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Illustration by Erick M. Ramos
The weather was great during our Florida vacation.
We didn’t achieve Snowbird status, as we only went down for a month. But we did see the baked and basted Canadians who spend the whole winter there, and they are a different breed of visitor. They have done it all, know all the secrets and apparently are happy to never see snow again, even if this achievement prompts abandoning Canadian share-alike sensibility by towel-squatting their preferred pool deck loungers at daybreak! My wife and I drove down and rented a resort condo. Family members flew in later for a whirlwind few days at the big destination theme parks and attractions.
One peculiarity that we noticed while setting up our trip was the universally declared attribute of all condo rentals to be just 15 minutes away from a Disney theme park. It’s possible that this claim might be true at 3 a.m., when a run at 80 mph , catching all the lights, might get a visitor to within sight of the park’s glow in the sky in 15 minutes, with hope that state troopers and local law enforcement are all busy enforcing other statutes. In reality, nothing could be further from the truth.
For our family’s run to the mouse’s gates at 8 a.m., we needed 45 minutes through many backed-up stoplights and one toll booth. Fortunately, I have a daughter who is a much better planner and checker of facts than I am. She was well aware of all the traffic challenges as they are all documented on the social media posts of other wounded and weary park visitors. She ensured ample driving time was calculated in.
Interestingly, Florida’s complicated network of toll highways includes a wide variety of fare-collecting options. The Snowbirds get a seasonal electronic pass. But as one-time visitors we figured we could just drive through the “cash” lane, have a nice conversation with a local, pay for our occasional passage and be on our way. For all but one of our turnpike trips, this method worked fine. One fateful early morning, it didn’t.
We rolled up to the green-light booth, in a hurry of course, and there was no one there.
For those prepared with exact fare in U.S. coins, a collection basket was available. But for my preferred payment of tap credit card or paper money, there was no solution. Posted signs warned of the consequences of toll-avoidance. Severe fines first; many years in prison later, presumably.
With careful observation we discovered a lawful option was available. There was a little pocket of envelopes provided so that the unprepared could just send in the necessary toll funds. The instructions directed us to get a money order and mail in the US$1 fee.
As a line of presumably panicky drivers was quickly forming behind us, we could see no other option. We grabbed an envelope with good intent, assuming that we were being photographed and our plate recorded. We blasted through the gate.
The back of the envelope instructions advised that we had 10 days to comply. That meant our solution had to be local. The fine print acknowledged that a simple cheque could be provided. Cash was not allowed. I calculated that this option could work. We have a U.S.-dollar bank account and I had cheques with me. Unfortunately, they were for the wrong account. But a cheque is just directions written on paper, right? Mansions have traded hands for cheques written on napkins. The cheques were from the right bank and everything else was the same. I figured we could just cross out one account number and add the other one. We were good to go.
Since the envelope wasn’t postage-paid, we needed to find a post office to buy one stamp. We found a postal service depot apparently located only 15 minutes away, according to Google maps. Forty-Five minutes later, the friendly clerk sold me a 68-cent stamp, took the envelope and we were off the hook, I thought.
A few days after returning home to Ontario, I received an e-mail from a clerk at the Florida Department of Transportation – Turnpike Division. How they got my e-mail remains a mystery, but as I said, we were presumably recorded crossing the line; they had our vehicle plate number and well, their offices are probably just around the corner from the Florida branch of the Central Intelligence Agency – Foreign Offender Division. The courteous e-mail advised that the altered cheque wouldn’t do and besides, I had forgotten to date it. Guess I was out of practice.
The note went on: Would I please replace the cheque with one that could be cashed in Florida, or as an option, just send in a dollar bill?
What? I suspect that this wasn’t the first time they had seen this movie. Bad Canadian cheques that bounce like a theme park fun house. But, why wasn’t cash offered as an option in the first place? Better than that, why was Florida stuck using 19th-century banking technology?
I replied to the e-mail, asking politely, if they might have an electronic portal for the transaction or, perhaps, whether they might consider that we had all wasted enough time for a $1 fee. Could it be waived this one time? No: to both questions.
The dilemma gets better or maybe worse. All of the adult travellers in my group have only U.S. 10- and 20-dollar bills left over. No one is holding a single. To be honest, I don’t think that we ever used cash except at the toll station. Complying as requested could take a trip to the bank to get a U.S. dollar bill and it would take about $2 in postage to get it down to the FDOT.
I considered whether I should go on the lam and just commit never to travel to Florida again. It’s a definite possibility. But I know that you can’t hide from the law. And isn’t there a TV series called NCIT – Non-Collected Incidents of Toll – that specializes in dramatic toll-avoider apprehension? Must be, somewhere down the dial. I have no interest in a guest appearance.
Fortunately, most of our bags and, in particular, the grandkids’ backpacks aren’t fully unpacked yet. I’m hoping that down among the candy wrappers and cheapo souvenir trinkets, I’ll find a not-too-sticky or not-too-damp US$1 bill that will do the trick.
Ross Peacock lives in Woodbridge, Ont.