7th Invades St. Augustine Part 2: Old St. Augustine!
Posted by 7th on August 21, 2004

As I stated in my last St. Augustine piece, Augie is the oldest city in the nation. It's been a tourist trap for decades, ever since the Yankees found out they could experience tropical weather without going to Hawaii or the Bahamas. (In fact, you might say that Northerners are this state's greatest import. Every winter our state's population temporarily goes up with all the Yankees who own condos down here. We call 'em Snow Birds.)

Perhaps the most visited section of St. Augustine is Old St. Augustine, or "the strip" as we call it. The strip is the original town dating back to the 1600's, though much of it, of course, is far different than it was when first constructed. The old town itself is just a few blocks long, and rests just a few blocks from the old Spanish fort overlooking the bay. But the first thing you'll run into on your way to the old town is...

...the Old St. Augustine Cemetary! I tell ya, there's nothing more uplifting on a weekend trip than walking amongst the graves of folks who have been dead a hundred years or more. The day I took this picture, the place was empty. But on previous trips, the place is often occupied by various goth freaks or hippies picnicing over the final resting places of the deceased, reading poetry by Maya Angelou or quoting lines from Marylin Manson's biography, respectively. You know the types... tie-dyed hipsters in bell bottom jeans and hempware, or black-haired, white faced goth nuts who buy their entire fucking wardrobe from geekathons like Hot Topic; shirts with band names like the Bahuas or the Cure, necklaces that look like something you'd put on your pit bull, and pants with more buckles on them than a fucking S&M outfit and are baggy enough that you could leap from a tall building and parachute safely to the ground. It's a definite culture clash, but I doubt the dead would find it as humorous as I do. Not to mention the fact that it's illegal, not that the cops seem to care...

Here we see the entrance to Old St. Augustine. I apologize for the shitty effect on this pic. At the time that I took it, I was new to digital cameras and was trying to adjust the sun glare, and instead caused this freaky negative fog motif. As you can see, the entrance to the town was also once protected by a draw bridge (and from the looks of it, one larger than the brdge guarding the entrance to the fort) but it has since been removed and replaced by a plain old stone bridge. Walking through the gate reminded me of walking from land to land in the Magic Kingdom, primarily the entrance to Adventureland...

One thing you'll see on Augie's strip that you won't see in Gatlinburg are roadside vendors, like this one. She braids bracelets and necklaces out of hemp. She proudly proclaimed that much of her clothing was also made of hemp, though I doubt those cut off jean shorts are anything other than Levi's standards. She also was acting like she'd smoked a few of her own bracelets, probably a good dime bag's worth at least.

These kind of roadside vendors are all up and down the strip, selling supposed real gold jewelry, sand dollars, palm readings, tea leaf readings, and colonoscopies while you wait. All of them give off the demeanor of someone released from the padded room a little prematurely, but for the most part don't seem to be dishonest or out to screw you (though I have my doubts about the gold necklace guy... Should real gold leave a green ring around the base of my cock?)

On down the strip is the first mission established in the area. Oddly enough, it was from the Greek Orthodox Church rather than the Catholics... Wonder how they got second billing on THAT Deal.

Touring the location is free, but dontations are accepted. They have various maps and diagrams showing the route they took to get there, info on how many of them died, and so on. There's a nice, quiet, outdoor courtyard in the middle of the place with nice shade trees and few benches. But one of the most interesting parts of the shrine is...

...The Chapel. Where the rest of the establishment has regular old square-shaped rooms, this room has archways, and domed ceilings... it's like a miniature cathedral, really. And once you walk into it, there's an almost eerie silence... it's designed in such a way as to naturally block most of the noise from the other rooms. There are several tile mosaics depicting scenes from the New testament, including Christ's death and resurrection, and there's also a convenient cistern of holy water for you to cross yourself with at the entranceway... they also have a little podium for you to light candles for whomever you feel needs one, and a convenient ATM for paying indulgence money to get your dead mormon Uncle Karl out of Hell.

They also have a gift shop that doubles as a museum for various artifacts. One was what appeared to be a large book made of silver, the front cover of which had several small, glass windows etched into it. Behind each window was what looked like small, irregularly shaped pieces of gravel. I asked the clerk what this was, and she claimed that they were "Finger bones from the twelve apostles." I asked her how this had been verified without apostle DNA samples to compare, and she just stared at me like I'd recited the Gettysburg address in Esperanto. The blind, glazed over stare of the true believer in evidence, my friends... No matter how many times I see it, I'm constantly amazed at organized religion's uncanny ability to turn normal, rational human beings into PPFC's (Pod People For Christ.)

Now this guy is my favorite part of the whole strip. I've seen similar acts to his at Epcot in the Italian pavillion, but they're not nearly as effective. Basically, this old man does himself up as a wooden storefront Indian, and waits for unsuspective tourists to walk by. As they come within arm's reach, he lunges out at them, causing them to scream and throw litter at him in hopes that he'll be distracted by his tears.

He has a large plastic aquarium sitting right behind him full of money that tourists leave him, so it's astounding to me that no one spots him from a distance. But then I suppose that perfectly expresses the mindset of the average tourist shopper. If some stupid old bat from Bent Armpit Nebraska is down here focused on finding a starfish-shaped clock to hang over her toilet, you could run hit her head on with a fucking zambonie in broad daylight and she'd never notice...

This guy is so effective at scaring the shit out of people that other tourists in on the joke line the walls on the other side of the street and just watch... And I was one of them. I'm so goddamned sick of all the old people down here, that it does my heart good to watch this guy set off their pace makers, one ZIP! after another...

As you can see, the strip definitely has an old world feel... many of the buildings have retained some or all of the original structures, so it many ways it's like walking through a 3D time capsule... Then some guy in a Poison tee-shirt will get in your face and try to sell you "discounted" Ripley's tckets or baseball caps with foam breasts on them... Oh well, gotta take the good with the bad, I suppose...

And that's definitely the worst aspect of tourist traps... I know guys like Matt from XE feel like they're in heaven when they walk into a store that has candles of frogs with giant boners (called "horny toads") or hats with double beer taps built into them, or even cans of ten year old spaghetti-o's, but not me... I find the stuff to be kind of amusing at first, but after the thirty thousandth store carrying the same cheap ass joke shirts and Pokemon card game starter kits, it gets to be pretty damn tedious. Thankfully, the strip here has themed stores as well.. there's a store that carries all sorts of weapons, including "official" Klingon daggers, and there's a "nothing but Christmas" store that has every kind of hokey Christmas decoration you can imagine... but even those establishments start to wear thin after the sixth or seventh "Buy Your Family Crest/Old West Photo" store... So I start to look for more interesting distractions, things like...

...flaming homosexual Jamaican street magicians! Honestly, what gave this guy the idea to stand out on a street corner and do magic for tips? Someone should tell him that it takes more than a Lance Burton home kit and a pack of cards to be a magician... it takes a show business persona, that certain flare that every great magician has, that ability to captivate with just a wink and a smile...

And this guy doesn't have it... When I first saw him, I noticed that his performance costume looked just like the janitor uniforms worn at the Magic Kingdom... I thought the guy was there to sweep up bubblegum wrappers and horse shit, not pull doves out of his sleeves.

My second thought was that Seal had really fallen on hard times. As I walked past, I halfway expected him to offer me a Kiss From A Rose... and then to get a little bit Craazeh... But no, he just wanted to pull a rabbit out of his asshole hat and be paid to do so. There were like, three people watching him, me included. I can't speak for the other two "audience members," but I didn't tip him shit... How does he live? And more disturbing, why do I care?

First off, as I said, he had no stage charisma. Secondly, he had a Jamaican accent that was so thick it could cloud conscious thought. And thirdly, he was femming out in the worst way. I swear folks, this guy was more queer than Robin Williams starring in the Life of Liberace... It was like watching Corky from Life Goes On trying to perform Public Enemy's "Fight The Power." You can appreciate the effort, but there's just no way in hell to enjoy it.

Next up is the St. Augustine cathedral. Now those of you who've read me over the years know that I have no love in my heart for the Roman Catholic Church... Still, that doesn't mean I can't apprectiate beatiful architecture when I see it. While not the biggest cathedral I've ever been in (by any means) it is awe inspriring nonetheless. Whether the Catholics have the right idea about God or not, there is a sense of reverence that falls over you upon entering a place like that... the soft music... the candle smoke... the altar boys bent over in the back room... scenes like that are why the word rectory is only two letters away from rectum...

I'll give it to St. Augustine, there's not much of a homeless culture there. In jacksonville, and especially in Atlanta, I saw one on just about every street corner. But when I went to St. Augustine, I walked from one end of town to another and saw only one homeless man, sitting quietly on a park bench, watching the birds. Now I'm the kind of guy who'll speed by these fake "Will work for food" middle class con artists and toss hot coffee in their laps, that or offer them a potato chip to mow my yard. But when I see a guy like this, not begging, not bothering anyone, just enjoying the shade and dreaming about whatever past life he may or may not have had, I feel for them. I walked over and gave this guy a fiver for lunch, and talked with him for quite a while...

I didn't ask him how he became homeless, and he didn't offer to tell me. We spoke on current politics, 9/11, and other things that I never thought I'd discuss with a transient. He told me stories of being overseas, and all the places he'd been... It was one of the most genuine and non-abrassive human interractions I've ever had, and I can only hope that he's still around, watching the birds. So you never know folks... that old guy living under the bridge down the road from your house could be a child rapist, but he could also be a thoughtful, insightful person with hopes and ideas, dreams and stories. You won't know one way or another if you don't ask.

On the way back to my car, I spotted this guy walking around in his one-man-band contraption playing music, dancing, and singing... badly. I tell ya, Dick Van Dyke he ain't. He was dressed just like that Lesko guy who sells books on TV at four in the morning that supposedly show you how to get 15,000.00 out of the government to write a novel, or 75,000.00 to prove your theories about the evolution of the skidmark. It was noise polution, so far as I was concerned. Can you imagine how bad it would sound if he strapped a portable generator to his ass and went "electric?" It would be the worst event in musical history since Snow picked up a microphone.

So I was walking back to my car, and was watching a truck carrying Christmas trees (Christmas trees? In Octember???...sorry, obscure Ren and Stimpy humor) cross the street when I saw the entrance gate to the Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum... I realized that my day trip was going to last longer than I'd initially thought... But you'll have to come back next week to find out what happens next... No seriously, you can go away now. My fingers are tired, and Nip/Tuck is on...

-=7th=-