Yeah, I should have posted this last night, but by the time we were done fighting traffic after the big fireworks show, the wife and I were fighting too and the holiday seemed spent.
Anyway, we had a great seat for the pyrotechnics: the balcony of a friend’s apartment on the 22nd floor, overlooking the St. John’s River. I’d have to say it’s the only time I’ve looked down on a fireworks show. You get the full effect that way. And there’s something to be said for ooh-ing and aah-ing high above the riffraff.
Of course, eventually the show ends and you have to rejoin the riffraff to get to your car, which is parked several blocks away because apparently even the riffraff have brains enough to claim the best parking spots well in advance of the actual show. Unlike yours truly. Once in the car, it is necessary to creep here and there in an epic traffic jam in which all of the normal routes home are seemingly denied. Counting the time getting there, and getting back, we spent quite a bit more time in the car than we did watching the fireworks. But that’s how we do things in America, isn’t it? It’s not the destination, it’s the journey.