"Keep Your Snowflakes, Christmas" aka "Damn, It's Cold Out Here"

I'm in Connecticut briefly for the holidays rather than my home in Sarasota.  It would be mature of me to enjoy what people around the country consider the quintessential Christmas ambiance- warming up before a fire, pine forests, the possibility of a dusting of snow.  Apparently I'm not that mature.

As I drive around towns with names such as Bethlehem that host Santa's arrival in a horse drawn carriage, on an evening when the town Christmas tree is lit to the sound of applause and the residents stroll and sip their hot mulled cider, I find it hard to suppress the urge to cry out: "Damn, it's cold out here."

When I was back in Sarasota, I made a Santa sighting right after doing yoga on the beach. Now we're talking.  But in Ct., standing outside in the frost of a New England winter, trying to avoid my neighbor in her antler headpiece, my body shivers and my eyes water, as I watch the endless holiday firetruck parade through my veil of tears.  Is this fun?  What am I missing?  There, I've said it.  It's almost sacrilegious to not want Christmas with mittens, hot cocoa and what some people mistakenly consider zaney holiday cheer.

I know how grinchy and ungrateful all this sounds; it's not like I'm being forced to spend the holidays hillbilly hand fishing. (Catching giant catfish with you bare hands has to be worse than a Connecticut winter.)

I realize how special it is to spend Christmas with people you love, wherever you happen to be. It's just that I'd rather be able to feel my fingers and toes while I'm sipping egg nog and opening my presents.  Is this unreasonable?  Can't we all put this White Christmas fantasy to rest already?

If we celebrate in Florida next year, I promise to throw in a Santa ice sculpture.  If Christmas can't be imagined without bundling up, I'll keep the air conditioning on high.  Then I'll sprinkle some faux snow on the bougainvillea and float plastic snowflakes in the pool- but this is as far as I'll go in the zaney holiday cheer department.  Don't expect a Rudolph hairpiece to be any part of this picture.

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Blue Scarf Collective Presents Gala Dali at Home Resource, Sarasota 11/28/11

The irreverent artist, Salvador Dali, sizzled in his own right; but throw in the fire of his passionate wife and muse, Gala, and you can well understand how a clock could have melted in their presence. (google: "The Persistence of Memory" by Dali)

In a powerful one-act/one person play sponsored by Michael and Kathy Bush, owners of Home Resource, (a showroom of mouth watering contemporary furniture in Sarasota) the Blue Scarf Collective of Tampa presented My Unspeakable Confessions: Gala Dali Declines to Explain Herself, beautifully written by Heather L. Jones, to sold-out crowds on Nov. 25th and 28^th.

This is Home Resource's first collaboration with the Dali Museum and Blue Scarf Collective. Looks like there may be a repeat January 2012 performance at HR, which I suggest you run out and see.

Roxanne Fay brilliantly played Gala, Salvador Dali's charismatic, devoted and headstrong seductress wife. Tarot cards, a favorite pastime of Gala's, were read, one by one, to cleverly introduce the chapters of Gala's personal story, an act of dramatic creation itself. The lady did as she pleased.

Through Ms. Fay's moving performance, we got up close and personal to Gala's all consuming love for Dali (and herself) and his equally intense connection to her.  She wished to be everything to him: lover, wife, mother, collaborator and inspiration. We came to understand how this rapport completely defined each of them and allowed their creative and personal lives to flourish.  Like a plant needs water, Gala told us that without the intensity of love, she was 'invisible", a state simply unacceptable to her. (She seemed to have lots of attractive young men doing their best to help keep her in view.)

Ms. Fay's powerful incarnation was by turns, admirable and arrogant, playing with the audience's instinct to pigeonhole Gala. This made it hard to know whether Gala was likable, a raving egomaniac or both. And in the presence of such a force of nature, who cares?  One thing was certain- to live in "Galaland" was not for the faint of heart.

It was shocking to hear Ms. Fay drop Gala's Russian accent after the performance ended. She so thoroughly inhabited this role it was almost impossible to imagine her as anyone else.

Adding to the pleasure of this performance was that I watched it while seated in a Charles Eames chair with an Eero Saarinen side table nearby for my wine glass.  Call me a snob, but even if you're not a style freak, just try sitting down in an Eames chair for five minutes and I promise, you'll never want to watch a play in any other way again.

Looking around the showroom at the rapt audience strewn about on such elegant designer pieces, I felt as if we were at a glamorous party Gala herself, might have thrown. It wouldn't have been that different than this evening; I'm sure she was always center stage, riveting her guests with one outrageous tale after the next, as she scanned the crowd for a handsome admirer who could help keep her visible to herself and others.

My Unspeakable Confessions: Gala Dali Declines to Explain Herself, written by Heather L. Jones, performed by Roxanne Fay.  Ms. Jones and Ms. Fay (with Aleshea Harris) are the founders of Blue Scarf Collective, a writers' and artists' collaborative in the Tampa Bay area. Find them on Facebook.

Home Resource, Contemporary Furniture Showroom,  741 Central Avenue, Sarasota; www.homeresource.com

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A CT Transplant in the Sarasota Afterlife

Published in SRQ Magazine, July 2011


Last winter, at my home in Connecticut—a place no one wants to go unless the word snowplow makes your knees weak—I had a life-altering dream.

In the dream, I phoned my parents at the house I grew up in forty years ago.
The phone rang and rang.  No one picked up.

At that moment in the dream, I understood that my mother and father had passed on and I would never be able to speak with them again. Ever. It sunk in fast, with the weight of an anchor dropping into the sea.

I woke with a wildly pounding heart after feeling the impossible: the pain of having lost them.  But then, as gleeful as Ebenezer Scrooge when he woke up, I remembered that both of my almost-octogenarian parents had only passed on to Florida!  In fact, they’re thriving in this beautiful city of Sarasota.

Back in the now of today, I’d been given a gift of time to be with them.  I still had the chance to call them and know they'd pick up.  We could still discuss such weighty things as how the winter storm had knocked out my power again.  But it was different this time.  The sand had fallen through the hourglass and a huge shift had taken place.

Like many families divided by geography, I hadn't spent enough time with my parents in recent years to really know them as they are today.

We were still operating under our 50-year-old parent/child formula.  Now, I hoped we could spend whatever remaining time we had in a different way.  Could we have a real friendship? Could we actually know one another as adults as well as family?

Most importantly: Could they really stop reminding me to wear a nice warm sweater every time I step outside?  Galvanized, I knew that things would have to change—and pronto.  Carpe diem?  You bet.

Immediately after my dream, I decided to buy a home in sunny Sarasota. I flew down from Connecticut and looked at 63 houses in a week.  By the last day, I had a signed contract in hand with the closing less than a month away.  Talk about impulse shopping!

My parents were pleased if a bit perplexed. Nice as it would be to see their daughter more often, my speed and enthusiasm concerned them. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" they asked. "What aren't you telling us?" my mother lifted one eyebrow meaningfully.

I wasn’t telling them about the dream of their mortality, and to be fair to them, they’d witnessed quite enough of my hasty decisions in the past and hadn’t been impressed.

Yet, they soon came around to this Sarasota idea. Hard for a parent to keep complaining that their adult child wants to see them more.   I'd have to pinch myself if my daughter ever agreed to this scenario. But she's 18 and I'm…not.

So I've jumped into Sarasota life with a nice couple who happen to be my parents.  They've generously invited me into their world.  I found myself attending a casual rehearsal with Itzhak Perlman under a beautiful white tent at USF S-M.  Other days, we watched the inspired and charming Leif Bjaland conduct the Sarasota Orchestra at Van Wezel; we laughed at the Florida Studio Theater's performance of  "I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change;" and we listened to the brilliant architect, Carl Abbot, discuss his work at a lecture given by the Fine Arts Society of Sarasota, a group of dynamic supporters of culture and education in Sarasota.

These events were strikingly intimate; no sign of that imaginary wall between audience and performer. While Sarasota was clearly a sophisticated city, it was still perfectly sized for a personal experience.

Sitting with my parents at these events, I watched them with new eyes as they greeted and chatted with their friends about things I hadn’t known interested them.  They settled comfortably next to each other, not as mom and dad, but as a loving couple long accustomed to sharing small spaces.

Their conversation with each other flowed, freed from the burden of editing for younger ears.  Not once during our outings did I hear Sit up straight, share with your sister, stop complaining.  Nor did I feel tempted to roll my eyes. Yes, most definitely, this friendship thing had legs.

I tip my hat to you, Sarasota. Could this have happened in our old family home in New York where I grew up?  Not likely.  Too cold, too many memories, too familiar.  We started fresh here, in this sunny city, with its endless offerings and natural beauty.

Recently, we met at Columbia, a popular and lively restaurant spilling out onto the street of fashionable St. Armand's Circle.  There was a bit of wind that gusted from time to time. I was wearing a sundress and had hung my sweater on the back of my chair.

"It's getting a bit chilly out," said my mother. "Yes, it is," I agreed and dug into the justly famous house salad.  Neither my mother nor I seemed concerned that my sweater was left on my seat-back, flapping gently in the coastal breeze… we were all home again, for the first time.

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Come Back, RIAF October 2011

I was very sorry that the six-day Ringling International Arts Festival at The John and Mable Ringling Museum, had to come to an end this past Sunday.  Something’s very right when the daily pressing question is which show to pick and go see.

Should it be, the campy, brilliant dance fun of Doug Elkins & Friends’ interpretation of  “The Sound of Music,” or Colin Dunn’s soulful choreographed meditation on his life as a step dancer, or Brooklyn Rider’s electrifying string quartet that made Beethoven rock?  Every day was Christmas morning.

If you were lucky enough to go to the festival frequently, then you probably got caught up in the can’t-believe-it buzz so many people were feeling from the sheer variety and number of performances.  In fact, even the actual scrambling between events became an enjoyable performance piece itself as streams of people flowed between afternoon and evening shows, studying their tickets to determine which Asolo was the right Asolo. 

Then, if you threw in the ongoing program called Ringling 360 (the very apt name given to museum events planned around RIAF), you had a veritable three-ring circus, if you pardon my John and Mable.

By the second day, strangers started recognizing each other, albeit with some understandable confusion.  “Wasn’t that a great panel at the art forum?”  I’d hear one say.  And then “Oh, sorry, I must have seen you at the Jazz Sunset.”  Opinions were offered to new friends.  “If “Canta Tango” is sold out, and you like great singing, head for Meklit Hadero.  She’s wonderful even if she doesn’t come with that incredible pair of tango dancers.”

And just when you thought you were completely 360’d out with all the forums and workshops and performances, you suddenly realized that you had forgotten to see the Zimoun kinetic/sound sculpture show which just opened at the museum.  

It sounded incredible and you really wanted to go, but you were too exhausted from all the running around.  Not to mention, by this point, you were also lightheaded from the weight you lost on the RIAF diet, because frankly, who had time to eat?

The plan was to go see the Zimoun exhibit during the opening night block party in the Ringling Courtyard.  But first, you got caught up with the musicians known as the Asphalt Orchestra. They weaved through the crowd, trumpets and saxes blasting, in funky juxtaposition to the replicas of ancient sculpture that surrounding them.

And how could you pull yourself away from watching all the talented RIAF performers walking and dancing around the museum courtyard that night?  They were so free and so gorgeous and so absolutely nothing at all like you.  Of course, there were also Baryshnikov sightings to be made and fireworks to watch.

Zimoun did not disappoint. I could cut and paste the description of how the DC motors, cotton balls, and cardboard boxes work together to create unique and powerful sounds and designs, but I’m not technical enough to really explain it.

Fortunately, motor knowledge is not important here. The elegant effect of each of these five whimsical installations set within its own pristine showcase had little to do with mechanics.

I’m not ready to say goodbye to all the diversity, talent and fun that RIAF brought to Sarasota.  Couldn’t it be longer next year?  This time I’ll be ready- I just joined a gym in anticipation.

Please read my other blog:  http://whatdogsreallythink.blogspot.com/  http://whatdogsreallythink.blogspot.com/

Ringling International Arts Festival Forum

On Wednesday afternoon, as part of this year’s Ringling International Arts Festival, Steven High, executive director at the Ringling Museum, moderated a panel of art professionals in a discussion of the nature and challenges of contemporary visual and performing arts called, “The New Looking Glass: Seeing Ourselves in the Art of our Time.”

This group included Ringling’s curator of Modern and Contemporary Art, Matthew McLendon; Asolo Repertory’s Director, Michael Edwards; Herald Tribune’s Arts and Books editor, Susan Rife; Museum of Miami’s  associate curator, Rene Morales; RIAF performer, Colin Dunn; and Key Chorale’s artistic director, Joseph Caulkins.

The panel presented a broad range of viewpoints to a packed audience of art supporters.  Subjects ran the gamut from the origins of step dancer Colin Dunn’s inspiration, to a discussion of taking creative risks and the future plans of the panelists.

Throughout the forum, as an art fan myself, one thought kept coming to my mind:  This influential panel’s burgeoning interest in alternative and expansive programming is transforming the idea of what constitutes an “art experience” in our city.  Doesn’t it also make sense to address the receiving end of this equation and start expanding upon what it means to be an arts supporter in Sarasota?

I listened to the panel talk about directions they’re taking to reflect what’s happening today, with an eye on staying current tomorrow.  Subjects included the Ringling’s edgy exhibitions of sound, space and light with Zimoun’s sound sculptures, and Turrell’s Skyspace.

Also mentioned was Asolo Rep’s forward thinking “Prince of Cuba” in Spanish, a nod to our future bilingual state, and this company’s reworking of Hamlet into a shorter, hipper production to entice tomorrow’s audience.

Joseph Caulkin discussed how he’s up for anything that takes his chorus to the people; even by once irreverently performing in an airplane hangar.  Susan Rife referred to The Herald Tribune’s new launching of an up to the minute website devoted exclusively to the arts.

These contemporary approaches demonstrate the nature of how the arts are part and parcel of the changing world they reflect.  As the boundaries around what defines the contemporary arts loosen, so do our expectations of what we see and how it can be experienced.

But it’s often difficult to stay receptive to what is new or different and not categorize it by our old standards of judgment.  How do we quiet the familiar “art should look like this” voice in our heads, in order to stay present and open to what exists right in front of our eyes?  How can the looking glass reflect what’s new, if we’re afraid to see and experience it?

Why is it so uncomfortable to embrace change, when, like death and taxes, we know it’s inevitable?

The name of the forum “The New Looking Glass: Seeing Ourselves in the Art of our Time” really sums it up.  Who we are today is reflected by what we create now and vice versa.  This abstraction was made very simple to me recently by the unlikely example of an older couple I met in the Ringling parking lot.  They began speaking to me after we left the RIAF performance of Stephanie Batten Bland’s lyrically agile dance piece, “Terra Firma.”

“Maybe we’re too old,” the wife said to me. “We couldn’t really tell what it was about.”

“How did you feel while you were watching it?” I asked.

“Oh, they were beautiful to watch,” she replied. “They reminded me of that free feeling I had when I was younger, you know, when you thought you could do anything or go anywhere.”

“Can’t we still feel that way?” asked the husband with a smile.

At this, he tenderly put his arm around his wife.  Surprisingly, they both started to laugh heartily, inspired by the evocation of the dance they suddenly understood in their own way.

“So you’ll come back again next year?” I laughed back at them.

“We’ll be here,” the wife replied, taking her husband’s hand and walking away from me towards their parked car a few feet away.

Please read my other blog:   http://whatdogsreallythink.blogspot.com/

Is That Art & Should I Like It?

There’s that scene from the seventies film “An Unmarried Woman” where art dealer Jill Clayburgh breaks up with her artist boyfriend.  Soon after, she’s seen struggling to carry the huge painted canvas he goodbye-gave her, down the narrow city streets of NY where she lives.

Many people thought she was crazy to dump sexy painter Alan Bates rather than move to Europe with him, as he wanted.  What struck me though, was the image of a free-thinking woman weaving through a busy crowd, a painting sail in her hands, tacking toward her hard–won independence.  Shame about Alan Bates though; too bad they didn’t have Skype back then or is that too have-your-cake-and-eat-it of me?

Sometimes looking at a contemporary work of art or exhibition feels exactly like the end of that movie.  We don’t quite understand what’s before us or where it’s all leading, but recognize that our reaction is vitally alive, distinctly our own, perhaps a bit clumsy but impossible to ignore.

It’s exciting to run into this unguarded part of our selves from time to time; especially when contrasted with the quality of the dreary ruminations that usually preoccupy us.  

Would I rather be silently fuming because, despite what I’ve been repeatedly told, strengthening my core muscles has done absolutely nothing to help my lower back?  How many more ideas can I come up with to stretch a dollar?  Do I really want to spend too much time wondering if eating a low fat banana nut muffin is considered cheating?

But what if you don’t like how contemporary art makes you feel?  What if going to an exhibition fills you with uneasy questions:  What is this exactly?  What is the artist trying to say?  Maybe you become annoyed because you think the artist is trying to pull the wool over your eyes.

Or conversely, perhaps you might really like what you see despite being told that you shouldn’t.  Then you might begin to second-guess why something strange, ugly or incomprehensible is so appealing to you.  It doesn’t help if everyone around you hates it while you want to hang it smack dab in the front entrance of your home.

In the end, there’s only one constant to expect when you’re looking at any kind of art and that is: You’re on your own.

Does it help at this point to bring up that most every art movement is at first met with confusion and contempt?  When the Impressionists put their hazy spin on the world or Picasso rearranged a woman’s face to resemble a checkerboard, there was not a rallying cry of Eureka heard throughout the land initially.

And consider the flipside.  Collectors who are seen as savvy today often purchased the work of struggling and unknown artists.  True, some may have been guided by curators or dealers, but there are plenty of examples of collectors who just bought what they liked.

These were the people whose scowling mothers told them to stop spending money like it was growing on trees.  Yet many of these art fans wound up with impressive and valuable collections years down the line, despite their mothers’ tongue clucking (or perhaps because of it.)

Or maybe a collection doesn’t turn out to be a confirmation of the collector’s brilliant foresight and they were just stuck enjoying it over the course of their lifetime.

Where I’m going with all of this is to ask the question: why do our reactions to art have to be explained or judged?  Once we start responding to the artwork before us, we actually become part of the creative process ourselves and that is its own reward.

Let’s take two contemporary exhibitions at the Ringling Museum for example.  If you’re over thirty and went to the recent Beyond Bling show, chances are you wondered why kids screamed “Snoop Dog!” when they looked at a painting.  Probably scantily clad girls from the ghetto and J Lo also have nothing to do with your life.

But how else would we get that close to seeing and feeling how this younger generation interprets not only their world, but a world that has become ours as well by default, whether we like it or not? 

Those artists offered us a translation of our times. As we looked at their work we experienced their interpretations through our own point of view.  That’s when the good stuff starts to happen. As we process our reactions, we walk away with new thoughts and feelings that can impact, annoy or please but most certainly affect us, if even in a subtle way.

And what about the Ringling’s new upcoming permanent exhibition of James Turrell’s “Skyspace?” Is it just a very expensive hole in the roof through which we see the passing sky?  If we let go of the self-evident and enjoy its abstraction, couldn’t it also feel like a poem in light or a transformation of ordinary space into something contemplative and at moments, sublime?  If nothing else, it’s a form of liberation from two-dimensional wall art to a kind of in-flux magic that visitors can experience differently every time the weather shifts.

I’m not suggesting that I have the answer to these questions.  I don’t know that anybody does or that it’s even important.  I just know that having an interesting experience often trumps the explanation of it.

How lucky we are in Sarasota, to have museums, galleries and pop-up exhibitions that stimulate this inner dialogue and invite us to be part of such a fascinating conversation.

Recently I found out that if you get a blueberry muffin without the nuts, you could save about 100 calories.  I’ll take the shimmering light and sky through a hole in the Ringling Museum’s roof any day.


Please read my other blog:  http://whatdogsreallythink.blogspot.com/  

Mangrove- A Dating Site for Southern Singles?

If it’s true, and it is, that I wear brighter colors and more revealing clothing in Sarasota than I ever did living up north, does this mean that I feel bolder here?  And if that were the case, wouldn’t the reverse be true:  that up north, I was somehow a meeker version of myself in all those swaddled earth tones?

Well then no wonder I’ve moved here.   All that time wasted trying to convince myself that cold air makes you hearty.  Who was I kidding? —Cold air makes you cold.  And not to be DocSeussian about it, but I do not like to be in pain; to be in pain makes me complain.

To clarify, I’m not so free in Sarasota that you will find me singing ABBA tunes at a karaoke bar; nor will I be seen jogging over the Ringling Bridge in short shorts or wearing anything in the chartreuse family.

But I will sign up at one of Sarasota’s many dance schools and learn the tango, now that I live in the sultry heat to fuel it.  And when Noise Ordinance 2 showcased a full day and night of 39 local bands at the Cock & Bull, you bet I was there.  Good news to learn that these groups play year round in town at different venues.

To feed the dreamer in me, I’ll continue my frequent visits to The Ringling’s Venetian Gothic mansion, Ca’ d’Zan, and make believe I live there.  What would it be like to see the world everyday through the thousands of amethyst, ruby, emerald and blue stain glass windowpanes that turn Ca’ d’Zan into candyland?  Not sure, but I do think I should be given the chance to try it.

In the end though, it’s the heat that’s the real inhibition buster for an ex cold weather warrior.  When I step outside in a barely-there summer frock and am gobsmacked by a massive hot cloud of steamy tropicalia, all I can do is laugh and wonder how to get away with wearing even less than the flimsy dress I’ve already got on.

The warmth relaxes muscles and takes the edge off life concerns.  Forget bikram yoga or steam rooms.  After a few months in Sarasota, perspective changes.  That once familiar edge appears so unnecessary now; all those bill deadlines, appointments and exercise programs.  Over scheduling?  Somehow it all gets done here without the mania.  Auto pay?  Yes please!  Leaves more time to bike to the beach with a picnic dinner after work.  Better to toast to an evening swim with loved ones than convince myself that watching MTV’s third season of 16 and Pregnant is sharing quality time with family.

Learning to balance work and play’s not easy in this town.  For someone used to colder climes, it’s hard to drop the association that beaches, live music, and street side dining has with ”vacation.”  This brings with it its own host of challenges.  Waking up to that bright sunshine on a Tuesday, let’s say, makes it tough to accept that it’s a regular workday and kayaking through a mangrove tunnel will have no place in it.

Did I just say mangrove?  Never said mangrove up north; apple orchard, yes; hayfield, most certainly; but mangrove, fuhgeddaboudit.  The closest I’ve ever gotten to a mangrove was when I tried to get a ticket to “The Mangrove Slasher 2” at last year’s Sarasota Film Festival.   (Don’t google Mangrove Slasher 1.  There never was a 1.  Don’t ask.)

But just knowing that the mangrove is there, right around us, with all its primitive, dark, mysterious, tropical power reminds me that control is an illusion, or for those so inclined, that Hogwarts isn’t really so far away.  If a tree in a swamp can feel like it’s about to ask me to dance, who am I to say no?

Please read my other blog:  http://whatdogsreallythink.blogspot.com/  

Sarasota Dreamin'

I slide my thumbnail down the tightly closed head of a bird of paradise flower.  The bud immediately opens and three blooms pop in quick succession.  The man who sold it to me at the Saturday Sarasota farmer's market, told me to do that.  "If it doesn't open, " he advised, "just give it a little help."

Am I really able to spend part of my day doing things like this?

If I had stayed in Connecticut, where I lived until recently, my spare time would have been spent throwing salt on the driveway to outwit black ice.

Soon after my arrival here, my Sarasota routine took hold.  I’m thankful that my family, with their jobs and colleges up north, travel down to visit often.  And I can work from home.  For the first time as an adult, after thirty years of multi-person navigations, my time is mostly my own.

Usually, upon waking and still in pajamas, I open the front door to enjoy my potted plants, now able to live outside.  I had dragged them down the eastern seaboard convinced they’d forgive me for the purgatory they’d been placed in up north.  "I coulda been a contender," these Brando botanicals seemed to mutter accusingly as they hung their heads through the unfriendly chill of yet another New England winter.

Now they're players alright.  Play-uhs. Their leaves are enormous and show- off glossy.  Their numerous buds are so ample and ripe they look like they're shameless contestants in a beauty pageant.  To an ex-Northerner, this abundance feels freakishly fabulous.  It's like walking through the Jurassic Park of Houseplants just to make it up my front path.  How long can they possibly hold a grudge against me now that they're coddled by Sarasota's semi-tropical splendor?

I step back inside and then back again outside several times, just because I can.  Smiling a bit too smugly, I realize that never again will I curse at frozen keys in useless fingers, while slapstick-wrestling a wind-whipped door in an oversized anorak.

Who's your daddy now, Snowpocalypse? 

With a large cup of coffee, I sit down at the computer to work for about five hours.  My small but needy garden begins to beckon at that point or, more accurately, I beckon my small and hugely over-tended garden.  I take an unnatural pride in keeping it weed-free.  There are no dead or rotting leaves to be found either, no hint of the natural cycles of growth and decay.  Gardeners with this kind of preening, perfectionist tendency used to really annoy me with their flawless pruning skills.  I disliked and assiduously avoided them and their tedious mulch stories.  I try not to think about this too deeply nowadays.

Then back to work.  But wait—isn’t it a good time to bike?  A short ride wouldn't be too distracting.  My neighbor tootles around our block in a golf cart with his drooling Pekingese.  He says he’s walking his dog Florida-style.  It's fun to pedal alongside them, although the extraordinary greenhouses at Selby Gardens are really nice in the afternoon, too.  Many of the plants were originally from tropical rain forests, so they’re magic to see in their glorious yet naturally earthy displays.  And when my phone rings there, I have an excuse to say "Can't talk now, I’m having lunch with The Bromeliads."

And then again, if I were downtown anyway, I’d go to Main Street and visit the newly opened Bookstore 1 that feels like listening to Mozart after years of Muzak.  Then I’d head over to the fab onyx bar at Cafe Palm for their delectable, freshly made crepes.  The varied restaurant clientele there is a must-see.  Last time, this included a pair of gorgeous lovers so engrossed they barely came up for Chablis, a besotted woman cooing to her heat struck dachshund, and a disgruntled older gentleman energetically complaining to his young female companion about his wife.  The companion didn't appear to speak English.  Another crepe?  Absolutely, I wouldn’t miss this!

And how far is the beach from here anyway?  Not too.  People from up north don't really believe that Siesta Beach sand stays cool underfoot.  They think it's just tourist mumbo jumbo.  I too, wondered if it was true that you could really walk for miles and never have to do that frenzied foot-hopping dance we grew up practicing on the scorching sands of the Atlantic.  But having just won "best beach in the country", Siesta is destined to have more ex-hoppers visiting to see for themselves.

Recently, with the charms of Sarasota continuing to fuel my aversion to the day’s work, I decided that a long stroll on this best beach would be just the right thing. There's a swimsuit in my car for just such occasions.  I found a spot close to one of the small street entrances and left my car with just keys in hand. (I always want to hide them, but who can remember where?)

Dunes of undulating phragmites lined the narrow, long path that opened on to the sparkling beach.  As always, my breath caught at the sight of it.

                                  

To reach the water, I passed buff bodies sprawled on blankets, industrious children with sand castles, and multigenerational families surrounded by so much stuff, it looked like they were having a tag sale.  You know who you are.

Although these scenes were all wonderfully familiar, I walked past them that day, breathing a sigh of relief.  The crowds and thoughts of in-town crepes, shops, and markets faded from my mind.  There was a quiet place to swim ahead, with just a few people scattered on the sand.  A woman called out when she saw me designing a conspicuous seaweed monument to place my keys upon.  "Bring those to me.  I'll watch them for you," she said.  Her curly hair peeked out from a fashionable straw hat framing a tan face, softly lined around the eyes and mouth.  She wore many bangles, a stylish pareo, and held a book.

"It's not time for the Siesta sand sculpting contest yet," she laughed referring to the competition between master sand carvers that takes place on Siesta Beach.   "That's so nice of you," I said, "I just wanted to swim for a bit without worrying about finding my keys afterwards."

                                                       A 2011 Sand Sculpting Entry

We were about the same age with a similar comportment and seemed to mutually understand the delicious significance of a solitary swim at this point in our lives.  "Just go in," she said "and then take a long walk, as long as you want. I'll be here whenever you get back."

Swim I did.  And then walked for miles on the cool quartz crystals of our impossibly perfect beach.

All felt peaceful as I returned to the woman holding my keys.  "Wasn't that great?"  she asked, her animated face registering what she already knew.

"I just can't believe we can do this." I replied.

Yes,” she said. “It’s our time now, but really, it’s just unbelievable.”

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