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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