The male clerk behind the counter has been watching me with suspicion from his post. "It's for protection," he explains. I'm almost certain he then thinks to himself: Why is that white guy in here?

I read the directions on the can: "Shake well ... Aim upward and spray all areas of your surroundings. ... Let us pray. Make the sign of the Cross."

"Haley!" I say to my daughter. "Come look at this." But she hears nothing. My 12-year-old cannot tear herself away from the life-size mannequin of Saint Lazarus, half-naked, draped in a robe and dotted with bloody, realistic lesions of leprosy. At his feet sits an offering: a smattering of lit candles and pile of decaying fruit-watermelon, oranges, strawberries-that is beyond flies.

The clerk at Botanica El Sol is now at my side. "If you're looking for protection, maybe you'd like one of these mojo kits. ... Here." He hands me a tiny plastic bag filled with fetishes: A gold cross, a head of wheat dyed green, and two large seeds that look like painted stones.

Before leaving, we consider the small bottles of potions titled, "Do as I say" and "Shut up!" We finally decide on the mojo kit, the Caridad del Cobre Spray and a similarly sized can of something called Aerosol de Amor, which shows a black-and-white line drawing of a man and woman passionately mashing.

As the young man totals our purchases on the register, I inquire about the dark-skinned mannequin who appears to be sitting on the floor behind the counter like some aged, eccentric uncle.

"A Haitian saint," he explains.

Of course it is, I say to myself. I am, after all, on Palm Beach Boulevard. The eastern gateway to Fort Myers-hence, the name to the city it leads to-this long, straight thoroughfare lined by royal palms has evolved into a Latino-Caribbean stew with Mexico as the meat bone and Haiti, Puerto Rico and Cuba as the secondary vegetables. As has been true in Miami for decades, it is possible to park your car anywhere on this commercial Lee County street, now populated by used-car lots and taquerias and beauty salons and pawn shops, and not hear one conversation in English. No spot on the Gulfshore better illustrates both this region's fading Florida-Cracker past and its vibrant Latino future. Robin's Restaurant advertises sweet tea just a mile from the El Mexicano II Auto Repair.

We drive down the boulevard and pass immaculate, low-riding cars that hug the asphalt like turtles, painted orange and candy-apple red and guava-green with lots of chrome that glints in the July sun.

"Look," I say. "A supermercado."

In the produce section of Price Buster, we find a line of laundry baskets with dried chilies-guajillo, ancho, marita, chipotle-and a wooden crate the size of a loveseat that holds hundreds of mangoes. In meats, we pass a goat's head and chicken feet so fresh they have not lost their pink patina. Trolling the aisles we find seasonings for jerk and hard green plantains and malanga root and frozen banana leaves.

Basically, any ingredient in Southern Hemisphere cooking can be found on Palm Beach Boulevard, if not in the supermercados then the taquerias, which are abundant on this road.

A taqueria is a cross between a small market and serve-yourself restaurant with a smattering of tables. Eating in these places feels very much like eating in someone's own home, and it is difficult to leave without something. In Tortilleria America I find some nifty, large mortars and pestles. Made of coarse lava rock, they are sculpted to look like turtles, the head a useful handle.

We find lunch at La Unica Panaderia and Taqueria. There are no tables, and as we stand in line for food I try to distract my daughter so she doesn't see the pornographic, Spanish-language comic books on display nearby. After tasting the shredded chicken cooked with chipotles, we finally settle on a savory pork stew with nopales, or cactus. The stack of corn tortillas the friendly woman gives us were made on site, and they are as fluffy and tender as their flour cousins ... so good, in fact, that we ignore the delicious guava-and-cheese pastries we've purchased and eat the tortillas plain and warm as we continue down the Boulevard:

Lou's Little Market: Every good cook needs a cast-iron skillet, and this place has hundreds of them hanging on the east wall. Also: great crockery and older kitchen utensils such as meat grinders and Dutch ovens.

Circulo Maya, a travel agency specializing in tickets to Mexico, Central and South America and the Caribbean. Given the median income and resourceful nature of the neighborhood, I know I will call here next time I plan on heading south.

Fiesta Deportes Soccer Supply. We find jerseys from nearly every country where a football is black and white and round. Great Christmas-gift spot to share with the mothers of Haley's soccer-playing friends.

Carcucra ... Hard to miss, it is painted in chartreuse, red and yellow stripes, and we're not certain of the name because it is written with a line of Christmas lights spelling it out in cursive, tacked to the front of the building. Like Botanica El Sol, this is a purveyor of materials that allegedly help a troubled person navigate oneself through a difficult life. It is closed, but in the window we note potions titled "Chango Macho," "Death Be Gone," "Wedlock," "Strong Love" and "Jinx Killer."

At the end of Palm Beach Boulevard, just before the flyover of Interstate 75, is Hayloft Western Wear. Inside, we find the Fort Myers of 50 years ago, the Fort Myers that has been pushed eastward as affluent Yankees have supplanted the natives in the neighborhoods closer to the coast. Southern-friendly clerks with accents ask us if we need help as we wander through the store. I like the pearl snap buttons on all the Western shirts. My daughter notes the glass cases filled with shiny, silver-plate belt buckles, as large and oval as the mangoes we've seen earlier. There is a stuffed, seven-foot cottonmouth (killed outside Sebring) mounted on a board over the boot department, many of which are constructed from her reptile brethren. This, along with the mounted heads of large mammals throughout the store, sends a message that it is man, indeed, who stands on top of the food chain.

Most impressive however, are the blue jeans. These are real blue jeans, dark, indigo blue, starchy and stiff, the kind you must wash 10 times before finding comfort, and it is the only place I have found them on the Gulfshore. I am thrilled. I have been looking for these jeans. You may not have noticed, but there appears to be a growing conspiracy among denim providers. They are stone-washing our jeans into oblivion and doing their damnedest to convince us that faded, holey jeans are fashionable. And instead of enduring for years they begin to expire in months, the bottoms fraying like a tire that's expired on a truck speeding down the freeway.

I find a pair of Wranglers. The sales girl tells me how nice the tight fit looks on my bottom half, and, turning 40 this summer, I easily succumb to the flattery and decide to buy another pair.

On the way out, we note a sign on the door. It says, "bilingual help needed."

As we walk to our van, I breathe in deeply and smell the pork roast from the Puerto Rican restaurant a block away.

Ad Hudler is a Fort Myers novelist whose most recent book is Southern Living, published by the Random House Publishing Group. His website is www.adhudler.com.