Super Bowl XXXIX

Gabrielle:

What do the New England Patriots, Philadelphia Eagles, 100,000 football fans and us have in common? We were all scheduled to arrive in Jacksonville, Florida earlier this week.

We knew that our extended stay in Florida would put us near Jacksonville the week of the Super Bowl. Back when the St. Louis Rams and my Pittsburgh Steelers were still in the running, this was exciting. Once they both lost their playoff games and reality set in, we started to get a little nervous.

Just how many people would be in Jacksonville? How big is this city? Coupons and discounts never apply for Special Events. The Super Bowl certainly counts as one of those. How high will the prices get? My gosh, do you think we’ll have to camp? Newspaper articles criticizing Jacksonville’s lack of accommodations and rumors that even Willie Nelson and Hank Williams, Jr. were stuck at a Days Inn did not alleviate our stress.

Why not avoid the city altogether? Four National Park sites lie in and around Jacksonville and St. Augustine. If we didn’t see them now, it would require a significant detour to get back. Like the King says, it’s now or never.

So after a harrowing hour in Daytona Beach, followed by a necessary splurge at the Hilton in Daytona, we slowly made our way to St. Augustine, hoping that Super Bowl fans hadn’t arrived yet and that they hadn’t stretched as far south as America’s oldest continually occupied city. We were in luck. God bless the Ramada.

We spent our first afternoon touring the Castillo de San Marcos and wandering around the Old Town. On the way home, we walked past the Colonial Spanish Quarter, a 2-acre living history museum offering free admission all week. We made a mental note and kept going, nearly walking past the tiny Taberna del Gallo adjoining the museum. Not only was the Tavern open and occupied by several costumed interpreters; it was functional. Beer and cider were on tap and huge bowls of peanuts were on the tables.

Come in! Come in! The bartender saw us peeking and beckoned us inside. He didn’t have to ask twice. We found a seat along one of the three wooden tables. Good thing we did. The little place started to fill. More folks in 18th century colonial costumes came in, some carrying take-out pizza. A few other tourists wandered inside. A quartet of locals from Jacksonville and St. Augustine joined us along the bench we occupied.

The Jacksonville locals filled us in – the Tavern wasn’t normally open on a Monday. The Bilge Rats, shanty singers who entertain Tavern goers every weekend, were giving a special performance. Good Morning America would be there to film this taste of St. Augustine for their pre-Super Bowl edition. They urged us to stay.

We wouldn’t think of leaving. I knew there was no place I wanted to be other than cuddling next to Michael and four strangers, huddling on a wooden bench for warmth, talking and shelling peanuts in the glow of the candles and lanterns, waiting for the boys to sing.

And sing they did, and so did we. Accompanied only by the rhythmic banging of a large wooden stick on the hard floor, a young Englishman led three older sailors in songs about sailing, leaving home, drinking yourself silly and loving your lady, in no particular order. Everyone knew the words and if they didn’t, they sang along anyway. A camera crew came and went. People stayed as long as the Bilge Rats were still singing.

There’s a reason some songs have been sung for hundreds of years. Their singing brings people together and gives a sound to camaraderie. The entire evening, Michael and I were longing for the return of the small tavern. No TVs, no huge dining rooms cluttered with kitsch, no mirrored bars stretching for miles. Just a few wooden tables with benches, not seats; a couple of drinks and one snack shared by all. Dim lighting, communal space. Could such a place exist, if not in the guise of a museum?

Our ponderings quickly took a back seat to the other conversations and sounds around us. We were formally welcomed to St. Augustine and given temporary local status, at least for the evening. And who do we have to thank for these Perfect Storm conditions? Super Bowl XXXIX.

So if you are watching Good Morning America Sunday morning before the Big Game, look for us. We’re the folks in the corner, banging on the table and trying to sing along.