Sarasota

I love this light so very much

I have a friend in Sarasota who has been trying to get me to reciprocate his visits to Boston for some years. My response has always been "I'm not a Florida person". So, why now? Most likely my electrician's use of the words "wires" and "melting" in the same sentence fostered the urgency, while the cumulative slog of the last month determined the destination.

My first ex, Hank, put "landlord" as an occupation on our tax return, something he perhaps hoped would obscure the significant capital gains from his trust fund. Always just about to start writing a novel, he got as far as choosing a pseudonym, Lisle Achenbach, his grand aunt Tookie's real name. It seemed disrespectful to ask why he thought he needed one as his days filled with reading two newspapers and listening to All Things Considered didn't exactly push him out front and center in the world in a way that might slow down book sales. He did venture out occasionally. There was the stray daytime movie ticket stub I'd find in his pants pocket and the occasions he'd accompany me on the T to my place of work in his Orvis fishing vest or 1950's style white starched shirts with the sleeves rolled up always above his elbows. He also spent time reflecting on certain maxims to pepper his authorial conversations, which I appreciated. I still think to myself "If a little is good, more is better" before I add that fourth pat of butter to my baked potato, but am embarrassed for him about "every American's God-given right to own GM stock" which sounds more like his father, who owned a bank and was a tyrant. And GM stock?

If asked to reflect about my penchant for traveling, Hank would likely say I "came by it honestly", being born into a family that has moved around quite a bit. But seen from the outside, I ask myself whether I'm running from something, as I sometimes wonder about others I know. One tends to start fires she doesn't want to put out, another seems lonely and needs her time filled, a third is searching for Utopia. For me, as near as I can tell it's usually boredom/curiosity, a feeling of being stuck, needing to shake up repetitive thinking or acting patterns. Travel is an opportunity to reframe, hear from a different constituency. Twenty years later, the memory of tinkling lunchtime silverware on china in a private garden I passed in Lisbon is a visceral reminder to take time to enjoy small things.

I have been hoping that the death of my mother might silence the drill sergeant who's told me to do things better, faster, now for the last 62 years. Not that my mother was a tyrant, but gentle and soft aren't words that I associate with my formative years. While my siblings and I have had varied experiences, for me this ongoing haranguing in my head amounts to a feeling of unworthiness So, taking a purely indulgent trip that wasn't about expanding horizons, but simply a treat when I needed one most, was new. Sun for regeneration, flat windex water and solitude (mostly) for contemplation, Sarasota for simplicity and a luxury hotel for relaxation.

I joke with my friend who is a man in Florida about Florida men, and sure enough, those waiting at my gate were unlike passengers at others, who wore worried faces and tapped furiously on laptops. We're talking shorts below the knees, sports jerseys with red puffy faces, baseball hats and salt and pepper hair. I was sure the man who rolled up his magazine must follow the horses. Or maybe the dogs. Despite being in their sixties and seventies, they were somehow still frozen in their high school varsity sports prime. This theme came up again at my hotel, with attendants of the American Clinical and Climatological Association conference, all men in their late seventies who talked only of their college lacrosse games, with memories of particular teammates, rivals, even scores. I don't understand.

Stark contrast to the public bus, which served up that slice of local life generously

Now I don't want to be that jerky person who lords (what a funny verb) over how incredibly luxe my stay was, but let's just say that my destination sat in shocking contrast to the public bus vibe of a hooker putting her face on while sitting next to her John or pimp who for unknown reasons was wearing a rabbit fur Elmer Fudd hat, and the very tattooed woman who was reassuring someone that she was sure to get the job, news I would best imagine was not true. A palm tree lined driveway, fountains, an absurd number of orchids and good champagne.

Old Florida fishing hut in the historic district

Another

Lots of pink stucco, yum

Downtown Sarasota is not at all like the Florida I say no to. It's old(ish), clean, well maintained, and has the feeling of La Quinta or Santa Monica, maybe Palm Springs. The flowers are vibrant and abundant, the trees palms, ficus, mimosa, bougainvillea, and oleander. The light is sharp and clean, the weather was perfect. The people are mostly old and gentle, exceedingly friendly.The cars stop voluntarily for pedestrians.

HQ

Camp on Lido Beach

I spent a lot of time spacing out. The location varied from the pool to my balcony to the beach, a cafe. I read two books, drank a martini, ate two chocolate croissants and met a brave woman who had recently been left at the altar, picking up the next day and moving to a place she'd never been. She was in Sarasota to get a little mom love.

It was difficult with my friend Florida Man because I was finally in Sarasota, but knew I needed to be on my own schedule, alone. But on the last day, he came over to hit some balls. While we were hammering away in the humid Sarasota afternoon, he said we had to play hard to work for our drinks, the exact and faulty messaging that has been circling around my brain that I'm trying to excise. I sat down soon after and told him I was done, I wanted a drink. We drove to a tiki bar, watched the sunset, had a beautiful and incredibly indulgent evening. It was perfect, as was the rest of the trip.

With Florida man on Siesta beach

Killer sunset near the Tiki Hut. No green flash, I think it's a hoax.