Florida Motels

Check out our growing collection of motel postcards from this state.

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Gulf to Bay stretches in Clearwater, obligingly enough, from the Gulf of Mexico to Tampa Bay. Just off that road, Jenny and I visit the Regal Motel. Within a seemingly endless stream of hip restaurants and t-shirt shops, the Regal sign towers above the neighboring buildings. At night, the lights don't work - so we return during a crowded afternoon. Jenny climbs atop the van and asks me to drive "very slowly" back and forth until she gets the shot that glows in her mind. It's just a sign - but it's also a feeling and an idea. An association of place and memory which doesn't fade easily.

From Tampa, it's a straight shot down I-75 and an eastward cut across Florida's underbelly at State Road 70. Just before reaching the city, you really can see the waves of the milky way. Turning to a lonely stretch of Highway 17, we found the City Motel. The architecture suggests 50s era Spanish moderne. But make no mistake, this is pickup country. While Jenny shoots the sign by headlight through the steam of an overheated radiator, I notice the palm trees. Almost 45 miles from the Gulf breezes, faded trees sway in painted gusts on the motel's stucco surface. A shiny new Arcadia police cruiser shoots by, though I can't imagine why anyone would race anywhere this late at night. Underneath one of the wheezing air conditioning units rests a plant. This place is someone's home - at least for a while. On the door to the managers office is a torn sign which says, "ring bell." We don't have the heart to wake him.

City Motel Tropicana Motel

It's 2 AM north on Highway 17 and a light drizzle has turned into a hard rain. In Florida this phenomenon usually lasts a few minutes. Near Wauchula, a burst of friendly yellow neon drips through the streaming rain on our windshield. The Tropicana Motel bends around a curved road and boasts a tall sharp angled roof in the center. In the manager's office, an ancient computer glows orange. Jenny sets up in the center among the palm trees and mosquitos. The bugs are hungry tonight and my spouse suffers for her art. We wait for a truck to barrel down the road - some blurred motion would make a nice backdrop for the shot. No luck tonight. Walking behind the building, I notice a smaller older motel complete with a faded shuffleboard deck and a brand new RCA satallite disk. The summer heat has dissipated a bit as we climb back into our van. Down the road a bit, the cheerful Tropicana passes from view.

Brandon Moter Lodge

Heading West on 60 from Bartow, Jenny and I are feeling the weight of the morning. We pass through an industrial zone dotted by agrichemical and phosphate plants - harsh lights and stark buildings. A few miles out of Tampa, we spot the Brandon Motor Lodge on the right. The building is a double decker, painted a pale pink. I listen to the hum of air conditioners as long haul trucks rumble by. There are no mosquitos, thank God. The parking lot is filled with pickups, each containing full loads of heavy machinery. It will be almost sunrise before Jenny and I return home.

Clearwater Beach, another evening. Vast and impersonal hotels line the strip where police guard vigilantly against would-be cruisers. But turn off the main road, inward to the rear of the tourist fortresses, and you'll see the Sea Cove Motel. As if to mark our arrival, the breeze begins to carry a hint of rain. We step out of the van at around midnight. Teenagers in fishing caps amble by, looking suspicious at Jenny's tripod which stands atop the van. It takes us little time to recognize that this motel is an old jewel in an artificial setting. The facade of the building curves gracefully around a pool and courtyard. Littering the ground level are those ubiquitous white plastic chairs you can buy at Dollar General. The second floor walkways are guarded by a white trellis. Walking around the front of the building, where a cactus accompanies one of those thick glass paneled walls you'd find in Miami, I notice a palm tree lit by a single cherry bulb. Earl, the owner, walks out from his office. With a wide and toothy grin, he explains that the Sea Cove has been here since 1951, but that the sign has been renovated recently. All those fuses for all that neon is mighty expensive. But, compared to those plastic boxes which pass for motel signs these days, The Sea Cove offers something special. Earl talks about the tourists, mostly Canadians and Europeans and a few refugees from Orlando. He talks more about his beloved sign. And he is patient with our clumsy questions. Like the Sea Cove, Earl has been around long enough to appreciate visitors - even those who only stay for a few minutes.

Banyan Tree Motel

At one time, St. Petersburg was a prime tourist stop with its "million dollar pier" - long since replaced with an inverted pyramid structure that defies gravity. You can still rest in one of its classic motels. Behind the Banyan Tree Motel, the sunset casts long shadows across a green lake. An egret sits atop a rocky perch swooping its long bill downward in search of supper while we follow the snaking vines of the tree. Further north on 4th Street, a guy hangs out of his door at the freshly painted Holiday Motel, gripping the frame with one hand: "I am the lizard king. I can do anything." Put some Donald Fagen in the tape deck and crank up "Nightfly" as you head west toward 34th street: "Sweet music/Tonight the night is mine/Late line till the sun comes through the skylight." The Sandman, like every other motel around here it seems, is for sale.

We slip onto Alternate 19 in order to hug the coast from Clearwater to Dunedin. We are near Fort Harrison where uniformed scientologists march from building to building with peculiar purpose during the day. In the evening, however, the road appears like any other in Clearwater's aging downtown. Past the center, we drive by marinas and old-money estates and a few motels. At the Aqua Clara, we meet Felix. He worked at Citibank for 26 years before he moved to Florida and his business by the sea. After a little coaxing, he switches on his motel sign and even illuminates the purple neon stripe which lines the roof. It's not tourist season, but apparently, we'll do.

From St. Petersburg through Hudson, a dull thud of humanity struggles along this clogged artery, snaking up the Florida gulf coast. Many of the older cars in these parts sport bumper stickers which read, "Pray for Me. I Drive U.S. 19." Beyond the manicured lawns of Countryside, overpasses give way to intersections, bounded by shopping centers and restaurants. Even now, you can marvel at stone dinosaurs, a giant teepee, and the faded mermaids of Weeki Wachee. Past the thriving Greek community of Tarpon Springs, Jenny and I remark that we've slipped about 15 years backward in time. Before long, we stop at the Pines Motel and meet Bob. After noticing Jenny's efforts to frame a shot of the sign, he leaves his animated conversation with a women in a car. He walks over with a smile and faint whiff of alcohol. "You gonna write a book? Well, I'll tell ya - I've been living here for about two months. You see, I got into a fight with my sister and got thrown out." He poses for a picture and its promise of immortality.

A couple of hours into our drive, highway 19 slips back into the two-laned simplicity that marked this region before the years of suburban sprawl. In Hudson, we stop at the Star Motel with its light blue doors and red neon. The manager is glad to let us photograph her 21 year old sign which she refurbished not too long ago. We listen to the frogs croaking from a ditch lining the road and then return to our van. Beyond the Hayes Motel, with its trees filled with Spanish moss, the highway stretches into darkness. It's getting late now and Jenny wonders if we should turn back. But we hold out for just one more motel. Before long, we arrive at the Inglis Motel. The pool is closed. Most likely, this has something to do with a strange bubbling in its center. The arrow of the sign is not lit and I go looking for the manager. It turns out that he's sitting in a lounge adjoining the motel. I ask if he'll turn on the neon arrow of his sign. "That damn thing hasn't worked for years," he says.

Holiday Motel Trail Motel

In the summer of 99, we returned to Florida and drove north from Tampa towards Jacksonville along U.S. 301. In Ocala, we spot another Holiday Motel. The sign on this one bears more than just a passing resemblance to the Holiday Inn. Only a couple of cars rest in the U-shaped lot; most families are cruising the strip that cuts through central Florida, still staking out their evening plans. I sit in a metal chair next to a plastic bus tub that holds damp beach sand and buckets. Nearby is an industrial dryer that looks like it belongs on a nuclear powered aircraft carrier.

In Citra, we pull into the Orange Blossom Motel. The glory days of this site are long past, but the walls still advertise: "souvenirs, Florida baseball caps, Florida T-shirts, 3 for $10.00." Down the street at the Citra grocers, a cashier chats with a dude coughing his lungs out on Doral cigarettes. Lazy sun beams stream through brick glass windows. But be careful. This is speed trap country. Even the AAA has recently taken to warning its members about all-too-energetic law enforcement in north Florida. In Lawtey, the Trail Motel is owned by a retired cop. Marked and unmarked squad cars congregate in the arid parking lot. Here at the Trail, you can relive your western fantasies by staying at any one of the fake facade room fronts: "The buffalo Bluff," the "Tumbleweed," and the "Apache Canyon" among others.

301 loses itself for a while in Jacksonville and soon enough we head for the beach in search of a motel. Before long, we meet Jim and his Atlantic Shores: "It ain't no goddam palace but you ain't paying no goddam palace prices either." Jim's motel fights the beach monoliths with low prices, tacky owl paintings, a good reputation among PGA caddies, and attitude to spare: "We had one Canadian come in with a fur coat going, 'where's the pool?' There ain't no pool. We got the goddam Atlantic!"

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The Wigwam Village
Orlando's "largest and finest Motel!" Located inside city limits only a few blocks from Theatre and Shopping district. Thirty-one modern Tepees with accommodations for parties of 1, 2, 3 or 4 people. Modern grille, gift shop and auto service on the grounds. Ph. 2-2283.

Cocoa Cottages
On U.S. Highway No. 1, mid-way between Jacksonville and Miami, Florida. Located in the famous Indian River section of the state. MODERN AS THE BEST HOTLS. Every cottage has private bath and open fire-place.

Mt. Vernon Motor Lodges
320 Belvedere Road
West Palm Beach, Fla.
U.S. 1 - 2600 Block South
Every Room with tiled Bath, Heat, Telephone
Convenient to Beach and all activities
Phone: 2-3683
Opposite Howard Johnson's Restaurant
Recommended by Duncan Hines

Tropical Palms Court
Ft. Myers, Florida - Member: "Superior Courts United Inc."
Offers discriminating guests ultra-modern accommodations with the charm of Southern hospitality in beautiful and restful surroundings. Steam heat and private tile baths in all rooms. Located on U.S. No. 41, one mile north of Edison Bridge and Caloosahatchee River. Open all year. For accommodations, call EDISON 5-6642.

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