December 18, 2017--Snowbirding: Coke Whore (Originally Posted February 21, 2013)

“She’s such a coke whore.” 

“A what?” Charlie asked. 

We were hanging out with him at the Boynton Beach Coffee Shop, bantering with the parade of customers buying papers, cigarettes, and lottery tickets. 

“Coke whore. That's who. You're with her and all she wants is something to put up her nose. Such a slut. She’ll have sex with anyone who’ll give her any or the time of day. I mean anything. She’ll get high on a Popsicle if you give her one. Her mother? That’s a whole 'nother story. With dinner. You know what she did the other night? Not that she ever eats anything. But talk, talk, talk. That’s her middle name.  About this. About that. Really nothing. Just thinks about getting high. There’s this guy who wants to have sex with me. All day, all night. Afternoons too. Tells me how cute I am. Not that he’s that bad. But I’m not into that. Don’t get me wrong—I like sex as much as any other guy. Not that I’m a guy. It’s just an expression. I know I’m cute. But not that cute. I can see you agree with me. The cute part I mean. But like I was saying, she’s such a slut. Really, a coke whore. I don’t know where this came from. I know her too long, if you ask me. Not that you did. But last year, who knows why, this person she knows showed up and the next thing you know she was willing to, well, you know. Use your imagination. Not that you need much. Imagination, I mean. Just think about it a minute. Where do you think this is headed? No place good. How old is she after all? Not your spring chicken. But still pretty cute. Cute enough, considering. Which I’m not interested in doing. Considering. But it’s better than the other thing. If you know what I mean. The other things happening. All too much. Too, too much. I tell you. Which I know I’m doing. Not that you asked, did you? You can tell me and I’ll stop. I just came in to get some smokes. You have those unfiltered Camels today? You were out the other day. I know I shouldn’t, but at least I know my limits and when to say stop. Can't say the same for her. Just stop. Stop cold. It would do her good. There’s always time for that. To say no. First of all, does she really need this? Her mother isn’t helping. Not that she could. Help, I mean. All she wants to do is stuff food into her. I understand. She’s like a twig. You can see right through her. And you know what that means. Nothing good. Nothing good about anything. Can you think what might be? Anything good? I can’t. I’m out of time. Out of gas. Out of everything. But she’s my friend and should want to try. Or did. Not really, to tell you the truth. How can I be at the end of my rope and still want to try? But I do. Makes no sense, but still I do. Not that you can believe what I’m saying. Does any of this make sense? I can tell from the way you’re looking at me that you agree. To what I can’t be sure. But that’s the way it is. Sad, no? But she seems happy. If that’s possible. You should see the last one. Most recent one. I wouldn’t let him within ten feet of me. But what are you going to do. He keeps her happy. If you can call it that. I don’t. But that’s me. What you see, as they say. Is this ticket a winner? ‘Cause if it is, I’m outta here. I’ll probably take her along. I shouldn’t but knowing me. What can I say? But if she keeps chasing after these guys, that’s it for me. Case closed. Hasta la vista amigo.  If you ask me, that’s what I have to say. All of it. Said and done. I’ve got my life too. Get my point? One and only one so I should be moving on. Nice day out there, right? How many more of these are there gonna be? Just the cards they deal you. You get one play. One shot. One swing. Then it's nada. Over. I’m not putting that stuff up my nose. But like I said, she a coke whatever. Not that that’s the nicest thing to say about anyone. Your so-called friend. But the truth’s the truth. That’s my final word. About the truth being true. So slip me the smokes and one of those Lotto thingies and I'll be on my way. I need to go home and think about the money I’ll be winning on Saturday. I’ll be sure to come in to say goodbye. And then I'm off. Who knows where. Some place good, I hope. That would be nice. Nice. I could use some nice.” 

And with that she was gone.

September 11, 2017--Irma & Cousin Murray

I have about a dozen relatives who live all year round in south or southern Florida. Mainly cousins. 

Two live in Miami-Dade but almost all the cousins are in Palm Beach County, not far from the ocean. And so this past two weeks my thoughts and emotions have been there with them as Hurricane Irma approached and then made landfall.

I have been calling and emailing through the days to see where they are--a few evacuated--and how they are faring. And of course I have been glued to the Weather Channel both on TV and via the Internet.

The oldest cousin is 93. He has begun to show his years and so I have been focusing much of my attention on him, Cousin Murray. He can be a bit fragile and now, with his wife in rehab, happily recovering well from a recent stroke, under pressure to evacuate, he resisted, not wanting to leave her even though she was more secure and sheltered than he. 

A friend of the family convinced him to leave for his wife's sake, Cousin Elaine, to head for Tampa where it was thought to be safer than where they live in Delray Beach. 

Quoting Rona who drew an analogy to what they tell passengers on airplanes--"In case of an emergency and oxygen is needed, put your mask on first before attempting to help others."

In other words, you're not much good to others if you yourself are in danger.

So they drove to Tampa ahead of the storm and then when Irma drifted west, returned to Ft. Lauderdale, where Cousin Murray's friend has a solidly constructed house. Another advantage--this allowed him to be closer to his wife of more than 70 years.

I have been blessed with many wonderful cousins. A number of them are among my best friends. Cousin Chuck, four years older, was like a big brother. We essentially grew up as if in one household, living just two blocks apart in East Flatbush. We did everything together from playing street games, to taking marathon bike rides, to me "managing" and "training" him when he became obsessed with boxing, working out relentlessly so as to get good enough to become the next Jewish world middleweight champion.

I put manage and training in quotes because I knew as little about what they meant as he knew about boxing. Needless to say, Chuck never made it even to the Golden Gloves. But everyday was a sweet adventure following in his footsteps.

Unfortunately, he died suddenly more than 10 years ago and as a result forever there will be a vacancy in my heart.

Cousin Murray was an idol to me. He was a GI during the Second World War and when he came home on leave I huddled close to him so I could hear every word of his stories about his training and wartime assignments. Fortunately, he was not sent overseas but in his crisp uniform and spit-polished shoes, was a hero to me.

After the War, the extended family together rented a small house in the Catskill Mountain village of Tannersville. Murray worked in the city in a family business and commuted to the country on weekends. More than anyone else I looked forward to his arrival. Among the many big-cousin activities he included me in was golf (he taught me to play and let me use his clubs) and the exploration of the local countryside. He was the first and only family member to have a convertible. A green Plymouth with a black rag top.

With me in the passenger seat he loved finding open roads to run it at full speed. At that time, the New York State Thruway was being built in sections. He would learn about a completed five to 10 mile stretch before anyone else knew about it and we would head for it. 

It was the most beautiful road I had ever seen and much of it, straight as an arrow. It was irresistible to floor the accelerator pedal and get the car ripping along at more than 100 miles per hour. The first time I had experienced that velocity. Among other things, though the car's buffeting made me feel at risk, sensing this, he would turn to me and simply wink. That wink settled me and made me feel I was safe no matter what in his protective presence.

He still makes me feel that way, so many years later, in spite of his inevitable physical weakening.

And so when I finally managed to reach him again Saturday night, I could hear the roaring wind, not unlike the way the wind sounded and felt as we raced along the Thruway, eliciting in me some of the same fears, hearing that in my voice, my 94-year-old cousin, still unhappily separated from his wife, likely feeling vulnerable himself, in a south Florida bungalow that had already lost power, to calm me he said, "I don't want you to worry about me. I'm fine," he chuckled, "We're as snug as a bug in a rug."  

March 25, 2016--Ladies of Forest Trace: Posthumous Lunch With the Ladies

"We're only here for a few more days and though I know it will be difficult," Rona said, "maybe it would be good, even therapeutic to visit Forest Trace one last time and . . ."

"But with my mother . . . why would . . .  ?"

"Closure, I suppose. We've been in Florida now for almost three months--for the first time with your mother not here . . ."

"Dead. Not 'not here,' but dead because that is what she is. Avoiding saying it that way has not been helpful to me. It's gotten in the way of my mourning because I expect to get a phone call from her and even be able to pop over to see her. Her being 'not here' means she's only away. For the time being. Not gone. Not final. Not dead."

"I get your point, but I think the anti-euphemism business is not helpful. I know what she is but it doesn't feel necessary to say it over and over again. For me . . ."

"For you, fine. For me, I think I need to think in these terms. But I'll try not to obsess about it. I do need to do some more grieving. I've been stuffing my feelings of loss. When we head for New York this time no one will care when we leave or what route we take or be waiting for a call when we arrive safely."

"We're more on our own, that's true," Rona said, reaching out to hug me. When she did I burst into tears. "But we're fine, as fine as we can expect to be right now. And we will be better. These last three months in Florida have been helpful to thinking about what was and what will be."

"It would help if we didn't know so many people in such dire circumstances and . . ."

"That's always been true. We're fortunate to know so many people and that means we'll always have someone struggling with mortality."

"Put me on that list," I said, still tearful, "I'm struggling big time."

"Is there something you're not telling me? I mean do you have symptoms I should know about?"

"None other than a heavy heart."

"I have an idea," Rona said, sounding upbeat.

"I'm open for anything that would help lift me out of this."

"Why don't we call a few of your mother's friends. Some of the Ladies, and see if we can take them out to lunch."

"I like that idea. Maybe to that wonderful dim sum place, Toa Toa, where Mom, six months before she died had her last meal in a restaurant."

"She loved that lunch. We ordered all her favorites from wanton soup to soy sauce noodles."

"She ate everything. So slowly that they had to reheat the food four times and it took her two hours to finish."

"I'll remember that lunch forever."

"Six months later she was gone."

"No longer here," Rona smiled, holding on to me.

So a few days later we were able to arrange for three of the "girls," as my mother referred to them, to meet us at Toa Toa where we ordered up a storm, including a sampling of my mother's favorites.

We wanted to talk about her, and though they were happy to do that, it was clear they wanted to do so for only a limited time.

Bertha said to us, "We remember her with love. She was a remarkable person, but one special thing about her was her not wanting to dwell on unpleasant things. 'There are enough of them at our ages,' she used to so. 'In our lives, in the world. So let's try to look for positive things to talk about. To think about the future, not just the past. Things we can feel optimistic about.' That was her in a nutshell."

"This is not always easy for us," Fannie said, "We all come from Europe from a  time when things there were not good for people like us and then here with the Depression, World War II, and of course what Hitler did."

They all nodded. But perked up almost immediately when the first in a stream of steamed dumplings arrived.

"She wouldn't be happy about the election," Gussie said.

"I thought we were supposed to talk about more optimistic things," Fannie said, at 97 managing her chopsticks quite well.

"We'll get to that," Gussie said, asking for a knife and fork, "We'll get to that. But, like I said, she would not be happy about that Trump."

"Who is," Bertha said. "such a bully. Such a bigot. Who says such terrible things about women. He claims he has Jewish friends and loves Israel, but I have my doubts."

"Though some of the men where we live, the few men who are still with us, some of them like him and voted for him in the primary."

"Did they tell you their reasons?" Rona asked.

"He can get things done, they say."

"Just that?"

"Just that. And most of the men think he knows what to do with the Muslims and Mexicans. I mean, the terrorists and immigrants. They talk as if they're one and the same."

"Did they say what they think Trump will do?"

"No. Just that he's strong and will keep them safe and build that wall."

"To tell you the truth," Fannie said, "These men are lucky to wake up in the morning or even know who they are. They're that oyver-botled. You expect them to know any specifics about Trump or any of the other ones? They get lost going to the bathroom." The ladies smiled and nodded in agreement.

"I love these chive dumplings," Bertha said, "These were your mother's favorites. In the past, when she was better, when she had lunch here, when she got back to Forest Trace she would go down the list of what everyone ordered and gave an analysis of each of the dishes."

Remembering that, when she was fully herself, really until not so long ago, when she was already 105, I began to tear up.

"I'm sure I know what she would be thinking about Trump," I managed to say, "Among everything  else she would have been repelled by his crassness, his crudeness. She never uttered a four-letter word even when that would have been forgivable. She was very proper and held everyone including herself to very high behavior standards. She could be quite judgmental about those kind of things."

"Do you remember the 2008 election?" Fannie asked.

"I think I know what you are going to say," I said.

"How your mother worked so hard to help Obama win the nomination?" I nodded. "How she worked on the three of us and dozens and dozens of others at Forest Trace. Almost all women, many who were born before women could vote, how she worked on us one by one to convince us that Obama would make a better president than Hillary."

"And how at first we all resisted," Gussie added. "It took her awhile but slowly but surely she persuaded almost all of us to vote for Obama. Which we did. She helped 125 of the girls fill out absentee ballots and then in huge shopping bags took them to the board of elections."

"I do remember that," Rona said. "I was so proud of her. She was a feminist in her own way. Very much so. But she put that aside because she saw more potential in Obama."

"And she was thrilled,"I said, "when he not only won the nomination but was elected. Not that she overlooked his flaws as president. She could be very critical. Tough-minded but fair. She never let anyone off easy. I can tell you from personal experience that she had very high standards and it wasn't easy to meet them."

"We held ourselves responsible for Bush," Fannie said.

"How so?" Rona asked.

"Those chads. Remember how in 2000 George Bush won Florida because of those hanging chads in Broward and Palm Beach Counties? That's where we live and I am sure with our shaky hands we by mistake pushed the wrong chads and wound up voting for that Nazi, Pat Buchanan."

"He's just an anti-Semite, which is bad enough," Gussie said.

"Well, your mother wanted to make sure that never happened again. So she had us fill out those absentee ballots. With her checking everything, I'm sure none of us voted for John McCain and that awful Sarah."

"And Obama did win Florida, by a comfortable margin, and of course the election. Your mother was very proud of that."

"So, here's the big political question," I said. They put down their forks and chopsticks to make sure they heard me. "How would she be feeling this time about Hillary?"

For a moment no one said anything. "That would be complicated," Fannie said.

"I'm sure she'd vote for Hillary," Gussie was quick to add.

"But with mixed feelings," Fannie said. "Though there's no one else she would even consider voting for." The other girls looked quizzically at Fannie, who added, "She might have been well over 100, but she had all her marbles and she'd be like all those young women not yet voting for Hillary. The ones interested in Bernie. I think she would have felt that Hillary takes for granted the votes of women just because they and she are women. Solidarity. A word we used to use in the labor movement. You know I was a member of the ILGWU. The ladies' union. Garment workers."

"Say a little more," Rona said, "We can ask them to reheat the food."

"This is more important than shrimp dumplings. For your Mom that would not have been enough. Just being a woman. To her as you said that was important but not enough to vote for a president. As with Obama eight years ago, she was only interested in who she felt would make the best president. If that person happened to be a woman, so much the better."

"Or a black man,"Bertha added with a wide smile. "And I agree, only if it's so much the better."

"She would have understood all these young women," Fannie continued, "How they don't want to feel pressure or obligated  to thank their mothers' generation for what is now possible for young women. Though that's to a large extent true--all the opportunities--these girls, and they are girls to me, are entitled to stand on their own two feet and accomplish all they are capable of accomplishing. And not feel they have to be beholden to anyone."

"But I am also absolutely sure," Bertha said, "that she would have said that it's important not to forget the past and all the sacrifices women made to blaze a path for their daughters and granddaughters. That's only fair. And in the primary we just had and in November, if she had only still been with us, she would've voted for Hillary. And proudly."

Bertha nodding said, "Can you imagine what your mother might have accomplished if she had all the rights and opportunities these young women have?"

"She would have been a school superintendent," Gussie said. "Running all the schools. Not just a first grade teacher. And a good one."

"She wouldn't have had it any other way," Rona said, "Only if she earned it. No special treatment or sense of entitlement."

"I'll drink to that," all three of my Mom's friends said, clicking tea cups.

"Do you think they could bring us some more hot tea?" Bertha asked. "We Polish girls like our tea very hot."

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.”

January 8, 2016--Snowbirding: Checkout at Walmart

"Them sons-of-bitches they cut me this year."

We were on the checkout line at Walmart in Boynton Beach with a cart full of staples for our place in Delray.

"Can't trust a one of 'em." Muttering to himself was a bent-in-half old man--at least 90 by the looks of him--just ahead of us with a half-filled shopping cart.

Ours contained gallon jugs of bottled water, beer, soda and juice, various paper goods, and other essentials that would help get us started during our three months in Florida. His, a few comestibles, some shirtsleeved shirts, underwear, and two six-packs of Bud.

"Sons of bitches," he said again. "Wish there'd be somethin' I could do 'bout it," he spit through missing teeth, this time in our direction.

"Like I said, they cut me."

"Cut you?" I said, with Rona signaling behind his back that I should mind my own business.

"Them bastards in Washington. My social."

"Your social?" Tired from the drive of more than seven hours from Beaufort, SC, it took me awhile to figure out what had got him so riled up.  "I get it. That is I think I do. You're talking about . . ."

Rona continued to be annoyed with me.

"Like I said, my social." He turned away from us, to Rona's relief, as by then he was first in line.

"Help me out here, would you?" he said to the cashier.

"Anything I can do," she smiled.

"How much is this one here?" He was holding up a blue plaid shirt.

"Let me scan it for you." She did. "It's on sale. It says," she pointed to the screen. "only $9.95."

"OK," he said, "You can ring that one up. Now what about this one?" This time he showed her a seven-pack of jockey shorts.

"They're on sale too. Just $4.95."

"Easy for you to say," he snapped.

"Sorry, sir. I'm just trying to be helpful." She continued to smile at him.

I could hear him grumbling, not appreciating her cheery spirit.

"Maybe we should change lines," Rona whispered to me.

"All the other lines are filled with even older people," I exaggerated. "Let's stay where we are. He's almost through."

"How much are the beers goin' for these days?" he asked, "On sale too?"

"Sorry, no. I think those are $6.95," she said. "Want me to scan 'em?"

"I'd rather you total up what I owe you this far. I mean for the shirt, the shorts, and this here beer."

"I can tell you that. It says $21.85. Not including tax. Want me to calculate that?"

"Not necessary, though what they do with the tax is beyond me. Don't do me no good. But that adds up already to more'an I got," he again spat. "Let me put the shirt back. I'll take the shorts. I'm runnin' out of underwear. That way I can get them and pay for the two six-packs." He again looked over toward me, shaking his head.

I nodded back at him. Directly to me he once more said, they cut my social, them sons-of-bitches."

"I think I know what you mean," I said. "They also cut my Social Security this year. I used to get . . ."

Rona jabbed me in the back and I shut up.

"Tell the truth, you don't look like you'll miss it. You got that cart all loaded up and she's quite a looker, your niece or whatever she is."

"My wife," I said softly.

"They're making me pay more for my Medicare and won't even pay to have these choppers fixed." He opened his mouth wide and pointed to all his missing teeth. "Can't any more eat a goddamn apple. Worked all my life and this is what they do to me. I should say, what's left of me." He paused, sighed again, and said, "Not much. Not much is left of me."

"A lot of people feel the same way you do," Rona said, breaking her silence.

"Tell the truth that's no comfort to me. Only makes things worse."

"What do you mean?" Rona asked, even more empathetically.

"Everythin's gottin' worse. For everyone. Tell the truth I don't see much hope. Maybe 'cause I'm so old and bent like a pretzel that I can't see anything good coming along. A good day for me is if I don't fall down flat on my face in the parking lot."

"I wish I could . . . ," Rona stammered.

"That's awfully nice of you ma'am.  Sorry to have upset you. It's a nice day, the sun's out, you're here to have a good time. Don't let the likes of me upset you."

"That's OK," Rona tried to assure him.

"But as I said," I thought he winked, "Them sons-of-bitches. . ."

January 6, 2016--Landing

We are settling in in Delray and so I will not be posting very much today.

On Thursday and Friday I will report about the drive south--

Thursday, about  The Ava Gardner Museum.

Friday, about Checking Out At Publix.

But I can't resist offering a brief comment from the campaign trail--

Donald TRUMP has managed to neuter the Clintons, especially Bill.

TRUMP's response to Hillary's calling him out for being sexist was to point out that she is married to and lives with a sexual abuser.

TRUMP was right about that.

(And, by the way, how feminist was it for Hillary not dump Bill after he was caught fooling around with a 20-year-old intern?)

So Hillary announced that she is no longer going to talk about TRUMP as sexist.

Then in New Hampshire the other day, Bill, let loose to campaign, when pressed by reporters, refused to talk about TRUMP. He instead spoke blandly in support of his wife's candidacy.

How many more times do you think he will be allowed to campaign?  Certainly not in South Carolina.

January 5, 2016--Snowbirding: Adieu to Balthazar (Concluded)

Early-Bird Special

Ten days later, with my mother still very much alive—actually quite recovered with many months and possibly many more years to live (so said her team of doctors)--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—Alice suggested that rather than eating leftovers at our rented condo by the ocean, maybe we should try the Chinese restaurant, the China Diner, at an adjacent shopping plaza.

“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,” Alice 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.” 

Alice looked at me as if to say, “You’re so naïve.  We’ve been here long enough for even you to know about 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, slipped lower in my seat and hid my face behind the plastic-sheathed menu.

“You’re being silly,” Alice 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,” Alice said, sharing the responsibility for our seemingly unusual order.  Actually, our mutually-agreed-upon decision not to participate in any 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 70-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 Alice, “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,” Alice said, “we’ll remember to ask them to make the Singapore Chow Mei Fun spicier.”

To that I wondered out loud, “But what will we tell everyone back at Balthazar?”