December 12, 2017--Snowbirding: Top Spot (Originally Posted January 3, 2013)

"I know what you're thinking."

We were at our usual table by the window waiting for our cortaditos and Eggs Bohio.

We'd seen her before, always at about 9:00.  I squinted into the sun, didn't say anything back to her, but nodded acknowledgement in her direction.  But never previously had she come over to us. "Maybe," she said, "you're thinking--What kind of a job is this anyway?" 

That was not what I was thinking. Maybe just that it looked like it was a hard way to make money, standing at the highway all day. "Not really that," I said. I was happy when the coffee arrived and hoped I could turn my attention to sipping it while it was still hot.

"But do I look to you like someone who should be doing this rain and shine?" I couldn't think of what to say to that. "I never thought I'd wind up this way. But you gotta do what you gotta do."

I mumbled something to indicate I agreed. To what exactly--not wanting right then to know too much more--I wasn't sure.

"I'm not complaining, mind you, but just want to let you know."

I also didn't follow what she was trying to say about whatever it was that she wanted me to know. Since I had had a sleepless night I needed my caffeine before I could figure any of this out or engage her, or anyone else for that matter. So I gulped down more of the cortadito and in the process burned the roof of my mouth. "Shit," I muttered under my breath.

Undeterred she said, "Take a look at this." She held up a large yellow and black sign, on end taller than she, on which in bold letters it said--

                                                   Top Spot
                                             Bahamian Restaurant
                                            Lunch Special--$5.99

It also included an arrow directing potential customers, when she held it across her body, to the Top Spot in the same plaza where El Bohio is located.

"Looking for customers. That's my job. I stand out there on Federal Highway," without turning she gestured behind her toward the road, "all day, from now until 5:00. Then I'm done. They pay me in cash, and that's it. My job." She shrugged and shot us a that's-it smile.

"It's going to be hot today," Rona said, trying, for the both of us, to be empathetic.

"You should have been here in the summer. Humid too. But as I said, I gotta do what I gotta do."

"True for sure," Rona smiled.

"You guys from here?"

"When we're in Florida we have a place in Delray. South of here."

"Nice there. Real nice. I'm originally from Alexandria. Up in Virginia. Worked in the hospitality industry. Catering. Special events. That sort of thing. I liked it well enough but when it dried up my house slipped under water and I walked away from it." She tried to smile. "Then my sister, who lives in Boynton, just down the road from here, took me in. Real decent of her. But a big strain. She has two kids. Nine and eleven. And to tell you the truth, we don't always get along all that well. Especially now when we're living on top of each other. So I'm making plans to find a place of my own." She shrugged again, leaning on her sign. "Though from what they pay me doing this it could be ten years before I can do that."

"Maybe . . ."

"I know what you're about to say," she said to Rona, "It's true, I'm making things worse than they are. They're bad enough that I don't have to do that."

"That's not really what I meant," Rona said, "But from the look of things between here and Delray, especially in Delray, it feels like there's some more activity in the hotel and restaurant business. There are a lot of new places on Atlantic Avenue and at least one new hotel so maybe . . ."

"Do you have any idea how many people like me are looking for whatever jobs there are? Probably at least hundreds. I consider myself lucky to have this."  She pointed to the Top Spot sign and gave it a loud smack.

"But it sounds like you had, I mean have good experience, so maybe that would make you stand out. From what I hear having worked up north gives one a leg up down here."

"I've heard that too. But from me you'd never know that's true. So I'm thinking maybe it isn't true. I mean the value of experience up north." Sounding resigned, she took a deep breath.

With coffee flowing through my system, I finally joined in and said, "No matter how hard things are it's important, don't you think, to retain an optimistic attitude." As soon as the words came out of my mouth I wished I could have retrieved them--to myself I sounded so insincere and banal.

She looked skeptically at me to let me know she too felt I was spouting cliches. "You try this for a few days," she said with muted aggression, "and then tell me how optimistic you feel.  But don't mishear me," she added to be sure I didn't think she was giving me that hard a time, "I know this is a get-by strategy--doing whatever I need to do to get back on my feet--but it does get you down after awhile."

"How long have you been doing this?" Rona asked.

"Not long enough for me to feel that this is it; but too long for me to delude myself that things will be better soon."

Not knowing what to say but wanting to be helpful, I suggested, "Have you thought about getting into the health care field? Down here, or for that matter back up north, aren't there lots of opportunities for that sort of work?"

"In hospitality, it's true, your job is to take care of people's needs. So I can see a connection. But it's not that hands on."

I noticed her eyes beginning to flutter. What had I inadvertently stumbled on? I thought about re-concentrating on my eggs and coffee, but was in too deep in whatever that might be to again turn away from her.

"My mother . . ." she said, struggling to complete the thought.

Rona reached toward her through the open picture window. She took a half step back and let the sign fall out of her grip. It clattered on the asphalt of the parking lot.

Half turning from us, she swatted at a tear that was forming on her cheek. "For eight years, until about the same time I got laid off, I worked at the hotel evenings and nights--when events were scheduled--but during the day, I took care of her. All her needs. We couldn't afford aides and she didn't want to be put in a care facility. We couldn't live with that either. My other sister and me. So we did the best we could. 24/7. We had no other life.

"She weighed nearly 300 pounds and any time my sister or me would go out, even for just an hour, or tried to get some sleep--my sister worked as a waitress at the hotel at special events and catered parties--when we'd come back or wake up, we'd find her on the floor. It was if she waited for us not to be with her or when we were catching a nap that she would try to rouse herself and get herself to the bathroom, or whatever. And with all that weight plus the Parkinson's, she couldn't walk or pick herself up off the floor. So we had to do that too. I'm strong, but it's so hard to lift someone that heavy up off the floor and then into bed or the wheelchair. I was afraid I'd cripple myself."

Neither of us could think of what to say. We looked back at her and nodded with as much understanding as we could summon.

"Did I tell you we did that for eight years?" We nodded in tandem. "Eight." We kept up the nodding. "That felt like a lifetime. I had nothing left when I was let go and, although I knew we would have big money trouble, to tell you the truth, I wasn't half-sorry not to be working. I mean at the hotel because at home things only got worse. Especially when she began to stiffen up from the Parkinson's. That can happen too. Do you have any idea what it's like to have to take care of someone with all that heft who's becoming stiff as a board?" As if to illustrate, she kicked at the signboard she had dropped at her feet.

"So when you suggested that I go into the health field, I . . ."

"I was just trying to be helpful," I said, feeling guilty, chocking back a cough, "Not that . . . I mean, I didn't . . . how could I . . . know? Sorry."

"No need to say that," she looked right at me, "I know you were trying to help." She paused to take a deep breath and looked around as if to check to see if the Top Spot people who hired her to bring in customers would notice she hadn't yet set herself up on the highway.

"Did I tell you she died? My mother."

We mouthed, "No. Sorry."

"It was a blessing. For her and, to be honest, for us. She wasn't going to get better. Only worse. So this was a release."

"I wish . . ." Rona began to say.

She waved away the thought and, bending to retrieve her sign, said, "You seem like good people. I see the way you talk to people who come here for coffee and breakfast." I wasn't feeling that good about myself--how I wanted to ignore her when she approached us. "That's why, I suppose, I came over to talk with you. Just to have someone who could understand my situation before heading over there," she again gestured toward the corner where she was about to spend the day, "just someone I could tell a little of my story to."

"We come here once or twice a week," Rona said, "so I hope you'll feel you can stop by and talk with us whenever you want."

"I promise not to bother you," she said, "You're here to have a good time. Not to be brought down by the likes of me."

We shook our heads to disabuse her of that thought.

She held up the sign so we could see it again. "That's me all right. At the top spot." She laughed at that. "But, not to worry. I'll be OK. I'm still getting myself back on my feet. Things could be a lot worse."

And with that she trotted over to the highway.

December 11, 2017--Early-Bird Special (Originally Posted January 12, 2010)

We're off to Florida for a week of family visits and to return to some of our favorite places and people in Delray Beach.

We were in winter residence there for the last eight years of my mother's life and during that time I wrote more than 90 stories that I called "Snowbirding."

During this week away I will repost some of my favorites. The first, "Early-Bird Special," appears below.

After catching an early afternoon movie at the local Regal Multiplex, the 3:00 p.m. show of True Grit, which we were surprised to see played to a house two-thirds full of seniors with no one munching on anything and no one talking to the screen in a loud voice, still with no return tickets to New York and no plans to purchase them—Rona suggested that rather than eating leftovers at our rented condo by the ocean, maybe we should try the Chinese restaurant, the China Diner, in the same shopping plaza as the movie theater.

“But it’s not even six o’clock,” I whined.  “No one eats dinner that early.  Other than my mother and her friends.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rona said, “Half the people down here eat at this time.  You know that.  We’re hungry, right?”  I sheepishly nodded, “So stop pretending we’re back in Greenwich Village and let’s see if we can get a table.”

“There should be no trouble with that,” I offered in a mocking tone.  “It’s so ridiculously early.  For God sakes it’s still daylight.”

In fact I was quite wrong--there were no tables inside and even all the seats at the sushi-bar-like counter were occupied.  

“This must be at least a decent place,” I said, “to be so busy so early.” 

Rona looked at me as if to say, “You’re so naïve.  We’ve been here long enough for even you to know about the popularity of early-bird specials.” 

But there was an empty outdoor table, and even though it was situated virtually in the shopping plaza’s parking lot, and since we were in fact hungry, we slid into the last available seats. 

“I’m sure we won’t run into anyone from New York.  It would be terrible if the word got out that we’re having dinner this early,” I said, and, just in case, slumped lower in my seat and hid my face behind the plastic-sheathed menu.

“You’re being silly,” Rona said, “Just look at the specials.  They sound quite good.  There’s steamed sea bass with scallions and ginger and one of your favorites, Singapore Chow Mei Fun.  Though I wonder if they’ll use enough curry.”  She looked around at our neighbors as if to indicate that considering the age of the other diners it would likely be tamer than I would prefer and am used to when we order it at the Big Wong back in New York’s Chinatown.

The waitress appeared, smiling broadly, to ask if she could bring us something to drink.  “Just tea and ice water,” I said.  “I see you have pu erh tea.  It’s our favorite.”

When she returned with our beverages she asked, “When did you get here?”

“A few days ago,” I answered. “Why do you ask?”  It seems like a strange question.

“I mean this afternoon.  I mean here this eve-n-ing.”  She pointed at her watch and the table.

“Oh, you mean at the restaurant.  I don’t know.  Maybe 15 minutes ago.”

She smiled broadly, “That good,” she said, “Still early-bird time.  You can have soup or an egg roll with your order.  No charge.”

“But we don’t want that,” I said, “We’re interested in the steamed fish and . . .”

“It all comes.”

“What comes?”

“Before six you get soup or egg roll.  For free.  It comes.”

“Thank you.  That’s nice.  But we just want the sea bass, the Singapore noodles, and also some Chinese eggplant with mushrooms and water chestnuts.”

“No soup?”  She scrunched her face in a look of puzzlement.

“No, just that,” Rona said, sharing the responsibility for our seemingly unusual order.  Actually, our mutually-agreed-upon decision not to participate in any of the ubiquitous Florida freebies.

“You can take home later,” she persisted.

“We’ll be fine.  But thank you for suggesting that.”

The dinner turned out to be quite good.  Not exactly Chinatown quality, of course; and, as expected, the Singapore was a bit tame for me, but it was much more than just respectable.  Not what one would expect at a Chinese restaurant called the China Diner in an unprepossessing shopping mall right next door to a nail salon.

As she cleared the table, the waitress seemed happy that unlike the other customers we had eaten virtually everything on our plates with chopsticks, not forks.  Smiling broadly, she asked if we wanted the pistachio ice cream that came with the dinner.

We both rubbed our distended stomachs and simultaneously said, “No, but thank you very much.”

“You sure?” she asked, again looking puzzled, “It comes.  No charge.”

“Really, we’re stuffed,” I said.  “Just the check, please.”

As she turned to get it for us, a 80-something woman at the next table called out, “What about us?  We want our ice cream.  Pistachio.  I love pistachio.  It’s my favorite with Chinese food.”

The waitress, once more taking a long look at her watch, responded curtly, “You had the soup, yes, and the egg roll, no?  Both.  I make exception for you. You just get two. Not three.” 

The woman, ignoring that, more insistently demanded, “I want my ice cream.  Pistachio.”

“But you had egg roll and wonton soup.  I told you it comes with either one.  But you wanted both so I give to you.”

“What about them?”  She waived her bejeweled finger in our direction.  I was cringing, sorry I no longer had the menu behind which I could hide.  “You told them they could have pistachio.”

“They had no soup.  No egg roll.  Neither.  Not even one.”

The woman tapped her husband on the arm.  It looked as if he had fallen asleep over his dinner and when she poked him he jolted into consciousness, mumbling something I couldn’t make out.  In an even louder voice she broadcast, “She says they didn’t have the soup.” 

“The what?  What did you say?”

“She says they didn’t have the soup or the egg roll.  And now she says we can’t have ice cream.  Though she wants them to have theirs.  Talk to her will you.”

But before he could, to our great relief, the waitress said, “I’ll bring you two orders of ice cream.”  So as not to be misunderstood, she wiggled two fingers in their line of sight.  “Two.”

“Morris doesn’t eat ice cream.  He has cholesterol.  So bring two scoops for me.”  The waitress, expressionless, nodded and turned abruptly to get our check and their two scoops of pistachio.  She had clearly seen it all.

Witnessing this exchange, I wondered again about the wisdom of eating so early.  But the food had been excellent and I sheepishly said to Rona, “If we come back for another dinner, we should be sure to arrive after 6:30 and take our chances that they’ll still be open.” 

“And,” Rona said, “we’ll remember to ask them to make the Singapore Chow Mei Fun spicier.”

To that I wondered out loud, “But will we be able to tell anyone back in Manhattan that we're eating Chinese food in a parking lot?"

"Or that we had an early-bird special?"

March 16, 2016--Snowbirding: Radio Havana

"You ask me if I'm angry?"

I hadn't asked him that or anything else. I hadn't looked his way. We were simply seated next to each other in the waiting area where I was waiting for Rona to finish an eye exam. I was reading the paper and had not even been aware of him. I was reading about Russia maybe or maybe not pulling their troops out of Syria.

"More than angry. I'm fed up." I continued to ignore him. "You probably think I voted for Trump." It was primary day in Florida. "Well, I didn't." He tapped the I-Voted sticker they give you after submitting your ballot.

"I hate him and everything he stands for. I voted for Hillary Clinton. She's not perfect but I think she'll make a damned good president.  Been a lifelong Democrat."

Out of the corner of my eye I looked over toward him. He looked like a retired lawyer or college professor. I wasn't in the mood for more talk about the campaign. I needed a break from all this politics business. I know I've brought a lot of it down on myself, but I was feeling enough. I was tired of it all, including the sound of my own voice. Or, more honestly was saving my political attention for later in the evening when there would be actual results. Enough speculating, analyzing, and projecting. I knew, though, that whatever I tried to do to keep myself calm I'd get all riled up. I am that addicted.

"Here's a little story for you." I put my paper down and half-turned to him. The rest of the Syria story would have to wait. Let's get it over with, I thought.

"Late at night, I like to listen to the radio. AM radio. You know, to listen in to all those crazy rightwing talk shows. Sometimes sports talk too. Anything to distract me. I'm not much of a sleeper and am prone to middle-of-the-night anxiety attacks. Suppose it comes with getting older." He took a long look at me.

"I'm like that too," I finally said.

"You a conservative?"

"No. The opposite."

"I suspected that. What with you reading the New York Times."

"But like you, I try to keep track of what's going on in the conspiratorial world of the true believers."

"My name's John, by the way," he said extending his right hand. I took it and introduced myself.

"In the old days, when I was a kid growing up in Philadelphia, I used to like listening to the radio late at night. I'd lie in bed and turn the dial slowly from station to station; and because at that time of night with the ionosphere all charged up, in Philly I could get stations from as far away as St. Louis and even Florida. I could get Phillies-Cardinals games with the local St. Louis announcers. I loved that."

"I did the same thing," I said, "in my Brooklyn bedroom, clutching my big Emerson radio to my ear, with the volume turned down low so as not to wake my parents, I would listen to Yankee games also coming in from St. Louis when the Yanks played the Browns. I loved that."

"The radio was a great way to excite your imagination back then and pulling in stations form hundreds of miles away contributed to that."

"I agree," I said.

"So here's what's making me crazy." At this point I was eager to hear what he had to say. "I do the same thing living in Florida. We've been down here a couple of years, and have gotten used to a lot of things which in the past we didn't like. Like all the talk about the weather and having to get used to eating early-bird dinners at 5:00. You know, all the snowbird clichés."

"I know what you mean."

"But one thing I still do is listen to the radio overnight and then early in the morning before Sally gets up. In the morning, at 6:00, I like to listen to Imus In the Morning. For old time's sake. He's no longer as compos mentis as he used to be--who is, by the way--and a lot of his old heavy-hitter guests have abandoned him and moved on to Morning Joe. After he got in trouble making fun of the African-American basketball players on the Rutgers women's team. It was disgusting what he said, but what can I tell you, I still on occasion like to tune in the see what he's up to. I like his grumpiness."

"And?" I was growing a bit impatient.

"Well, there are two ways to get Imus down here. The first is on the New York City station that carries the program--WABC. 770 on the dial. On some mornings I can pull in their signal. And then there 'The Talk of the Palm Beaches' station, 900 on the AM dial. That's only 25 miles north of where we live."

"And so . . .?"

"So, most mornings I can't get either signal. Froget ABC from New York. That's more than1,000 away. But the nearby Palm Beach station? You would think that wouldn't be a problem."

"Is it?"

"Indeed it is. And that what's making me crazy."

"So what's the problem? What's the story?"

"The reason I can't get AM 900 is because its signal is overwhelmed by one from Cuba. From Havana, Cuba."

"But that's 250 miles away while the Palm Beach station, as you say, is a short drive."

"What can I tell you. It's the truth. And that's also true for half the other stations in South Florida. Including some from Miami. Mind you, this is anecdotal. I haven't done a study. But trust me, what I'm saying is true."

"I have to check tonight on my own radio."

"Look, as I said, I'm quiet a liberal. I hate all the scapegoating going on. Blaming immigrants for our problems and getting people all agitated about them supposedly here to go on welfare. In the clubhouse where we live all I hear is this and how they don't want to learn English. Baloney of that kind."

"I feel that same way," I said.

"But this radio business is outrageous to me. Why doesn't someone, maybe even our government, block these signals? It's one thing at night to hear Radio Havana or what have you. As I said the ionosphere causes AM radio signals to bounce hundreds of miles, but to block out Palm Beach and Miami stations? This doesn't feel very good to me."

"I get your point," I said.

"It feels like an invasion. You know how in war or a revolution the first thing troops or rebels do is try to seize control of radio stations. A little like this maybe?"

"Well, I  . . ."

"No need to say anything. I sense we might agree. Then again, maybe not. Who knows. We just met. But this does get under my skin."

I shrugged as if to say, "What can I say?"

"But my bigger point is that, though this is admittedly a trivial example, so many Americans have other things that are making them crazy. Much more substantial things. As a result, they're turning away from conventional sources where they traditionally used to find relief or help or fairness. From governments to churches to schools to their neighborhoods to the places they work. People are feeling manipulated and afraid. That's really my point. In my own little way, even from the trivial radio example, I get it. But it doesn't make me feel good to have these thoughts. Quite the opposite. But I do. What can I say."

By then, Rona had emerged from the examination room and it was time to leave. I was hoping to have five peaceful hours before Super Tuesday III results would begin to come in. It promised to be a long night. Even a long afternoon.

March 8, 2016--Snowbirding: Porsche Panamera (Concluded)

"What do you think about that one,"Rona said excitedly. She was pointed toward a deep blue BMW.

"It does look nice," I acknowledged. "It . . ."

"Yikes," she said, peering at the sticker label affixed to the rear window.

"Yikes what?"

"It's $138,000. That calls for a yikes."

"Again, I thought we wouldn't approach this search for a new car by thinking initially about price."

"I know what you'll say--'We're very fortunate and we can get any car we want, especially,'" she added, "'if it turns out to be one of the last ones we'll ever buy.'"

"I don't remember saying that."

"Which part, Rona asked, "about being able to buy pretty much any car we want--forget Bentleys--or what I said about the last car business?"

Ignoring that, I said, "I guess I mean that $138,000 is a little much for a car. Particularly a BMW, which is not my idea of a Ferrari-kind-of-car."

"I don't think you have any idea what one of those would cost. It's enough to make one think seriously about becoming a socialist and voting for Bernie Sanders. And to tell the truth, I would have no part in spending even $100,000 for a car. A car is a car. It's not like buying a house or paying for college tuition.

"For the price of a Ferrari--whatever that is--I assume one could buy a really nice house and pay for tuition all the way through med school."

"Shouldn't we try to have fun with this rather than making all kinds of political allusions? I get enough of those every day on MSNBC."

"As long as you stop looking at $138,000 cars."

"From what I read in Consumers we should check out the BMW 2-Series. It gets off the chart ratings."

So we did. Even took one out for a test drive and it was a lot of fun. Not exactly the "Ultimate Driving Machine," but very responsive and for us just the right level of luxury. But for Rona who has back issues and for me who has late-in-life issues, the getting in and out could have one of both of us needing the ER. So we eliminated it from consideration and turned our attention to the 328i's. It's a bit stogy with its four doors but after taking it for a spin it wound up on our short list.

"I'm not sure," Rona said as we were driving home, "that we could be comfortable with a BMW in Maine. There everyone drives Subarus and Volvos. It's a reverse kind of status, not making too much of a big deal about one's wheels."

"Wheels? I love it when you talk car slang." I struggled against my seat belt to give her a kiss. "But you're right. We probably should get out of the BMW or, for that matter, Audi mode."

"I think I agree about the BMW but let's keep the Audi alive. I read that there's a new A4 about to arrive in America. The 2017 model that's supposed to be something special."

"It will probably be too high-tech for me. We don't need bluetooth or compatibility with smart phones much less all the sensing devices that take over your car in an emergency situation."

"Good point."

"We still have flip phones and . . ."

"Like Rhiana and Anna Wintour."

"Not exactly, but I prefer a car that a driver drives. Not a computer."

"I do as well. Maybe we should keep . . ."

"No let's keep talk. We need a new car. Ours is becoming unreliable. Above all, I want us to have one we can depend upon. Up in Maine we live on a dirt road that a tow truck would have a hard time negotiating so. And then if we're there during a late fall blizzard, I want a car we can depend upon to start."

"So maybe we should forget about BMWs and Audis and get right to Subarus and Volvos."

"Down Vicente's food chain."

So the next day we tried the Subaru Legacy and found it to the perfect Maine car. Totally practical with all sorts of safety things, including, we learned, that if we were in a head-on collision, rather than the engine crashing into the passenger cabin and crushing us to death, it drops out of the engine compartment and falls on the road, winding up under the car. Amazing! But we found it to be sensible and boring.

"If this is going to be my last . . ."

"Stop right there," Rona said. "Let's get beyond mortality issues and head over to Volvo. I have good feelings about the S60 model. Road and Track says . . ."

"You're reading Road and Track?"

"On line."

"That means soon your computer cookies will generate pop-up ads for assault weapons. Donald Trump says he reads Road and Track. And I didn't raise mortality issues. That Subaru salesman did with all his talk about side-impact air bags and engines winding up under the car after head-on . . ."

"I agree--enough. Pull in there. Let's check out the Volvo. One thing I know, our Maine friends will not make fun of us if we buy one."

"Half of them would prefer it if we bought a Ford pickup."

"Maybe we should check them out too."

"We're now about to look at Volvos. Let's try to concentrate on them and actually try to enjoy ourselves."

And we very much did, with the sensitive help of Donna H, the sales associate, and the manager. Sympathetic, even empathetic as they quickly picked up on our ambivalences--needing a car that worked in New York, Florida, and of course Maine. Preferring it to be luxurious but not too much so. Wanting to fit in in these diverse places, but also not make too much of a concession to what others might think. Minor torments of that kind.

After driving a sleek S30 all over Delray and then up to 80 miles per hour on I-95--where plenty of cars still whizzed by us--we placed it on our very short list. With BMWs probably no longer in play, the Volvo was likely the only car at the moment on the list. Short indeed.

Driving home again, Rona feeling weary and overloaded with too much to think about and juggle, referring to Vicente again, she said that maybe the next day we should go over to Toyota and Chevy and get down to the most practical of bottom lines.

"I'm not sure I want to do that. We started out fantasizing about Porsche Panameras and Mercedes--and I get taking them off even our Maybe List--but I think I'm OK with Toyota but Chevy? I don't think so. The Malibu is probably great, but I still have images of Dinah Shore on TV throwing kisses to the audience after singing about Chevy--'See the USA in your Chevrolet. America is asking you to call . . .'"

"Spare me. I get the point."

So just yesterday we drove over to the local Toyota dealer.

The showroom was in a massive new building right down Federal Highway. Dozens of cars on shiny display on the selling floor surrounded by bass-walled offices and comfortable waiting areas.

We checked out the Camry after deciding that the Avalon, if we were going downscale, even if "only" a Toyota was a bit too fancy looking. "Let's see the bead-and-butter model," Rona said.

It drove well, was fairly peppy, cornered almost as well as the BMW, and was a bit more than basic in the cabin. Fit-and-finish too was impressive--a concept I had "discovered" in my due-deligence research. "I think we have to give it serious consideration," Rona whispered, not wanting to show too much interest to the hovering salesman.

I nodded in agreement, to tell the truth feeling a bit deflated.

We started out at the very high end of the food-chain and here we were giving serious thought to a Camry. We'd be fine in Maine with one, OK in Florida, and who cared about New York as the car will just sit in the garage.

"I don't think I want a Toyota," I finally said to the solicitous salesmen.

As we were leaving, I said to Rona, "Look over there in the main waiting room. Who are all those people? There are about twenty of them, all with canes and walkers. Are they here on a field trip from their assisted living home? Again, I don't want to dwell on you-know-what, but do I really want to buy a car from a place that's on the senior citizen circuit? I mean, it's nice of the Toyota people to make them feel welcome, but . . ."

"They're not here as an activity," Rona said. "Notice where they're sitting. They're waiting for their Toyotas to be serviced."

"That does it," I said, "I hate myself for feeling this way and probably half of them are younger than I am. But . . ."

Back home, with the Volvo still the only car for the moment on our short list, looking out at the ocean to connect with something elemental--it's spinner shark season--I noticed a two-story ladder leaning on the side of our neighbor's house.

"What's that?" I asked Rona. "Is someone fixing her window or something?"

"I think it's the window washer. See the pail with a sponge and squeegee in it?"

"You're right," I said. "And look at that," I added. "Notice the car he's driving?"

"I've had it with cars. Can we not talk about them until tomorrow? I'm all relaxed and checking out the sharks."

"But you need to take a look."

Rona reluctantly hauled herself up out of her recliner chair and walked over to where I was standing.

"My God, you're right. He's driving a Mercedes. One just like our old E-450."

March 7, 2016--Snowbirding: Porsche Panamera (Part One)

"What do you think about the Panamera?"

"Not one of my favorites, but the coffee, I suppose, is OK."

"Coffee?"

"Yes, you know, Vicente's favorite place. Panera."

"You're talking coffee?" Rona said, quickly growing impatient with me, "And I'm talking cars. The Porsche Panamera. The one we both like. At least to look at."

"You don't have to shout. I can hear you."

"Our car is getting to be six years old and has well over 100,000 miles. Shopping for cars here is so easy. It seems that every few streets there's one dealer or another. Maybe we should look around to see what we like. Perhaps even find something to buy."

"I don't know anything about cars. And neither do you and so . . ."

"And so if we don't get started," Rona said, "and see what we can learn, does that mean we'll keep our VW forever?"

"That's not the worst idea I ever heard. But I get your point. We should look around. Ours is starting to have problems. Fortunately, still minor ones. But maybe before we get started we should see if Vicente's at Panamera and get some coffee. He knows a lot about cars."

Under her breath Rona said, "Panera," but I could hear her. I didn't tell her I was trying to be playful.

Vicente was at his regular table, hooked up to wifi and working on an article about his legendary New Mexico ancestor, Padre Martinez.

"You're crazy," he said, "The Porsche you're interested in costs at least $100,000 and . . ."

"And," I said, "we thought we would ignore prices at first and zero in on what we like. I'm seeing this as maybe the last car I'll ever buy and so, what the heck, you only live once."

"Or twice," Rona said, rolling he eyes.

"I hear you," Vicente said, "So maybe you should start with the Mercedes and work your way down the food-chain."

"Food-chain?" I asked, "You're losing me. I thought we were talking cars."

"You know, start with luxury cars and then work you're way down to a Chevy or something. That way you'll find the one that will make you happy, if in fact this turns out to be your last car. But with your mother living to 107, it's possible you'll be needing to buy three or four more."

"So I can drive when I'm 100? I don't think so. Half the drivers down here look like they're 100, and you know what that's like. But, thanks for the encouragement. I get your point."

There's a Mercedes dealer in Delray so after finishing our coffee, we drove right over.

On route, it was only two miles from Panera, we saw more Mercedes than any other car. "I guess around here, the Benz is sort of like the Toyota or Chevy. The go-to car."

"Benz?" I was impressed that Rona was already getting into auto lingo.

"I usually think of the Benz as being distinctive, but down here it's everywhere. I'm not that much of a snob, I mean, but . . ."

"But, you are," I said," And I am too I suppose. But I think they're pretty good cars and think we should check them out."

"But what about the one we had? Fifteen years ago."

 "An E-450 I think it was. It turned out to be a lemon. So we sold it right back to the dealer. Lost at least $25,000 doing that."

"I hated that car," Rona remembered. "In two years we had to replace the battery three times."

"I also hated it. It was so clunky. Maybe this time let's see if we can find something sportier. How about a two-door? Or even a convertible? If I'm running out of time, why not . . . ?"

"We already went through our convertible phase. It was fun. But because of the way we live now, we make long drives to and from Maine and back and forth to Delray, I want something that runs smoothly and is quiet. Maybe then you'll be able to hear me when we're driving."

"My hearing again. But I agree--we should look for something luxurious."

In 25 minutes we decided that a Benz was not for us. The sporty one or two models we sort of liked weren't that comfortable and the back seats were almost nonexistent. So we moved on. Next, to the Lexus dealer.

That stop took even less time. We looked at the front grill, thought we were staring into the jaws of a great white shark, and took off even before a salesman could pounce on us.

Two showrooms were enough for one day and we decided to drive around again the next day to check out BMWs and Audis.

I said, "My instinct tells me we'll like the Audis. I know they used to go in reverse when you'd shift into drive, but I think they fixed that defect. At least I hope so."

"Now you're talking about having instincts about cars? You who would have trouble distinguishing between a BMW and an Audi. Or, for that matter, a Toyota and a Chevy."

To show that though I haven't had that much interest in cars for decades, I still had my macho pride and as we drove slowly up A1A I pointed out, "There's an E-Class Benz and . . . a BMW of some sort. At least I think it is. . . . And another Mercedes. That one looks pretty slick. I think it's a . . . "

"A convertible. That's what it is. A ragtop. I thought we decided that . . ."

"Listen to you--a ragtop! I haven't heard that expression since we had our Toyota Celica convertible. Ragtop."

"Remember how we made a big mistake taking it to an automatic car wash? In East Hampton. And how the water from the power washing nozzles flooded the car with us trapped inside. The canvas roof wasn't sealed very well." Rona began to laugh at that memory.

"And how we couldn't figure out how to stop the wash cycle. What a mess. And scary. We got all coated with liquid soap."

"So let's agree--no ragtops."

"Agreed. And there's an Audi," I pointed, "And another Mercedes. I wish I liked them better. That one, whatever model it is, looks pretty cool."

"How about keeping your eye on the road. There are all sorts of crazy drivers here."

The next day we went first to the BMW-Volkswagen dealer in Pompano Beach. As we pulled our Passat into a parking space in the middle of a dozen others, we were swept by a wave of nostalgia about our sad Passat, which we seemed so willing to trade in. After driving more than 100,000 miles, almost all of it side-by-side, we thought maybe we should hold onto it. Or, Rona suggested, maybe check out a new one. For the moment, ignore Vicente's food chain analogy.

"Let's check out the new VWs and then, since it's right next door, we can look at the BMWs. From the little Internet research I did last night, I think the 2-Series could be for us. It gets a very good review in Edmunds."

"My, you're progressing fast," I said with authentic admiration. "Yesterday Benz and ragtop, today Edmunds. I've heard of them but don't really know anything about what they do."

"It's an amazing Website where you can learn everything about every car. Including how much to expect to pay for one after you've made your decision. So you can bargain about price successfully."

"I thought we weren't going to talk about price so we could keep the Pan, the Panarea, the whatever on our list. You know the one I mean."

"The Porsche Panamera. Edmunds doesn't love it," she shrugged. "And it could set us back 100 grand. Or more."

"What do you think Panamera means? I mean, is it Spanish for something?"

"I researched that too," Rona said, puffing herself up. "It's not a real word but the name is derived, like the Porsche Carrera line, from the Carrera Panamericana race."

"The Carrera line? I have no idea what you're talking about, but I'm impressed." This was starting to feel more like fun than an expensive chore. "Let's check out the VWs. I like change, but not that much."

Since we want a car that's shorter than our current one--getting around in Maine, especially where our house is, would be a lot easier if our new car were a few inches shorter. A foot would be ideal, but every inch helps.

"How about that one?" This time Rona was pointing. "I don't recognize it at all."

"I can't even distinguish between the new version of ours--the Passat--and the Jetta. To tell you the truth, they look the same to me."

"And to tell you the truth," Rona admitted, "To me, pretty much all cars look alike. I mean what's so different about the Mercedes we see all over the place and the Bentleys and Infinities?"

"Or even the Teslas?'

"Teslas? It looks as if you too've been doing some Web surfing."

I simply smiled, "It's something called the CC. The Volkswagon-CC. Never heard of it."

"I like the look. It's pretty sleek. Let's go inside and see how it feels and maybe even how it drives."

Which we did. On close inspection we both thought it was attractively designed. Four doors, but with the feel of something smaller and hopefully peppier. "Let's take'er our for a spin," I said to the very solicitous salesman who was applying no pressure.

"My pleasure," he said. "If you like your old Passat, I think you'll find this one familiar but different."

"Perfect," I said, impressed he had me so well figured out.

It turned out to be quite familiar, which Rona and I both liked, but different enough for us to ask him if he could put his hands on the V6 version since I felt it could use a little more pep, or oomph than the four-cylinder version.

"Listen to you," Rona said, enjoying my enthusiasm, "Pep. Oomph. How old are you again?" She gave me a quick kiss.

As it turned out Vista Motors didn't have a V6 in stock, but the salesman promised to search around to see if any other dealer in South Florida had one that we could check out. We told him we were feeling serious about the CC but wanted to look at other models and would let him know if we were interested in perhaps going to the next step. We also didn't want to appear too eager and thought that by playing a little hard-to-get we might be able to negotiate a better price. Maybe even when trading in our trusty Passat.

"And did you see how much it cost?" I asked as we walked toward the adjacent BMW showroom.

"Though we promised not to look at any price stickers, I couldn't resist. It goes for maybe half of what we were thinking we might wind up spending. Nothing wrong with that," I said.

Rona agreed.

Porsche Panamera

To be concluded tomorrow . . .

January 29, 2016--Snowbirding: The Weather

Everyone is talking about the weather. What with recent record snowfalls up and down the east coast, on TV and among family and friends the talk has been nonstop.

Down here in Florida, no matter the weather, it is always a major source of conversation. As you can see from this, written a few years ago, all that attention doesn't always sit well with our New York friends--

The Weather 

“You speak to her.” 

Alice handed me the phone while I mouthed, “Who is it?”  She turned her back as I took hold of the handset and walked away.

“Yes?  This is Lloyd.  Hello.  Who’s this? ”

“Didn’t you say to me,” it was our New York friend, the novelist Peggy Samson, “that you never wanted to live in a place where the primary topic of conversation is the weather?”  I nodded and, as if she could see me, she continued, “Well, all I heard from you this winter  has been, ‘Today started out nicely but then the clouds came in and before sunset we had a thunder storm.’”

“Well, we did have many days like that and . . .“

“Also all you talked about,” there was no way to interrupt her, “was how cold it was down there during January and February, ‘When we woke up this morning, can you believe it, it was 36 degrees and there was even frost on the windows.’”

“But it was cold then.  And didn’t I also tell you that I had no right to complain?  That if we were up in New York it would have been good to have 36 as the high for the day?”

“Yes, you did say that very thing.  More times than I want to recall.”

“So?  What’s the big deal?”

“Just listen to yourself.  Do you know how boring you sound?”  I had to admit she was probably right.  “The breakfast group met at Balthazar this morning for coffee—Sharon [Short, the noted fashion editor] and George [Western, the noted interior designer] and James [Gilbertson, the noted anthropologist].  The usual regulars.  Though since you left they made the baguette portion smaller and raised the prices and no longer serve jam in ramekins, most of the time we talked about what’s become of you and Alice.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“What?  About the jam or that we spent the whole morning talking about you?”

“That you were talking about us.  I’ll manage to live with the jam situation when we get back in a few weeks.”

“None too soon.  We’ll have to do a lot of remedial work on the two of you.  And please don’t show up in green pants.”

“I don’t have green pants.  Though I did buy a pair of red ones at a local store here, Mercer-Wenzel.” I was having fun with her.  There is no way I would buy much less wear red pants.  I held back from adding, “At least not until next winter.”

I did ask, “But tell me more about the jam.  I assume they’re still serving jam with the croissants.”

“In those tiny jars that you get in first class on airplanes.”

“Do they charge for them?  That wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Not yet,” Peggy said with exasperation.

 “And what about the butter?  Is that at least still in the ramekins?”

“They now serve pats.  Wrapped in some kind of messy foil.”

“Ugh!  I hate that.  I know it’s very Euro, but you get butter all over your fingers when you unwrap them.”

“One thing that’s promising though.”

“And that is?”

“You’re sounding more like your old self.  You still have some of your New York spunk.  Maybe we have less work to do to deprogram you.  Sharon was worried sick that with your obsession with weather might have changed you so much that you’d come back full of reasons why we should feel good about the Tea Party.”

“Well, she’s sort of half right.  They do have . . .”

“This is just too much,” she screamed before I could say I was just kidding.  But she hung up on me nonetheless.

And then just last evening, Alice and I were sitting out on the lawn after our late afternoon beach walk and saw two of our neighbors who live in Massachusetts wandering toward us with cocktails in hand.  We hadn’t seen them for a while—they had been too busy with work up north to get here the past two months—and so there was a lot to catch up with.  Mainly about their health and their three children and seven grandchildren.

Everything they reported was good news, which we were very happy to hear.  

“Look,” Bill said, interrupting the updates, “that looks like a rain cloud to me.”  We all craned our heads to look to the south where he was pointing.  And sure enough, a few ominous clouds appeared to be gathering.

“For these parts, a typical mid-April, late-in-the day weather front.”  Everyone turned to Alice.  “On the Weather Channel they said we should expect this today.” We all gave her our full attention and nodded.  “But they also said there was nothing to be concerned about.  The weekend should be beautiful.  Partly cloudy with high temperatures in the mid-seventies.  And not much wind.  Just enough to keep things cool, the bugs under control, and the ocean in a nice state of agitation.  I love it when there’s some chop on the water.  Like now.”

The three of us in unison turned to the ocean, to follow Alice’s gaze, and sure enough there was just the right amount of wave action on the water.  Though there was a fly that was buzzing around my uncovered head undisturbed by the breeze.

“I should have worn my cap,” I said to no one in particular, while swatting at it.

“This breeze is just perfect,” Sally said.  “There’s a touch of humidity in the air and it takes the edge off it.  This is the best time of day.  But how was it, the weather I mean, since the last time we were here?”

“Let’s see, it’s been about five weeks, hasn’t it?”  Sally and Bill nodded.  “That was late February.  Is that right?”

“Yes, about then,” Bill said.  I could see him counting the weeks on his fingers.  “A little more than five weeks.  And we saw it was very cold during that time.  For here, I mean.”  Now Alice and I were doing the nodding.  “What was it?” he turned to Sally, “lows in the upper 30s and highs most days only in the 50s?  I think they set some weather records.  For all time lows.”

“We do remember that,” Alice said while looking toward me for confirmation, “in fact on the coldest day, the one where the high was only 49, the heater in our place stopped working.  These condo units, we learned, produce both cold and hot air but they’re really designed for air conditioning.  Not heating.  So it was probably overstressed by all the heating we were asking it to do.”

“That’s happened to us last year,” Bill said.  “And you’re right about the heating and cooling.  This is supposed to be Florida where even in the winter you have to heat the place only once in a while.  But luckily they came to fix ours right away.  It was a switching problem.  What about you?”

“The same with us,” I said.  “Fortunately.  But you know,” I quickly added, “considering the weather we missed in New York this winter, where there was a lot of cold weather and at times a great deal of snow, as I told our Florida friends who were complaining all the time about how cold it was, I kept saying to them, ‘I’m the last person to have the right to complain.  I’m so fortunate to be able to be here, to be able to afford to be here when it’s so cold and wintry up north.’  And, as you said, if we had been in New York, on many days we would have been thrilled to have 38 or 45 degrees as the high for the day.”

“Look there, look at how those clouds are forming.”  Again Bill was pointing to the south.  “I bet before too long we’ll have that rain storm Alice heard about on the Weather Channel.”  Again we all twisted in our lawn chairs to get a better look.”

“I agree,” Alice said, “I’m sensing some rain in the air.”  Sally’s chair almost tipped over from her effort to get a more direct view of the sky.

“I think I felt a drop,” I said.  “Since I’m bald on top, I’m usually the first to know when it begins to drizzle.”  I brushed at my scalp both to draw their attention to my balding and also as if to brush away the persistent fly and the beginning of the rain.

“It would be a shame if it developed into a storm,” Bill said, “We have reservations to have dinner at Veri Amici and I much prefer to sit at one of their outdoor tables.”

Always wanting to look on the bright side of things, very much including the weather, Alice reassuringly offered, “The Weather Channel promised this was going to be a passing event.”

“I hope so,” Sally said, “This is our first night here in more than a month and we were hoping for a real Floridian evening.  You know, under the stars with a gentle breeze.”

“You know, since I had that arthroscopic knee surgery, to shave my cartilage,” I added, “it’s like having a barometer in my leg.  Whenever it’s really going to rain hard, a few hours in advance it gets stiff and even painful.”  I pulled up my trouser leg to show them my repaired left knee.  “And I don’t feel a thing now.  Look.”  I flexed my leg to illustrate.  “A good range of motion and no stiffness or pain.”  I smiled at them, also to try to reassure them that they would have a lovely dinner under the stars.  “So you can count on beautiful weather later this evening.”

“But now I too am feeling raindrops,” Bill said, looking a bit deflated.  “Though the restaurant does have an awning and if it does rain there’s something nice about sitting under it and hearing the sound of it.”

In an attempt to change the subject from the weather in Florida, Alice asked, “So how was it up in Massachusetts while you were there?  From what I read, it sounded as if it wasn’t too bad.  I mean the weather.”

“And that made me comfortable about being here,” I jumped in to say, wanting to help make Sally and Bill feel better about the weather changes we were experiencing.  “I don’t like it as much when we’re down here and read about the awful weather you have up there.  I feel guilty that we’re in Florida escaping the cold and snow.”

“You shouldn’t feel that way,” Sally said.  She is the kind of person who is inclined to say things such as this to help you feel better—she is a junior high school guidance counselor back in Massachusetts and does that professionally. “You both worked hard for so many years.  You’re entitled to get away and live the good life.”  She spread her arms to take in the full expanse of the lawn and ocean as if to define further what she meant by the “good life.”

“It’s really staring to rain now,” Bill said, hunching over to keep the still gentle but intensifying rain from pelting his entire body.  “Maybe we should call it an evening.  Since Alice says it will be nice over the weekend we’ll have more time to sit out here together.  Assuming she and the Weather Channel have things under control.”  He winked at her while beginning to get up.

“But Alice’s right,” I said in support of her forecasting, “Look, look over there.  You can see the rain clouds breaking up and they’re moving east, aren’t they?  Which means that this shower will soon be over.  More important, you’ll have perfect weather for dinner tonight.”  Appreciating my confirmation, Alice was smiling and nodding enthusiastically.

Later that evening—and the weather did clear up well before Sally and Bill left for Veri Amici—Peggy called again from New York.  “Sorry I gave you such a hard time this morning,” she said, in her most contrite voice, “Do hurry back though.  We miss you.  Darling George said it’s not as much fun here with you guys out of town.  Isn’t that sweet since he’s really the one who’s always the most fun.” 

That was pure Peggy.  “And Jim, you know how political he is—almost a socialist—he said this morning, I forgot to tell you, that he’s actually interested in what you have to say about what all those smart Florida conservatives have been up to.  The only conservatives within five miles of here are the ones wanting to conserve what’s left of the original design of Washington Square Park.  But by Florida standards, even they are Commies.  Talk about boring.”

“We will be back in about three weeks,” I assured Peggy, “and we’ll be eager to fill you in on what we’ve been hearing and learning.  It is very interesting.  In fact, we spend so much time talking about politics and health care and economics that we hardly have any time to talk about the weather.”  I smiled toward Alice.

“I was just joking about that earlier today,” she said still trying to reassure me that she had only been needling us.  “Really.”  She paused then added, “Well, at least partly joking.  Talk about the weather to your heart’s content.”

Same old Peggy I was pleased to hear.  “I knew you were having fun with us.  Particularly the ‘at least partly’ part.  But, by the way, the weather,” I couldn’t help myself from adding, “has been very nice, though it was showering a couple of hours ago.  That’s Florida for you—sunny one minute, teeming the next.” 

I smiled at Alice when I read the note she had passed to me. “Enough about the weather,” it said.

“And,” Peggy laughed before she needed to hang up and race uptown to the theater, “we promise to forgive you even if you show up in those red pants.”