Sarasota, Mediterranea-No-No Style

I like to watch my pool’s decorative sprays shoot water dramatically into the air. Years ago I would have found this pool feature excessive, even tacky. I certainly wouldn’t have stared at it gleefully transfixed as I do today.  But that’s because I used to be the too-serious sort; the kind who preferred Masterpiece Theater to American Idol, Yoga to Zumba, glasses to contacts. I wore mainly black- you know the type- they like to speak French.

Then I moved to Sarasota. It’s not that I don’t still do the things I used to do up North, I just have more fun doing them down here, along with other new hot weather activities. Take the large pots of abundant flowers I’ve been placing around the pool. Home is now affectionately known as the Jungle Gym de Flores; flowers are everywhere- climbing up ropes, cascading down pipes, peeking out from boxes. There are so many it looks like I’m in the landscaping business and have overstocked. I admit it, it’s unusually colorful on the lanai. Which is why, while I love Sarasota’s fashionable mid century modern houses with their elegant and clean architecture, I couldn’t live in one. Only a plant with the soul of a bonsai would work well in those settings.

Instead, I live with this riot of color in the type of home you see lots of around Sarasota, in both ordinary subdivisions and waterfront properties alike- the ever-popular Mediterranean Style. These houses are just pleading to be covered by climbing flowering vines, and for some Mediterranea-no-no’s, what a great idea that is.

Isn’t the Mediterranean Style house architecturally derivative?  Of course, Purist.  But you go and buy an original in the Mediterranean. And btw, if you go house hunting, count me in. We can start in Lake Como, preferably near that gadabout, George Clooney, and his hideaway Villa Ucantahaveme.

Until then, I’ll enjoy the abundance of Sarasota homes with their clay-tiled roofs, bougainvillea flanked arched windows and walls of vibrant colors that go so well with our gorgeous semi tropical weather.

And I’ll watch my pool sprays and listen to their tinkling sound while I’m writing. They’re not only a natural accompaniment to my Jungle Garden de Flores, but they also conveniently block out all unwanted interruptions. For example, when someone talks to me from inside the house, I can do that universal index finger to ear “I can’t hear you” head shaking gesture and still appear polite, even when I hear them perfectly well. (It’s the water’s fault, all parties concur.)  I don’t know why people don’t just come outside to talk to me when I do that, but thankfully, they never do.  Must be those water sprays have miraculous powers.

I could see their powers at play recently when a writer friend and I were sitting by the pool working. Four hours flew by and we both had finished our stories without a word having passed between us. Perhaps these magic waters provide not only privacy but a new way to meet deadlines too!  This thought made us giddy until my friend starting reading the newspaper that included the results of a new Finnish “Sitting” study. Apparently the conclusion was that the more hours people sit every day, the greater their chance of dying prematurely.

Our mood changed abruptly.  Being a highly suggestible person and not yet ready to die, my heart leapt at the thought of changing my career to become, say, a professional dancer (although I have virtually no experience in this field). My friend, being a normal person, suggested that we take a long walk, which we both agreed was a more reasonable and immediate solution.  So out of the chairs we were. Ciao, bella pool sprays and bougainvillea dominatrix. We headed in the downtown direction with my two poodles, Dash and Domino.

                                                Domino, 19th century Ancestor,  Dash
                                           
Sarasota Bayfront Park near Marina Jack’s was a perfect place to stop. It’s a treat to walk around there. Lovers are out, children play in fountains, and people are picnicking along the bay. We strolled near the water’s edge and a young girl of about 7, Dina, and her mother, stopped us to see my dogs.  Dina began to play with them, holding the arms of the bigger one in the air so he had to stand on his hind legs. “He’s dancing. He’s dancing,” she happily cried out.  Sure enough, she had picked Domino, the one who actually does do a little jig standing on his back legs. (Good thing she avoided Dash, nobody’s friend.)  The girl was beside herself.  Eventually, her mother told her they had to go. “Will you come back tomorrow? We’re here every day at this hour. Pleeaase,” Dina begged.

I knew I had to work the next day, plus The Voice reruns would be on TV. And something really had to be done about those flowers that are all but strangling my Mediterranean Palazzo; it’s beginning to take on that unhinged, maniacal look of a gingerbread house made by a pre-schooler.  But now that I knew I had those magic waters at my disposable, couldn’t I cut my work time in half and bring Domino to meet this young girl again? I could always TiVo The Voice and machete the garden later.

I told them we’d be back tomorrow and Dina shrieked. The thankful mother suggested we meet at the restaurant right there on the beach, O’Leary’s Tiki Bar & Grill and start with dinner.  It sounded delightful and I could picture it well: While the adults would peel some shrimp, Dina and Domino could play in the sand. They would dance together again and attract attention. Some other bystanders would surely join us to check out the commotion and another girl from the crowd would try to dance with my other dog, Dash.  Dash would then bite her and we’d all wind up at Sarasota Memorial Hospital in the Emergency Room and/or one of the local police stations.

Sarasota is not the cure for every living creature, it must be acknowledged.  But sometimes my daughter sets Dash afloat on a long green raft in the magical waters of our pool.  Legs akimbo, he stands proudly, even happily, as he drifts slowly through the Jungle Garden de Flores, staking his territory at our Mediterranea-No-No home.

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