Breakfast. Day One. Waffle House at dawn. Mid-Atlantic body clocks. We wanted something honest. No frills. A touch of nostalgia.
There's an unmistakable glow to a Waffle House in the darkness. Not neon — not quite. But unmissable. Yellow and black, squared against the blue hour sky.
It's been standing guard all night. Always does. Open 24 hours.
We didn't want a five-dollar latte that tastes like the one back home. Instead, bottomless coffee poured from a glass jug, in a place where the waitress calls you Hon 'And the mains come with a side of local gossip.
Early risers at the counter. Truckers with tired eyes. A family fuelling up before the parks. Grill hissing. Plates slammed. Orders barked.
Eggs over for Tri. Sunny for me. Bacon. Sausage. Waffles. Hashbrowns.
I snapped a photo of the counter. Cooks moving like clockwork. Spatulas clinking metal to metal.
One booth over, a guy in a camo hat talked gators to anyone willing to listen. Said he saw one out near Lake Kissimmee yesterday — big one, bold. That may be why he wears camouflage, I thought.
We paid up and slid back into the car, the scent of coffee and syrup still lingering. Turned onto Route 192 — Irlo Bronson Highway.
Stayed around here the first time we came, almost forty years ago. Our girls in the back seat, Mickey ears at the ready, excited chatter through the jet lag. Based at a Ramada back when this stretch of highway was a beating heart of Florida tourism. Riding high on the back of Disney, it buzzed with promise. Motels packed tight, each one pitching the same dream. Free breakfast, cable TV, pool, Ice machine. Every other building was a gift shop, a themed diner, or a dinner-show fantasy featuring knights, pirates, or Wild West heroes.
The road still gets you to where you're going, but it doesn't sell the journey quite like it used to. Back then, the highway spoke. Neon signs and hand-painted promises. Built with imagination, colour and charm.
Truth was, it was already disappearing. We didn't know. It was all new to us.
Since those early visits, we drifted away— not from Florida, never that—but from this particular patch. The last twenty-five years or more have seen a forced transition as Disney and Universal turned inward, building their own self-contained resorts, giving theme park goers less reason to venture out. The bubble grew tighter. And 192? It was left outside. Holding on. Reinventing. Remembering. Trying not to disappear.
To start this road trip, we've circled back. Kicked things off with another stay just off 192. One of the newer resorts now slowly popping up where independent businesses once stood. We're interested to see how much of the old roadside Americana remains and if I can capture it while it still stands.
Top of the list is Eli's Orange World. Still standing. Even survived a fire not long ago. A giant roadside dome full of t-shirts, postcards and citrus jams. At 60 feet tall, Eli's Orange World proudly claims the title of the "world's largest orange"—or at least the largest half-orange. The kind of place that's half joke, half relic — all charm.
On to Magic Castle Gift Shop. A colossal wizard head with outstretched arms towers over the storefront. Eyes wild. Laughing at time. Tri wandered inside. I stayed out front, trying different angles. It took me a while to realise that there are two almost identical wizards on this stretch.
The mermaid is still reaching skyward at the Mermaid Gift Shop. Looks like a new paint job, possible attempt at an Ariel makeover. A permanent siren calling the tourists.
They're still out here — oversized gift shops with painted murals, peddling Disney-ish merch where the copyright fairy looks the other way. I remember when they sold cameras, film, processing. Now it's phone cases, chargers, and selfie sticks.
We cruised 192 west, then east — all the way out to Gatorland. Didn't go in. Didn't need to. That concrete grin? That's what we came for.
Americana, caught in the morning light — before it vanishes.
Before we do.
