Paradise is still here

© Simon Poulter 2016

It's not uncommon, evidently, for people to move house and then immediately go on holiday. Moving - no matter from what to what, from wherever to wherever - is one of life's great stressful events (although just outside the Holmes & Rahe Top 10, which has the death of a spouse at No.1 followed by divorce, imprisonment, death of a relative, marriage, getting fired and retirement). In my case, it's been the stress of finding somewhere to live in London that I can a) afford and b) accommodate all that I have acquired over 17 years in a variety of homes of different sizes in different countries.

Progressively downsizing has been a healthy, liberating experience, as long as I don't stop to calculate the money represented by all the stuff having to be thrown away, though some decisions - yes, you, the ten shot glasses never used - are easier than others. The stress of moving, in my case, has been compounded by the time it has taken for all the admin to go through. As I've relocated to London for my job, there are so many processes to be taken care of with the movers, landlords at both ends, cutting off broadband suppliers and finding new ones, and then the actual act of watching one's goods and chattels getting packed up and then appearing on the other side.

Moving is an act of faith, but not so much through the fear of things getting damaged or not turning up at all, but from combatting an utter sense of hopelessness as 200-plus boxes turn up and you have to figure out what they contain. Pre-printed labels such as "Master Bathroom" (clearly this agency is used to moving those who can designate more than one bathroom with grandeur) but also "Clothes" in handwritten scrawl aren't exactly the guide you expect, especially when boxes thus marked contain neither anything for a bathroom or, indeed, clothes, and you must decipher labels such as "schooews", which is so very much neither "shoes" or "chausseurs".

To rid myself immediately of sky-rocketing blood pressure I am finally taking my 'summer' holiday. Yes, I'm well aware that it is autumn, but this is just the way it looked back in April when I didn't have a move date at all. Of course what I couldn't predict is that this would also be the week immediately after a Category 5 hurricane barrelled through the Caribbean and Atlantic coast, causing hundreds of deaths in Haiti and untold damage to Cuba and the Bahamas, and giving the US states of Florida, Georgia and the Carolinas a major case of the heebeegeebees. And guess where I've gone? Yep, Key Largo, Florida, the thin sliver of land - made famous by Humphrey Bogart and the Beach Boys - in the chain of islands stretching down to Key West, the southernmost tip of the contiguous United States.

Down here, the rich have their holiday homes, and from the air, expensive yachts appear like white paving stones hugging every available piece of land. It's all in stark contrast to the shanty villages of Haiti now dealing with the bloated corpses and outbreaks of cholera Matthew left in its wake. It's sobering to think that when a hurricane hits the United States the insurance assessors are there within hours of the ordeal being over, cheques are written and life moves on. God only knows what life must be like for those living on an island just two hours' flying time south of where I'm sitting writing this. Getting stressed about removal boxes is one thing, having the roof of your tin shack blown off by 160mph wins is something else entirely.

Matthew's threat to the southeastern US hasn't entirely subsided, though having performed a loop that began at it its point of origin off the African coast, and has taken it back out into the Atlantic again, it would appear to be losing strength. Just as well, as I could do with some actual rest and relaxation this week, not cowering in the bathtub with a torch and a portable radio. Florida is certainly both exceedingly warm (which is pleasant) and slightly blowy (nice, but don't get any blowier). The sun is out and that will do me nicely as, like a faded, Botox-addicted screen star, I try to stave off the onset of the winter months by just a few days in tropical climes.

Speaking of hot and windy, I arrived in the US just in time for last night's presidential debate. One can only hope that Hurricane Donald will, too, run out of energy and head out to sea to be downgraded from absolute nightmare to "bullet-dodged". The revelation going into the debate that Trump had been shown on video demonstrating acutely a misogyny many had suspected him of for a long time (and there's more vide to come, so I hear), was simply further evidence that this great land I'm in would be beyond insane to elect as leader of the free world and the world's largest economy, a near-caricature of a loudmouth shock jock, replete with sexist and racist tendencies, amongst a longer litany of offences. Trust me, I have my doubts about Hillary Clinton, too, but she's certainly not the lesser of two evils. There's only one of those in this equation.

I've probably spent more holiday time in the United States than anywhere else. Some people like Thailand, others a beach in Spain. For me, the US has been my go-to destination (it actually hurts my head to be more adventurous). It's there for you and there's no effort involved, which is exactly what a holiday should be about. I've only been coming to Florida for a relatively short time - 2011 was my first visit - as I'd previously been put off by being one great theme park full of British tourists. But in the four trips I've done since, I've found Florida to be a wonderful state just to switch off in - the Keys in particular - to enjoy the sound of the sea, the laid-back Caribbean vibe, and enjoy a culture infused with so much of the delicious cocktail that makes the States so united. I just hope America makes the right decision in a month's time, and doesn't make a choice that would keep me away from this country on principle for the next four years.