So, just to get up and out, we took a
drive to Matlacha, Florida, only a little over an hour away from us. Against
all logic, it’s pronounced “mat-lah-SHAY.”
Originally, it was a fishing village, known for mullet and shrimp. But 1995 brought a ban on net fishing, and many of the fisherman moved on, leaving their shacks behind. Before long, artists moved in, painting the shacks and turning them into galleries and restaurants.
It’s on a strip of land between an island and the mainland,
with every available inch filled with either commercial or residential
buildings. The traffic was non-stop and finding somewhere to put the car used up my full quota of parking
karma for the day, and with one of us having limited mobility, we only visited
one of the eccentric galleries. Fine art, no, but plenty of color.
We did find a lunch spot right by the bridge, which had
actual parking places. It was long on beach vibe and short on subtlety, but it
was fun. Smallest oysters we’ve ever seen – in fact, there was so much piled on
my oysters Rockefeller – cheese, spinach, bacon, bread crumbs - I’m not
convinced there was an oyster there at all. Similarly, my grouper taco was
heavily over-spiced, but we had a view of the water and the music was good.
Plus, like any grandmother worth her salt, I scored some great little additions to next Christmas’s stocking stuffers for the grandboys.
