January 22, 2008--Snowbirding (Concluded)

We are now in our second week of snowbirding and I am noticing a few changes in our outlook and behavior:

For one thing, we are very much liking not having to parallel park. Most places we’ve been require quite a lot of that. I recall that when my father gave me driving lessons much of the effort went into teaching me that difficult art form—how first you needed to estimate the size of the space (was it large enough to accommodate both the car and all the swing and back-and-forting room that would be required); and you needed to get good at judging just when to, hand-over-hand, sharply turn the steering wheel so as to get the rear of the car tucked in close to the curb while avoiding clipping the rear fender of the car around which you were trying to maneuver yours. Complicated stuff. And because I had trouble coordinating all the simultaneous and contradictory moves (creeping backwards while looking forward), I twice failed my driver’s test. I was perfect at hand-signaling and the use of the rearview mirror but a disaster at parallel parking. So you can only imagine how happy and relieved I am that down here I rarely have to utilize those skills and thus am not reminded daily of those youthful feelings of inadequacy.

All we have to do is zip right into clearly demarked spaces—no back-and-forthing, no need to look over one’s shoulder to avoid crashing into another car, and best of all no fighting with others scrambling to find the only available parking spot below 96th Street. In Florida, real estate is not totally king. Perhaps it is in waterfront property, but not when it comes to parking spaces.

Then there is the driving itself. Our New York reality includes mainly walking; taking buses and subways; and occasionally, if we can find one, flagging down, taxis. Here, until we get around to renting bikes, with the opulent exception of walking right out onto the beach, we need to use the car for pretty much everything—to buy food and eat out, to refill prescriptions, to get cash from the bank, to go to a movie, to visit family and friends, even to get the newspaper. We are attempting to be Greener, and though we rented a small, fuel-efficient Toyota, the casual daily driving burns up a lot of gas—about $45 worth thus far in just thirteen days. At current prices that’s, what, four or five gallons.

But even with that environmental consciousness and Rona feeling that all the walking and package schlepping we do back in New York is a good, natural form of exercise, just two days ago as we drove to get the paper; then to the Green Owl for breakfast; and after that to Johnny Mango’s (yes, you heard me), a garden center that had been recommended; and since we didn’t find exactly what Rona was looking for, we drove to another plant place (still not the right one) and then successfully to a third one; after which we made the obligatory stop at Publix and then finally at a wonderful French bakery we discovered up in Lantana for some beignets--as we were doing all of that driving about, Rona said, “You know, I’m a little embarrassed to admit this, but I’m kind of liking this.” I glanced skeptically at her: this did not sound like my Rona. “Look at how many paces we were able to get too. We never would have been able to do this so easily in the city. If we had bought something in, say, Bloomingdales and had two large bags to carry, we would have had to go back to the apartment and drop them off before going out again to Dean and Deluca. Here, we just put everything in the car and keep going. In fact, driving here is so easy that it’s like resting between places.” At that, I passed her a quizzical look knowing she could not b serious. But she said, “I really mean it. Sitting in the car is like resting. Isn’t it?” I must admit, our carbon footprint aside, I had to agree.

As further evidence of how our lives are being affected in Florida, while in the midst of all of this shopping, we stopped at a local clothing store since I wanted to get a shirt or two more suited to beachcombing than all the black ones I brought with me from Manhattan. I was thinking of something in a more appropriate style and with Floridian colors. Perhaps orange; maybe even yellow. But not a Tommy Bahama. I wasn't quite ready for that. So the one I selected was a rather discrete denim blue with Delray Beach (Trademark) Florida printed boldly on the front.

When I brought it over to Rona to see what she thought (I always do so since I am colorblind and accept the idea that more than me she’s the one who sees what I’m wearing) I suspected that she would roll her eyes up in her head because I traditionally hate any article of clothing that has anything whatsoever printed on it, including and especially logos; and here I was showing her something that was a virtual flashing billboard.

I held my breath while she scrutinized it. And then she said, “I think it will do.”

“You do?”

“Yes, it’s appropriate for here. It will be fine on the beach.”

“But I never in my life ever had anything with writing on it, with the possible exception a hundred years ago of my Brooklyn Tech High School sweatshirt. And that one only said Tech.”

“It’s only twelve dollars and you’ll look fine in it.”

Also, we are finding ourselves going to movies in the afternoon. That is, if we’re not napping. Along with bused-in senior citizens from various assisted-living places. And just the other morning I saw Rona taking a few packages of sugar with her from the Green Owl and I pocketed three little plastic tubs of half-and-half. When taking my mother out to the Bagel Tree for lunch the other day, I picked up a (free) copy of the Jewish Journal, not because of the chauvinistic articles about Israel or the ads for funeral parlors and cemetery plots, but because my mother said the paper always includes some good coupons. And sure enough, after smuggling it into our place, which is in a fairly WASPy community, there were in fact glossy inserts replete with discount coupons, including one for Cottonelle toilet paper. Fifty cents off! But only for packages of 12 or more rolls, which will not be a problem for us since we know where to find these.

And since I am confessing, I even found myself surreptitiously checking other ads in the JJ for early-bird dinner specials at nearby restaurants. Not that you will ever find us sneaking in for dinner at 4:45 in the afternoon. I was just doing sociological research.

And finally, after another moonlit evening at Veri Amici, again ordering the divine lamb chops, and Alfredo again unasked packing up the remaining two chops, the next afternoon, rather than going out for lunch, Rona asked, “What do you think we can do with the left-over lamb chops?”

Not sure I was hearing her clearly, like so many other snowbirds I am getting progressively hard of hearing, “You mean should we throw them out like all the others Alfredo sent us home with?”

“No, I mean can we maybe make a salad using them—we still have some arugula from the other day, and a few tomatoes, and even one of the avocados seems as if it’s ripe. You could make a nice salad from these, couldn’t you, we have Spanish olive oil and balsamic vinegar. And then perhaps you could cut up the meat from the chops and mix that in.”

Just as I was wondering what was happening to Rona, more honestly to us, as if to herself, she added, “I hate to waste anything.”