my fears that "THEY" have just arrived. "THEY" have remained such longtime, faithful visitors that over time we've gotten to know each other quite well, so much so that I have even named them. Truly I've dubbed them, almost affectionately, The Sunday Eve Suckie Wuckies.

These melancholy feelings of despair choose to lodge, in the discouraging moment of gloom that heralds the end of another glorious weekend; their only purpose being to underline and highlight that tomorrow is Monday and that another dreadful, unforgiving work week is rearing up again. I honestly loath the Suckies. Some people call them the "Scaries" but they don't scare me at all. I simply hate them. I detest them for all their parade-raining and party-pooping nuisance. Nevertheless, their buzz-killing quality can also have palpable physical effects.

Immediately upon their arrival my shoulders collapse and roll forward droopingly, weighing down my neck muscles as well as my spirits, and causing me to drag my knuckles across the living room floor like a defeated Neanderthal. I am deeply saddened, distressed even, by their presence. This dispirited state hardly seems like a suitable way to end a gloriously rocking weekend. Might this magnificent 48hour period of invigorating respite be salvaged? Can we keep this weekend ‘a-bumpin' a bit longer?

I resolve in my heart to make it so and decide that a spur of the moment drive will do me good and maybe lead to some unexpected diversion. My unscripted adventure thus commenced, I steer my vehicle over the long curving 78th Street on-ramp and onto the Leroy Selmon Expressway. I look over my left shoulder as I hit the straightaway, and wave 'adios' to my beloved neighborhood and its charming low tax bracket blight before charting a course due west from Clair Mel City towards Tampa. Surely something wonderful awaits.

Turning the AC knob to a medium setting, I try to soften the slight sting of the day's still lingering heat. To cool down the brain and chill out the mind however, I simply up the volume on some soft, analgesic cool jazz and tap out the beat on the steering wheel while taking in the delightful view of the Tampa Bypass Canal as it meanders below my privileged position on the Crosstown.

At this junction, the canal is also known locally as the Palm River- a simple unassuming name, for a simple unassuming river that peacefully makes its way to the bay without much hubbub. Interestingly, the toll road I'm driving on also cuts through the landscape by weaving, turning, and bending, itself much like a river. But where will this elevated steel and concrete ‘river' lead me to today? I ponder my question for the ages as I cruise along the motorway, and in the meantime, a mild rain begins showering the windshield.

The light drizzle is calming, and the steady, rhythmic back and forth of the wipers proves hypnotizing. The swoosh-swish-swoosh is mesmerizing, with a cadence that seems to sway along with graceful, deliberate steps as my journey shifts from the quaint residences, nestled among the lush trees surrounding the river, to the more industrial setting approaching 50th street. (Just the two of us indeed Mr. Grover Washington).

Thankfully, upon crossing over 50th Street I find traffic to be almost non-existent. That, coupled with my eagerness to see where my adventure will take me, leads me to pick up the pace some. By now the rain has stopped, and as I press onto the gas pedal, the surrounding buildings and structures begin to whiz by. However, some prominent landmarks cannot be ignored. 

For instance, I catch a glimpse of McKay Bay with its mangroves and restful, still-water. It was just a quick glance of the marshy area mind you but somewhere, I heard banjos. By contrast, not long afterwards, I find myself surrounded by an impressive network of ramps and overpasses connecting the Selmon Expressway to I-4. The somewhat dizzying surroundings have me feeling as if I were driving through a futuristic city...in the future no less!

Suddenly to my right, I zoom past a titanic, blue behemoth of a building (emphasis on "BLUE"). The building houses a big box furniture store that people sometimes like to sleep in; its’ bright, yellow lettering making quite the Nordic statement. Its’ Swedish style meatballs and lingonberry sauce magically transporting one to a very…cold…fjord? (I dunno...I got nuthin').

Oh, look over there? ‘Tis Ybor City! The stunningly aged decor of brick and wrought iron beckons you to take a detour and explore each one of her splendidly timeless streets. (But that will be a tale for another day).

Finally, to my left, I pass a channel with a handsomely rugged shipyard primed for industry, complete with docked shipping vessels amid  floating workshops offering the ships much needed repair. The area is known as The Ybor Channel District, and although the quaint little tugboat, the large mobile cranes, and the huge marine warehouses with their bulk cargo silos do capture the imagination, La Draga, as it is also known, quickly fades from sight  as I curve sharp-left. 

The view ahead on the other hand, quickly grabs hold and commands ALL of my attention. 

Like a multi-colored be-jeweled crown, the high-rise buildings shoot up into the clouds (albeit very low-floating clouds), and glisten. Turquoise and coral-pink crystal colored buildings contrast against grey concrete columns, and with pillars of brick and stone. Beautiful Downtown Tampa lies coyly, inviting me to rediscover her modest allure. Steering slightly off Mr. Selmon's elevated road, I disappear adventurously into the elegant city.

Once on Kennedy Boulevard, I encounter the buildings and constructions typical of a downtown area, complete with ritzy hotel canopies and evocative city art sculptures. A group of skateboarders capitalize on hard flat surfaces devoid of foot-traffic and employ the available spaces for purposes they surely were never intended for. Still, other than a noteworthy city mural and a few surprisingly still open shops, not much catches my eye.

A right turn onto Ashley Drive heading north however, quickly changes all that.

Just three blocks north, resting on the banks of the Hillsborough River, I find just what I need in order to vanquish the Suckie Wuckies. Its big, its green, and it's teeming with life. I'd heard of it before; driven past it a few times; even seen it on Google Maps once, but now...I was here.

The sprawling urban green space that was reopened to the public in 2010 boasts eight acres of various amenities. For example, there's a seemingly endless great lawn, ready for whatever physically taxing park activity you can throw at it, right along with generous and very passive walking room all around (for those less sprightly among us). Along the perimeter I see lots of cozy sit alone spaces, and even cozier sit together spaces. Also present are stunning views of the city and of one of its more iconic landmarks. Along with a "wear the rug rats out" playground, there are also two really cool water features, an Irish Pub, and just the right vibe to let yourself get lost in all of it, right in the middle of our own downtown area. In other words, Curtis Hixon Park is a-bumpin'.

I find it multi-tasking with life; everything from your run of the mill joggers, to the actual good ones. I see people happily walking their dogs and cleaning up after them (sometimes). Suddenly some very fit people dressed in spandex happen to walk past me as they leave the park, barefoot and with exercise mats rolled up under their arms. They look very relaxed, flexible, and clear of mind.

There are people reading leisurely, others playing soccer effortlessly, some riding bicycles contently, more skateboarders rolling by oh so cool-ey, and children on scooters a-plenty. Yes children: civilization's brightest and most prominent beacon of life- the ambassadors of that carefree, "run an adult over" kind of fun. They chase each other through jets of refreshing water shooting up from the fountain feature at the entrance to the park. They chase each other up the sloping lawn, and down said sloping lawn. They chase each other all around relentlessly, in circles even, until I'm the one left feeling dizzy and nauseous.

Moments later, I encounter a less fortunate man named Jessie asking for some "help". But don’t worry. I don't like enabling anyone. So, I make him work for it. Striking up a conversation, I have him listen to my view on governmental incentives for foreign direct investment, and the corresponding international competition. We then explore the ancient ingenuity of water harvesting and ponder if when an electron oscillates, does that action "expel" space from the volume occupied by that oscillation? We then enjoy an exciting staring contest and I exchange with him my favorite thumb wrestling moves before sharing with him the loose "help" in my pocket. He proves to be an excellent listener and a more than worthy thumb wrestling opponent. Good man that Jessie.

Suddenly, an object whirring about in the sky catches my eye. Leaving Jessie behind, I run towards the object and discover a man standing on the expansive lawn while practice flying his own personal drone- no doubt for nefarious reasons. He was impressive with the delightfully diverting device. I watch him maneuver it all around with continued ease to the amazement of everyone watching. However, all the exhilarating excitement makes me kind of hungry. Thanks to a nearby concession stand, I was able to have a pleasant snack while enjoying the rest of the show.

After the thrilling display of electronic aerial prowess, I pursue a stroll down the adjacent River Walk, where I encounter a couple in-love, smiling away the early evening while sitting under ornamental, yet very practical canopies. Alas, the moment of blissful romance was abruptly interrupted by a flying Frisbee to the unsuspecting man’s head. The only smiling now was being done by a nearby teenager and his brace faced friend, albeit nervously.

Afterwards, the River Walk leads me under the Kennedy Boulevard Bridge, where the roar of the traffic above echoes in my ears and resonates all around me. A large truck unexpectedly careening across the bridge, while sounding more like a freight train, proves unsettling enough to provoke some “resonating” in the seat of my pants.

Deciding, to backtrack on the pathway, I stumble upon a strikingly handsome stone amphitheater. “What are you doing here in Tampa?” I ask myself. “Shouldn’t you be in the pages of a history book about Ancient Greece?” I take some time to explore its monumental steps and follow them as they extend all the way around, from one end of the half circle to the other. With my index finger I wipe the sweat from my brow as I employ a longer than usual stride to climb up from one level of steps to the next. Finally, after much arduous effort, I find myself at the apex. It feels as if I have just reached the summit of Everest- the stunning view, worthy of Nebuchadnezzar himself atop a Babylonian temple. The unrelated mixing of an ancient culture with a metamorphic landform notwithstanding, from here I can view the entire park and appreciate how it fits the panorama perfectly, neatly nestled between the Tampa Museum of Art-dash-Glazer Children’s Museum complex, and our cherished, beloved, and revered Beer Can Building (or Rivergate Tower as less descriptive people call it).

I take a step or two out of the amphitheater and discover a flawlessly manicured checkerboard garden of grass squares and concrete pavers. The space, of which the amphitheater is a part of, is called Kiley Gardens and I got a real kick out of the enchantingly distinctive pattern at my feet. A fellow park goer tells me that at times remarkable pieces of metallic art have been showcased on these grounds. I nod and stare creepily at him until he walks away, quietly, and ackwardly. Afterwards, I walk back around to the north side of the amphitheater where I stop to watch the Hillsborough River. It’s so pleasant to just look at it there below me as it flows along peacefully, stirred only by the occasional disturbance of a passing boat filled with relaxed locals, relaxing away their troubles…stirred only by the disturbance of a tour boat filled with relaxed tourists, touring away their troubles…stirred only by the occasional disturbance of an IRREVERENT JET SKIER WITH NO REGARDS FOR ESTABLISHED AND WELL KNOWN BOATING ETIQUETTE! (Annoyed pause, and sigh).

So tranquil and serene.

Just across the placid river, brightly shines The University of Tampa, its architectural elegance and its rich history illuminating the landscape amidst the dwindling daylight. The Moorish minarets atop UT and their unrivaled allure offer the perfect backdrop to Life’s closing act for today, while the spectacular sunset dimming over the horizon puts the icing on the guava cake. From this bird’s eye perspective, I easily find the ideal spot where I can expect to wrap up my adventure. So, I make my way back down the amphitheater steps and walk decidedly towards an area of decorative grass over by the public docks. On one end of the ornamental landscaping is an intimate bust of Kate Victoria Jackson, an early environmentalist in the Tampa area. Ironically, at the other end of the tall, stalky grass is a bust of Henry B. Plant, Tampa’s own Vanderbilt.

As I chat up good ol’ Hank over by the river’s edge, the exhaustion starts setting in. It has after all been an eventful Sunday evening. Feeling the fatigue, I allow my body’s weight to rest fully on the protective railing running along the river’s edge. As I turn slightly, I can see that Curtis Hixon Park is also winding down. Aside from a few hipster young adults still lingering about, the larger crowd from earlier has noticeably thinned out. No one’s walking their dogs, or skateboarding, and the book readers have undoubtedly receded back to the reading comfort of their own living room furniture. Drone man is also gone, as are Jessie and all the marauding children.

With no one left to entertain me, I take a moment to look down river. Hank generously offers me the courtesy of his silence, allowing my thoughts to peacefully drift along with the river’s current as it heads out towards Hillsborough Bay. A small solitary john boat makes its’ way up the river, the little outboard motor providing the hypnotic white noise needed to help me finally see the reality before me.

In this insulating trance I can finally see clear as vodka, that life can in fact wear on a person sometimes… its true… but at other times it can also reinvigorate and restore. Hasta la vista Suckie Wuckies.