Even the Boring Things

Last week, I shared how the Florida magic hasn't faded for me, even after six and a half years of living here. I’m still captivated by the sunrises, the Castillo, and even that heavy, humid air that makes you feel like the atmosphere is actually alive. But lately, I’ve found myself looking past the postcards to spend more time with the parts of St. Augustine that most people simply walk over.

I’ve spent hours wandering downtown and strolling the beach with no real agenda, collecting observations rather than just miles. I wasn't hunting for dolphins or trying to time the perfect sunset silhouette. Instead, I was looking for the tiny, gritty details that usually get ignored—the rough texture of ancient stone, the softened edges of cobblestone bricks, and the way shells are pressed so tightly into the coquina walls. I even found beauty in the way a faded, crooked sign hung against the sky.

At one point, a tourist actually stopped and asked me why I was "wasting time" taking pictures of bricks. It made me smile, because to me, it didn't feel like a waste at all. If anything, it felt like I was finally curating a view of the city for what it really is.

There is something incredibly grounding about giving your attention to the things others dismiss. For instance, there’s an old cannon sitting quietly near the corner of Williams and San Marco Avenue. It isn't part of a grand entrance or a famous exhibit; it’s just tucked away near a sign pointing toward the Fountain of Youth. Thousands of people pass it every day on their way to something "better," but I decided to stop.

I didn't stop because it was famous or grand. I stopped because of the way the rust has mapped out its history and the way the light hits its weathered surface. It exists there, layered with time, whether anyone pauses to acknowledge it or not. I've started to realize that when you bring enough of these quiet relics together, they start to tell a much larger story—one that I’m looking forward to framing and sharing as the days get longer and we head toward the summer.

The longer I live here, the more I find myself drawn to the nuance rather than the spectacle. I’d rather find the story in a cracked curb than stand in line for a famous view. To me, the magic of this place isn’t just in the landmarks. It’s in the texture of the everyday—and that texture only reveals itself if you’re willing to slow down long enough to see it. It turns out that when you really look, nothing is truly boring. I think that by the time June rolls around, I’ll have a lot more to show you about why these "boring" things matter so much.