10 Things Northerners Say Their First Week in Florida That Give Them Away

Think a fresh tan and a pair of flip-flops make you blend in?

They don’t.

These are the phrases that mark a once-northerner in Florida in week one.

1. What’s a Lanai?

A newcomer stands on a screened back porch and calls it a patio.

Wrong word.

Down here, that screened space off the back of the house is a lanai, and everyone from the roofer to the realtor uses the word without blinking.

Ask “what’s a lanai?” at a showing, and the agent already knows your last address kept a snow shovel in the garage.

The screen keeps out the no-see-ums and the love bugs, so the lanai does most of the living from March on.

The bigger version with a pool tucked under it earns its own name, the pool cage.

Patio, porch, veranda, none of those land the same.

It’s a lanai.

2. Let’s Hit the Beach After Lunch

A transplant in Orlando suggests a beach run right after lunch, like the coast sits ten minutes down the road.

It doesn’t.

From the middle of the state, the closest sand is over an hour out, past a long stretch of the Beachline and a toll plaza or two.

New Smyrna Beach runs about 56 miles from downtown Orlando, and Cocoa Beach sits a touch farther.

So the “quick” beach trip eats half a tank of gas and most of the afternoon.

Locals pack their car the night before and leave by seven.

Not a whim.

3. I’ll Cancel My Plans Because of the Rain

A newcomer watches a black cloud roll in around three and decides the afternoon plans they had are a no-go.

Bad read.

Florida’s afternoon storm shows up almost daily from June into September, and it brings thunder that rattles the windows.

You can nearly set a watch by the three o’clock thunderstorm along the I-4 corridor between Tampa and Orlando.

No state records more lightning deaths, so, yes, locals clear the pool and the beach the second the sky turns.

However, the storms are often quick, and they can go back out to the pool and beach after waiting it out.

4. Is That a Crocodile?

A transplant spots something long and dark in a retention pond behind the Target and calls it a crocodile.

Close, but no.

That’s an alligator, and Florida has an estimated 1.3 million of them across all 67 counties.

Crocodiles do live here, but they stick to the saltwater down around the Keys and Biscayne Bay. South Florida is the only place on earth where the two share a neighborhood.

Locals give any pond a wide berth and keep the dog on a short leash.

Every pond counts.

5. I’ll Take a Grinder

A newcomer steps up to the Publix deli and orders a grinder, or maybe a hoagie.

Blank stare.

In Florida, that sandwich is a sub, and the local favorite is the Chicken Tender Pub Sub.

Order a grinder, and the worker behind the counter figures it out. But everyone in line already heard New England in that word.

Some transplants hold out for years before they cave and say Pub Sub.

Then they’re one of us.

6. Which Way to Kissimmee?

A newcomer asks for directions to "KISS-a-mee" and points at the map.

It's kih-SIM-ee.

The stress lands on the middle, and saying it the tourist way is the fastest route to outing yourself south of the state line.

Micanopy trips up even more people, since the little town near Gainesville sounds like mick-uh-NOPE-ee, not anything with "canopy" in it.

Mangle these names, and the cashier at the Wawa clocks you as a non-Floridian before your receipt prints.

Locals learned city pronunciations in grade school.

Practice pays.

7. It's So Humid Out

A transplant walks outside in July, gasps, and announces that it's so humid, as if the locals hadn't noticed.

They noticed.

The air sits thick from Memorial Day to Halloween, and your shirt sticks to your back between the car and the front door.

Newcomers narrate the swamp air every single morning for about three weeks.

Then the first AC bill arrives, and the commentary stops.

Locals carry a spare shirt and keep moving.

8. Let's Swim in the Ocean

A newcomer on the West Coast wades into the warm water off Clearwater and calls it the ocean.

Not the ocean.

That's the Gulf, and anyone raised around Tampa Bay will correct you on reflex.

The water on the Gulf side runs calmer and warmer than the Atlantic chop over on the A1A side, and the sand shows up sugar-white instead of tan.

Mix up the two coasts, and you've flagged yourself as fresh off I-75.

Locals will tell you sunset belongs to the Gulf side, sunrise to the Atlantic.

Gulf, not ocean.

9. The Keys Are Right There

A transplant glances at a map and figures the Keys are a short hop, an easy day trip from anywhere.

Think again.

The state runs a long way from the Georgia line down to the reef, and the drive from Jacksonville to Key West eats close to nine hours behind the wheel.

US-1 through the islands crawls, one lane each way, past every roadside conch shack and pelican.

Locals block out a whole weekend for the Keys, never a Tuesday afternoon.

10. What Are These Bugs?

A newcomer pulls into the driveway and asks why their front bumper is coated in smashed bugs.

Love bugs.

They swarm in pairs twice a year, once around May and again in September, and they splatter across every windshield on I-95.