Arriving in the middle of a heat wave

It seems wrong to be running the air conditioner in January.

I come from a long line of women who refuse to turn on the air conditioning unless the children are spontaneously combusting, and then 80 degrees is the lowest thermostat setting allowable. If an outside door stays open for longer than 1.5 seconds, the women in my family yell, "Are you trying to air-condition the entire neighborhood?"

But here we are in our new apartment in St. Petersburg, Fla., my sinuses being attacked by a new allergy not even found in Southeast Missouri and impervious to Allegra-D. Sniffling and hacking, I broke down and turned on the air conditioning Sunday, carefully setting the thermostat at 80 and swearing that I'd turn it off the minute the outside temperature dropped below that.

Of course, Central Florida's January heat wave would strike the week we arrived. The drive down here was trouble-free. Our little two-car convoy made the trip in 16 hours. The ride was quiet thanks to some kitty dope obtained from our veterinarian.

The Other Half didn't want to drug the cat. Of course, Maggie -- who hates her crate and the car and loudly objects to both -- wasn't traveling with him.

"I just feel sorry for her," Mr. Half said.

Feel sorry? I wish someone had doped me and put me in a cage for the trip here. What could be easier? Unlike the cat, who awoke in St. Petersburg with no responsibilities, The Other Half and I had to unpack our lives, fitting 1,200 square feet worth of stuff into 980 square feet of apartment.

It took me five hours just to figure out how to cram everything into the kitchen, and I'm not exactly a gourmet chef. I do, however, have a George Foreman Grill and a vegetable steamer -- both gifts, of course.

Meanwhile, The Other Half was busy organizing our DVDs. Not that organizing DVDs isn't as valuable a task as unpacking a kitchen, but I wasn't using my powers of reason while standing in the office doorway, sweat dripping from my brow, watching a cool and comfortable Mr. Half pause from arranging "Ferris Bueller" before "Leviathan," turn my way and say, "What?"

It was scary coming to the city after more than three wonderful years in Cape Girardeau, "The Nicest City on Earth." (Has the Convention and Visitors Bureau adopted that yet?) But things are going well so far. We met our nearest neighbors, who didn't run even though I'd been unpacking for two days, my hair was pulled back in a headband and I could smell my own armpits.

There's a Starbucks with five minutes, which is important to us. We only like to drink coffee if it's in paper cups and costs $3.50.

And the people seem very friendly. I witnessed the following exchange while standing in line at a local supermarket:

Cashier (looking over purchases): "Making spaghetti tonight?"

Customer: "Yes. It's about all I can handle."

Cashier: "I'm making homemade chicken soup."

Customer: "I wish I could, but it seems like a lot of work."

Cashier: "It's the easiest thing in the world. Come through my line the next time you're in, and I'll give you the recipe."

I was wondering if the tourism department had seen my out-of-state license plates and planted this conversation in front of me. In Fort Lauderdale, where I lived for a year -- the same conversation would have ended in gunplay.

So here I am, ready to start work and feeling a little homesick. Wish me luck.

Heidi Hall is the former managing editor of the Southeast Missourian who now lives in St. Petersburg, Fla.