In the Broadway show Pajama
Game, there was a song called,
“Steam Heat.” I heard it the
other day, and I immediately
thought of a conversation I
recently had with a friend up
North. I suggested that he might
want to consider a move to Florida.
He should have started singing
that Broadway tune, because all
he talked about was how hot it
is in Florida, and how there is no
way he could stand the heat. A
lot of my friends talk about Florida even
though they have never lived here.
I moved to Florida from a fifth floor
walk-up two blocks from where I
worked at Rockefeller Center in New
York City. (It was a good deal because
the landlords did not charge us extra for
the roaches.) When I arrived in Tampa,
I wondered why I hadn’t learned about
Florida sooner. At that point, I was not
concerned with the heat or anything else.
It was sunny and beautiful, and I knew
it would stay that way most of the year.
And that thought has never faded, even
as I am now in my fifth decade here.
I still find it amazing that those who
live in the North have such selective
memory when it comes to heat. Before
moving to midtown Manhattan, I
144 TAMPA BAY MAGAZINE
COMMAERNTTARY
How Hot
Is It?
commuted from North New Jersey to the
city. I never thought much about it. I was
doing what everyone else was doing.
That meant bearing up under the heat in
my three-piece suit. I would ride a bus
to 185th Street and then get on an “A”
train that was headed downtown. On a
nice summer day, I figure it was probably
close to 110 degrees in the subway. I stood
tall, sweating through my clothes trying
to look cool. Unfortunately, in reality, I
was anything but “cool.”
After I had moved to Florida to attend
college, I learned why people live here.
Christmas break was approaching, and
I was headed back to New Jersey, but it
was still warm here. I had planned to go
back and show off my tan, even though
I hadn’t gotten one yet. In the one day I
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laid out, I got more red than tan,
but it didn’t matter to me as I knew
I looked like I lived in Florida.
My roommate drove me to the
airport in 85-degree weather with
the top down. However, when I
arrived at LaGuardia Airport in
my lightweight suit, I think I set
the record for fastest run from
the plane to the terminal. I had to
go down the steps and across the
tarmac. It was 19 degrees and my
sunburn and lightweight suit were
covering my goosebumps.
I recall that day whenever I think it is
hot. I even recall many days in New York
when the temperature hovered around
the 100-degree mark with more heat
coming up off the asphalt.
Yes, it is hot in Florida, but we can
dress for it. As we Floridians all know,
usually around 1:30 in the afternoon, the
air starts moving off the Gulf and it never
gets near the 100 degrees of a New York
subway station.
This is the time of year things start to
cool off up North, so if we want we can
fly north and watch the leaves change
or whatever you think you are missing.
But if the snow starts to fall, we just head
home to defrost in our garden of Eden
called Florida. 9
By Dick Crippen
Dick Crippen