In a fit of panic I press down on the accelerator of my rental car while merging with Florida traffic coming out of Orlando International Airport.  An 18-wheeler bears down on me and instead of the whiny, clattering sound I expect from an “economy compact,” a throaty howl greets my ears.  An invisible hand shoves me back in my seat like a big brother throwing little sis in a snow bank.  “Big brother,” in this case is the deep-red Ford Mustang that was in rental slot 207 where I expected a Hyundai Ascent to be. 

            I haven’t driven a car with a V-8 in years, having moved on to “greener” pastures with a 4-cylinder 4-door.  What I don’t want to admit in these ecologically sensitive days of global sustainability is that even under the speed limit, this car is fun to drive.  From the growl of the engine to the aggressive seating position deep within the body, something is awakened within from my hot-rodding past.  Something base.  Something American.

            But what to do with all that power? 

            I have a whole day before I am scheduled to attend the Society of American Travel Writers (SATW) travel writing/photography institute and with no windy roads nor mountain passes to tame, I have to explore this new-found sense of American-ness in a less motion-sickness inducing way.  Since I can’t afford the gas to drive around, I do the next best thing: find some Roadside Americana—Florida style.

            I pull off US highway 441 into an almost non-descript parking lot next to a construction zone.  After pumping the gas a few times for good measure, I get out and stare up at the gaping jaws of the enormous man-eating alligator that marks the entrance to Gatorland, Alligator Capitol of the World.  In all fairness, it’s actually an artist’s rendition of the toothy, concrete beast that guarded the old entrance destroyed by a fire in November 2006.  The 12-foot-tall mouth is currently being rebuilt with a new entrance at the far end of the parking lot.  While I’m deprived of walking down the throat of a concrete ‘gator, (roadside Americana in the truest sense) I am greeted with the overtly uncultured thrills of the Florida’s heritage, ie. ‘gators and rednecks. 

            Right through the gate, Florida’s tropical vegetation closes in on the park, blocking out the sounds of the nearby highway and holding in the oppressive stillness of the swamp.  Brilliant white birds swoop in to land in a holding pond rippled only by a small boy leaning off of a wooden pavilion to throw hotdogs in the water.  The water swirls and a set of jaws snap shut on the hotdog, and then swoop back under the water.  A group of smaller children lean out over the water to get a better look at the hotdog’s fate in the mouth of the 10-foot ‘gator.  The parents, rather than rush forward, screaming to pull their children back to safety, they get their cameras ready. 

            I get mine ready, too.

            When the alligator sedately turns away from the smorgasbord of fresh, live meat, I realize, judging by the size of its belly, and the bellies on the other alligators surrounding the pond, (not to mention the bellies of the tourists) that hotdogs are in high supply here. 

            As I follow the big-bellied patrons, with their sleeveless t-shirts and Harley-Davidson hats further into the “swamp” I begin to take in the scope of the park and reserve.  It’s hardly eco-tourism, being little more than a couple of few-hundred foot ponds separated by a walkway.  There isn’t much room for a full-grown ‘gator to stretch out in.  A few building-tops crouch in the distance and I feel humanity pressing on all sides of the park just beyond the trees and water-holes.  If the city outside is any indication, the human sprawl shows no sign of stopping until the entire peninsula of Florida is paved over with shabby low-rises and golf courses.  Suddenly, the chain-link fences that hold the alligators in, seem more important for keeping the rest of the human world out.  The non-paying human world, at least.

            The ‘gators don’t seem to mind the compact nature of their home as they lounge in the sun.  One of them slid into the water to join us for the ‘Gator Jumparoo show, where Bubba and Cooter, two cover-all clad park personnel, drawl about their branch-less family trees while trying to get the ‘gators to launch themselves out of the water and bury their teeth into uncooked rotisserie chickens.  The relationship between ‘gators and rural-ites runs deep and the redneck ambiance never waivers within the park.  Even the signs are in hand-script with plenty of apostrophes marking the dropped “g’s” in present tense verbs like trackin’ and huntin.’  I find myself so overcome with this spirit of rugged individualism that I make my way down to the penultimate American expression of man vs. nature: Gator Wrestlin.’ 

            Four ‘gators lie on a pit of sand surrounded by bleachers of gawking tourists like gladiators in Rome’s Coliseum.  At first, they hardly seem menacing compared to the monstrous ‘gators in the hotdog pond.  I realize quickly that even one of these “small” ‘gator’s mouths could clamp down on a man’s head with room to spare.  We watch as one of the park’s handlers put WWF moves on a 7-foot ‘gator hand-picked by a girl from the audience.  He gives a little history and anatomy lesson while he works on the ‘gator, pulling it into positions that would generate a rash of calls to the ASPCA if it had fur.  While the ‘gator didn’t seem to mind, he also didn’t seem trained, trying at one time to take a couple of fingers off for a mid-day snack.  Though American Alligators are reported to be as smart as your average dog, not being a “pack oriented” animal leads me to believe that training one of these predators not to eat its handler would be like teaching a cat to ignore mice.  Though the handler was risking his life, or appendages at least, to teach lessons to the crowd, he made it clear the star of the show was obviously still the reptile.  The show climaxed as the handler used his scruffy chin to hold the ‘gator’s upper jaw while the lower jaw dropped open showing its teeth to the crowd.  After a moment of being exposed to ‘gator halitosis, the handler flipped the ‘gator onto its back putting it into a semi-resting state.  The crowd went wild with applause, including, those who, I assume, were there to see the ‘gator drag the handler into the water for a little wrestlin’ of its own.  You won’t find that at a mainstream theme park!

            As I peeled out of the parking lot in my Mustang, I grasped the place of roadside attractions like this one within the great American landscape.  Like national parks which act as a sanctuary for America’s wild habitats, roadside attractions are sanctuaries America’s quirky social landscape.  In the case of Gatorland, the manufactured swamp is a refuge for animals that are not compatible with an increasingly human landscape.  In others, the Corn Palace in the Midwest for example, it is the encroachment of industrial farming complexes weeding out the family farms.  The key to these attractions, straddling the line between trashy and charming, is often the care and passion the people who run them feel toward their various subjects.  These hole-in-the-wall attractions have been on the decline since the interstate highway boom, a situation made worse by cheap travel overseas and more recently the high cost of gasoline.  As society becomes increasingly more faceless and automated, adults are going to look for solace in roadside stops they rolled their eyes at when they were kids on family vacation.  I just hope they are still here when we need them.