May 8, 2008

Window on Sanibel

It was a routine shoot on Sanibel, that would take all of forty minutes. Nevertheless, I decided to stay overnight on the island, blowing probably half of what I would stand to earn.


I crashed at my old favorite cottage, nothing fancy, a sentiment indulged, a few blocks from the beach. The driver's side window of my car refused to close. "You're not the only one who wants fresh air," it said. Cheeky-ass pony. At least it never rained.



The day didn't start out fresh. The smoke from a towering brush fire at lake Okeechobee hitched a ride on the high air currents all the way down here. I awoke to what smelled like somebody's burnt morning coffee. By the time I made my own, the smell had turned acrid. But once on the island, a half-hour drive from here, the cool night air had lifted, taking the ashen visitor with it.


Architecture is photographed in the morning or late afternoon, when the shadows are elegant gestures, instead of stubby underscores. I drove in to town to look at the object, its face angled to the southeast. It would be a morning shoot. That left the rest of the day for fun and games, and acquiring a tanline upgrade.


On the way home next day, I tried the window a few more times. It was resolutely agape. How much was this trip going to cost? I pulled into the parking lot at the condo, gathered up my trip stuff, and in a routine, semi-conscious gesture pressed the rocker button and the window murmered. I pressed it again, and it slid all the way up, home again home.



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