Yes. It is an armpit. Yes. It is in the armpit. But don’t be fooled: I love Perry, Florida! It may be a little stinky, but it is always full of surprises.
Perry is one of those places where we just happen to find ourselves every few years. It is at the crossroad of US 98 (east-west through the Florida panhandle) and US 19 (north-south to Atlanta). It is also due east of Apalachicola, one of those magical panhandle bergs that tickles both the environmentalist and the sociologist in me. It is an armpit of a town in the armpit of Florida.
The first time we drove through Perry, 8 or 9 years ago, we arrived after dark, a rarity in our travel world. We checked out a locally owned motel, saw that it was run by a Mister Patel from Gujarat India.
For those of you not in the know, “Patel” is the most common surname in Gujarat. The Patels have spread far and wide in the hospitality business, often running small, locally owned motels in off-the-beaten path destinations. We’ve stayed with Mr. Patel in Perry, Florida; West Point, Virginia; Aurora, Nebraska; Big Stone Gap, Virginia, Arnprior, Ontario; and countless other places. We have come to feel confident that if Mr. Patel owns a motel, it will be clean, relatively comfortable, and safe. If we are not certain about a place and Mr. or Mrs, Patel is behind the desk, we generally say yes.
That was the case the first time we traveled through Perry. The room was inexpensive; the bed was comfortable; the linens were clean and ample. We got just the value we bargained for. Then we woke up in the morning and looked outside. The motel parking lot surrounded a swimming pool. The pool was filled with bricks and construction debris instead of water. We cracked up. What would we have thought if we had arrived in daylight and seen the pool? Maybe we would have stayed there, but it’s doubtful.
A Mr. Patel-owned Best Host in 2015 in Perry … with the construction-debris-filled pool we discovered upon awakening.
On that trip, we ate a seafood meal at Deal’s Oyster House, about 1.5 miles west of town. The sign at the entry says, “In these doors come the finest people in the world.” The place is festooned with Christian and religious signage. The food was OK. In the middle of the meal, Zodie, the proprietor, pulled out her one-man-band pogo stick and started pounding it on the floor while “Cotton-Eyed Joe” blasted on speakers. My Inner Sociologist was wide-eyed at the whole scene. Nothing had changed the next time we went, except that we bunked at the EconoLodge instead of Mr. Patel’s place with the construction-debris-filled pool. Perry!
On this trip, we knew Perry would be a destination because it is truly the middle of nowhere. There is a Best Western about an hour west, but precious little else. Since we did not leave Gainesville until mid-afternoon, we knew just where our overnight stop would be.
It is remarkable how a County Seat at a crossroad in Florida not far from Tallahassee can be so desolate, but Perry has found a way. There are two new motels in Perry, a Hampton Inn and a Holiday Inn Express, but they were both damn near $200. We just hate spending that much for a quick overnight. There was one other possibility: The Royal Inn on Route 27, a privately-owned spot that looked neat and friendly, despite the roof damage from last August’s Hurricane Idalia that damn-near decimated Perry.
Rebecca and I have a few firm and fast rules when we road trip. The one that keeps our marriage intact is this: If one of us wants to stop … for any reason at all … we stop. Period. No questions. No whining. We have found some unbelievably cool places thanks to that one. Another one allows to sleep well at night: We will not accept a motel room until we have examined it, carefully checking the sheets, the mattress, the general cleanliness, the towels, and the condition of the bathroom. Non-negotiable. Period. Just won’t do it.
Until this trip to Perry, that is. We walked into the office of the Royal Inn and encountered an Indian gentleman at the desk. We asked to see a room. “No,” he said flatly and firmly. “What?!?,” we said, incredulously. I kindly explained that we travel a great deal and always inspect the rooms before we rent them. In return, he firmly explained that he owned the motel and maintained it himself. There was no doubt we would be pleased with the room, but we could not inspect it beforehand.
There was something endearing about the guy, but we left anyway. We checked out the EconoLodge and considered spending more than we wanted to for the Hilton or Holiday Inn. Then we looked at the pictures of the Royal Inn on the Internet. The rooms not only looked fine, they had no carpet. No carpet is a major plus for us. Carpets can be filthy and you don’t know it; when an engineered or wood floor is filthy, you know it!
So we drove back to the Royal Inn. As we did, a school bus was letting off a passenger in front of the office. A young special-needs girl disembarked, met her mother, got in their car, and drove off. That scene touched us. We do not know if Mom worked at the motel or if it is just her pick-up location. Regardless, it felt like a little instant of the world being a better place than it might otherwise have been. We decided to take the risk.
I introduced myself to the innkeeper and said we would take him at his word and take a room. He introduced himself: Mr. Vipul Patel. I should have known he was a Mr. Patel. He explained that he decided years ago not to show rooms to random travelers. He needed to know he could trust them. He was firm as a rock.
The room was spacious and comfy, with a good firm mattress, very decent pillows, a sitting table, a sofa, and a clean bathroom with towels that, while not plush, were fine at drying. It was far enough from the highway to be quiet. It had no smell. And it cost less than half of the Hampton Inn or Holiday Inn.
Mr. Patel filled my ear with his thoughts. Imagining that someone might have pulled a gun on him at some point, I asked if he established his room-viewing policy because something bad had happened. “No,” he said. He just knew it was the right thing to do. God only gave us this one life, he explained. It is up to us to do what is right with it. We cannot afford to make stupid mistakes. That is that, and he doesn’t waver. Rebecca and I had a fine stay. Sadly, though, we could not enjoy Deal’s Oyster House or Zodie’s pogo stick. They’re closed on Monday. We did, however, have a very decent Mexican meal at Casa Grande just north of town. All-in-all, a just-as-expected evening in the armpit of the armpit. See you next time, Perry.
The place looked clean enough, so we gave it a shot.
The room was spacious and clean … and every place in Perry showed damage from Hurricane Idalia.
Thank you, Mr. Patel. It’s not every hotel room that provides a Gideon Bible AND a Bhagavad Gita!
Deal’s Oyster House: Zodie playing her pogo stick in 1993 and again 2015. (Check out a Youtube of it. They are hilarious!)
myinnersociologist 