It's not magic. It's Florida, man
A visit to The Wizarding World Of Harry Potter brings me face-to-face with a legendary internet meme
I have a confession. I’ve never read the Harry Potter books. I haven’t seen the movies, either. If you want to stop reading right now, unsubscribe from Situation Normal, and publicly shame me, I will understand.
Eight or nine years ago, I confessed my ignorance of all things Harry Potter to my Potterhead in-laws. At first, they contemplated kicking me out of the family, but instead decided to let me atone for my sins with a trip to The Wizarding World Of Harry Potter at Universal Studios in Orlando, Florida. After a day of butterbeer, dragons, and something called the Hogwarts Express, I found myself waiting in a really long line to enter a magic wand shop.
“One hour,” I groaned. “This is one hell of a line for a souvenir shop. You’d think they’d want to get you in as quickly as possible so that they can, you know, make sales.”
“It’s not just any souvenir shop,” my mother-in-law said, “it’s a magic wand store.”
“Right. But these magic wands are just wooden sticks. So what’s the hold up?”
My wife frowned.
“Honey, this is a magical place, and you don’t mess with magic,” Christina said. “You can’t just go in there and grab any wand. It’s a personalized experience. First, they have to find out what kind of wizard you are, then they help you select a wand.”
“Technically, the wand chooses the wizard,” my mother-in-law added.
“What if the most expensive wand chooses me?” I asked. “Like, suppose I’ve got a beer budget, but a champagne wand has its eye on me?”
“I think all the wands are the same price,” Christina said.
I wasn’t convinced. I know a ripoff when I see one.
“I’m sure there’s an up-sell. Organic wand cleaner. Extended wand warranty. Wand insurance in case any of your ‘magic’ spells go awry. The only magic here is a really dark spell that robs us of our common sense. This wand store is operated by a soulless media company looking to extract a few more cents per share by exploiting fandom and selling people sticks with a magic markup.”
For a time, I grumbled about consumerism run amok, but my in-laws had the good sense to ignore me. My wife knew better too. Eventually, she sent my grumpy-ass packing.
“Why don’t you go walk around and explore,” she said. “Experience a sense of wonder.”
“A sense of wonder?”
“Do some people watching. You love that.”
That was true. I love people watching, especially in Florida, where there are more people worth watching, per capita, than anywhere else on Earth. I’ve made dozens of trips to the Sunshine State, and every single one reignites my passion for chronicling Floridians in their natural habitat. The scout master eating boneless chicken wings with his family at Hooters. The queer libertarians talking politics and time travel at the kava bar. The white supremacist eating an everything bagel. I celebrate each of these Floridan watching experiences. They are chef’s kiss!
But I didn’t see any Floridians worth watching on my walk around The Wizarding World Of Harry Potter. Maybe there were too may tourists. In my experience, you need a critical mass of Floridians, otherwise you might as well be in Ohio. There’s nothing wrong with Ohio, as far as it goes. I’m sure the Buckeye State is lovely. But lovely isn’t going to give the people watchers what they want. We want Florida Man—a genre popularized by actual Floridians who excel at leveraging odd behavior and questionable life choices into internet notoriety. I’m sure Ohio Man can get into some shit, but I’ve never seen him go viral.
Universal Studios, like many of the attractions in Orlando, just doesn’t have enough Floridians per square foot for my kind of amusement park. But The Wizarding World Of Harry Potter did have a candy store called Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, where I picked up some jelly beans and brought them back to share with my in-laws.
“You got Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans,” my mother-in-law said. “Did you notice the names?”
I had noticed the names. They were… unappealing. But I figured the gross names were just silly little nothings that had something to do with the Harry Potter books and our collective mania for branding. Here’s a list of some flavors I picked.
Dirt
Soap
Earthworm
Vomit
Earwax
Grass
Rotten egg
Booger
“Have you tried them?” my mother-in-law asked.
“Not yet. You guys want some?”
Everyone declined. I should’ve noticed that they were giggling. Maybe if I had noticed I would’ve asked what was so funny. Instead, I learned about Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans the hard way.
“These taste fucking awful,” I said.
I wasn’t exaggerating. Through the magic of food science, they had managed to make jelly beans taste like dirt, soap, and boogers.
“Is this place run by sadists?”
“You’re supposed to read the labels,” my mother-in-law said. “If it says earwax, it tastes like earwax.”
“I thought those names were jokes. How is anyone supposed to know that these monsters are selling jelly beans that taste awful on purpose?”
“People who read the books know about the jelly beans,” Christina said.
“This is madness. You guys are waiting in line to buy a freaking stick for like, fifty bucks, and I literally paid good money to eat something that tastes like a fart. J.K. Rowling is a menace.”
I looked at the bag of jelly beans in my hand, then glanced at a nearby garbage bin.
“Does anyone want these?” I asked.
Everyone laughed.
“Seriously, I’m going to throw them out, unless someone wants them.”
Everyone continued laughing. But a man behind me in line spoke up.
“I’ll take them off your hands,” the stranger said.
I turned around to see what sort of person would volunteer to eat these awful jelly beans. The volunteer was a slender blonde dude, dressed in cutoff jeans, a red polo shirt, and a puka shell necklace. He looked to be in his early twenties. His girlfriend, also blonde, and also wearing cutoff jeans, hung on the stranger’s arm. She looked to be in her late teens.
“Are you sure?” I said. “These jelly beans really do taste like farts.”
“That’s cool,” he said.
Cool? I didn’t see it that way at all. But the stranger seemed sincere. And I had given him more of a warning about the foul-tasting jelly beans than anyone had given me.
“Here you go.”
The stranger took the bag of jelly beans from my hand and tossed a few into his mouth. I studied his face for a reaction, but the taste of rotten eggs, dirt, and vomit didn’t seem to bother him. He tossed a few more jelly beans into his mouth, then a few more.
“You come here often?” the stranger asked.
“First time at this Harry Potter thing,” I said. “I’ve been to Universal before.”
“You’re from Orlando?”
The stranger ate a few more jelly beans.
“My wife’s family is from Clearwater,” I said. “We’re here visiting from Los Angeles.”
“That’s great,” he said. “It’s nice to visit family.”
We both agreed that visiting family is nice. We also agreed about the weather (too hot) and the line for the wand store (ridiculously long).
“Where are you guys staying?” the stranger asked.
“It’s about a ninety minute trip from Clearwater, so we’re not staying the night.”
“That’s too bad,” the stranger said. “The more time you spend driving, the less time you get to spend with the family.”
That was true, but I didn’t mind the drive along I-4. Actually, I love that drive because if you catch them in the right order, the billboards for plastic surgeons and medical malpractice lawyers tell a cautionary tale about vanity and grift in the Sunshine State.
“The drive is fun and easy,” I said.
The stranger ate some more jelly beans, then offered the bag to his girlfriend, who had the good sense to decline.
“You should really think about staying in Orlando next time,” he said.
“Maybe. But a hotel is going to eat into my wand budget.”
The stranger didn’t laugh.
“Have you ever thought about getting a timeshare?”
Timeshare? Was the stranger kidding? The only people who preach the gospel of timeshares are timeshare salespeople.
“How many people in your family?” the stranger asked. “Doesn’t matter if it’s just you and your wife, or a dozen family members, a timeshare is a great option. It’s luxury at an affordable price.”
The stranger finished the jelly beans, handed the empty bag to his girlfriend, and extended his hand. He wasn’t just some dude with questionable taste buds and an affinity for puka shell necklaces. He was a silver-tongued timeshare salesman, and evidently his territory was The Wizarding World Of Harry Potter at Universal Studios. In my book, that made him a bona fide Florida Man!
“I sell timeshares,” Florida Man said. “Give me a few minutes, and I can make this trip, and every future trip, a special experience for you and your family.”
I told Florida Man I wasn’t interested in a timeshare, but it didn’t matter. He was used to pitching captive audiences. Florida Man talked about timeshare amenities like swimming pools and golf courses, the value of flexible travel plans, the quality of the accommodations, and the savings—the unbelievable savings!—of the timeshare model.
Time and again, Florida Man made his case, but I stayed strong. I told him amenities like golf courses were lost on me due to a “legal entanglement” I couldn’t get into without violating a judicial gag order, that my in-laws let us stay in their spare mansion, and that we couldn’t possibly buy a timeshare because we sunk all of our money into a bat guano mine on Quita Sueño Island. To his credit, Florida Man rolled with my lies. He was a pro. But eventually, we reached the front of the line. It was time for Florida Man to close me.
“What do you say?” Florida Man asked. “I’ve got the paperwork in my car. Want to come with me and get the ball rolling on your timeshare?”
I looked back at the entrance to the wand store. The place was a ripoff, but at least they were up front about what they were selling. Plus, they had air conditioning. Florida Man’s offer was a different story. Usually, you get a gift like a free dinner or a spa treatment for listening to a timeshare pitch. Once, while attending a wedding in Aruba, I sat through a timeshare presentation for casino chips. Florida Man didn’t offer any gifts, and he didn’t say if his car was air conditioned. But above all, I just didn’t trust him. I’m skeptical of the timeshare industry, and I have a strict policy never to give a Florida Man my credit card, but the root of my distrust was the jelly beans. Florida Man had eaten the entire bag! Either he lied about enjoying those dreadful jelly beans (diabolical in my book), or he actually liked them (deeply troubling).
“I’m going to pass,” I said. “But I appreciate the hustle.”
“He’s a hustler,” Florida Man’s girlfriend beamed.
No truer words were ever spoken about Florida Man. I entered the wand shop. Florida Man left the line in search a new mark, and hopefully, some butterbeer to wash away the foul-tasting jelly beans.
“What did that guy want?” Christina asked.
“He tried to sell me a timeshare.”
“Seriously!? You’re like a weirdo magnet, or something. I swear it must be magic.”
“It’s not magic. It’s Florida, man.”
This story was inspired by a Tweet from my friend, Tamara Lush, who covered Florida for the Associated Press before becoming a kickass mystery and romance novelist. Check out all the amazing stories she writes here. And here’s Tamara’s Tweet—another Florida Man original 👇
Can’t help but comment on your take on Harry Potter. My four kids blew through those books when they were 8-14 or so. And about 5 years ago I decided I should have read them. I had usually made a point of reading whatever my kids were into. I think I picked that up from my mother who taught high school English and did that with her students for 43 years as a matter principle. It was a great way to stay up with the kids and the books were almost always really really good. But somehow I’d skipped Harry Potter. So, I spent January of 2014 mowing them down. They were incredible. I love plain old good writing, love experiencing the wonder of the craft itself (hence, my enjoyment of you posts). And Rowling’s writing was delicious, as good as I’ve ever experienced. And her style got more and more sophisticated and interesting as the series progressed and her audience aged. Now I’ve read all her Cormorant Strike books, and again the writing (so different) is just excellent. So I’d suggest at some point you break do and give the Potter books a go. They start off really a kid’s level, but that a joy in itself. But they grow. It’s almost magical.
I had the exact same thought your wife did. How is it that you encounter so many… (I grasp for a different term but can’t come up with one)… weirdos? If you were someone else, I would say, maybe it’s best you don’t leave the house, but it seems like a lot of your encounters are close to home. Does this stuff happen to you every day?
I have to say, though, Florida man with the puka necklace sounds like an especially diabolical type. It was probably a good thing that you didn’t sign a contract with him. 😈