A place that was recommended by a friend was noisy because of insistent construction work nearby, so the very first morning we got into a rented car and went to look for greener pastures, Well, not really green and totally not pastures, but an oceanfront room with a bathroom and a kitchenette in a small shabby quiet little motel, the kind V. frequented in the past as he took family reunion trips with his brothers. As we were driving down Collins Ave., it became apparent that small shabby quiet little motels had almost all dissappeared having been replaced by narrow Trumps hitting the sky. We did find precious few little places however, the relics, and in one of them the room was very fine as it had an entrance from the beach, and it was clean, and so that was that. We moved in.
Now imagine this: All guests were elderly and spoke invariably Russian. A similar relic next door hosted homogeneously French speaking crowd. Everybody who worked there spoke Spanish, so we spoke English in order to make sure that no one would understand us. I am afraid we had suceeded. But alas, just once V. said something to me in Russian, and the couple in the room next to ours overheard him, and started talking to us, and never stopped. They were real ethnic Russians from Russia, Russian citizens, visiting their married daughter in America, and the daughter had sent them for a few days on the beach, probably to get a much needed break---from them. The woman was an apparatchik kind, and the man was something of a retired scientist. And they were so Soviet, it was even funny. So at some point the apparatchik woman says that wherever they live bread is not always available. And I am already quite annoyed by her stories, and her pathological desire to complain. So I helpfully suggest that carbs aren't healthy anyway. The apparatchik woman is offended, but does it stop her?
Well that was in 2005
Regardless, our shabby and lovely place was still there, as opposed to the other shabby place next door, the one that last year was populated by the French-speaking vacationers, that one had suffered from Hurricane Wilma, and didn't re-open... It stood quietly and empty, with some signs of huricane torture, Ready to be sold and demolished so that cement could be poured into the sand by those brightly colored futuristic-looking machines with long folding necks growing from their flat backs. The cement would solidify the ground and another sixty-storey tower would squeeze itself in, in order to cast a huge shadow on the sand in late afternoon,
Still, we had the same room with two huge windows, one in each of the two external walls, a small kitchen with old appliances and no counter space and a bathroom with cracked tile, and, the best of all, the door that led onto a small patio that was already on the beach.
The changing color of the water seemed clean and beautiful at all times, one pelican appeared and stayed around for a while, other than that it was a faceless collection of people, seagulls, and pigeons, (in addition to tiny flies). So I got into mindless knitting, reading, walking. Mindlessness was sweet and relaxing.
About walking - I've gotten really spoiled: the Carolinas' beaches, and beaches of Georgia, even the Gulf ones, are amazing because of that incredible firmness of the sand. During the low tide, you can actually ride a bike on such beach, and that is as good as skiing along the shore, which is what I liked to do growing up and when in college. In absence of a bike, or to complement bike-riding, walking on the sand that is firm is a pleasure as it has this marvelous quality of energizing. But South Florida, unlike Carolinas and Georgia, has normal sands --- of sinking quality, and so walking is less pleasant, but still quite okay. It just feels more like work, trudging really, pulling a foot at a time - from the sand for another sinking step. And yet I really enjoy these long walks along the beach and egrets and pelicans, and dolphins too.
I also went through some of my writing, trying to get myself engaged again. I tend to do things in spurts - this is true about my writing and also drawing, it goes on as a suddenly started energetic motion, and then it cools off, and just sits there. So I wanted to restart my writing, it's such a healthy thing, and if I have it going, I can handle my life with some grace... I am afraid I haven't gotten the bug, not yet.. Or maybe it is already here, look how long this writing is becoming!
This year, after we moved to the first floor, my room was right next to the Beach Bar, which thankfully was not operating at all. And so I still got to walk out onto the sand of the beach whenever I wanted to, at 12 midnight, at 2 in the morning, and any time during the sunlight. Actiually, when I happened to wake up at 2 in the morning and walked down to the water, and dipped my great toe into the ocean, I was rather happy! So it wasn't a bad vacation at all. But I suspect it is the last one in this hotel. I suspect it is either already sold or is just about to be sold in order to make room for another Trump. Remember the other shabby place next door, the one that was populated by French-speaking vacationers when we were there two years ago, the one that suffered from Wilma, and didn't re-open when we were there a year ago? It is no longer there, Flat land. But not quite enough land for a Trump. And so I think that our shabby place is to be flattened too. Therefore such a lousy attitude of the owner. Anyway, even if this was the last South Florida beach vacation, it was good as I knitted some, and read, and walked, and swam, and we flew a kite, and I slept a lot.
The reason for the third time in the same place in South Florida is rather simple: there seems to be nothing else left... Nothing with a very specific and all important quality. I'll explain... Here.
As a child I was often taken to the seashore for the summer, away from the hot city filled with polluted air. It was an ordeal starting in March when dacha hunting was taking place: Adults would take a train to the countryside, and spend the whole Sunday (several Sundays) walking the streets, looking for a room to rent, negotiating the price... Then early in June a rented little truck would come to take our selected furnishing to the unfurnished place that the parents rented somewhere on the Gulf for my Aunt Anna to keep her two boys and me away from summer heat and humidity, and dust, and pollutions. Or my Aunt Liza with her two daughters and me, or my Aunt Lea ... Anyway, the place would be small, inconveniences (no running water, an outhouse, poor supply of food in the store) were great, BUT it was on the seashore! So to speak... It was usually about a 40 min walk to the seashore. In the morning we, the kids, were so restless, while Aunt prepared this and that, made us make a trip to a store to buy milk we were out of, or to the open market to get vegetables, fruit, berries. Our tiny quarters had to be straighten out... At last, dressed in swim suits under street clothes, with a folding chair, and a blanket, and towels, and underware to change into before leaving the beach, a beach ball. a life saver, a few apples, a bottle of water... we would start our long walk along dusty streets. Once on the beach all had to be arranged, the blanket spread out, the chair set up, It felt like we'd never get to immerse ourselves into the water...
MANY years later we are travelling in Italy with a one-year-old child. We arrive in San Vincenzo - to stay for two nights. The hotel Something D'Oro has vacancies. We are shown a room on the second floor, the window is over the parking lot. There is only one more room available, in the basement. We decide to take a look before walking out and driving over to another hotel. We walk down the steps, along a short hallway, and the hotel guy opens the door. It is a room without windows, but with French doors instead, the wide French doors taking up a half of the opposite wall. I walk over there, and open the French doors, ...and I am on the sand of the beach!
From that time on I live and relive my childhood dream - to walk out onto the sand of the beach. In the morning, in the middle of the night, in late afternoon... That's why, once I find it, I consider going back to it. But I do not want to relive actual summers of my childgood with tagging along things on the long tiresome walks to the beach... Like renting a condo on the 17th floor and taking an elevator to the lobby, and then walking by the swimming pool... If this hotel in Florida is gone, I simply do not need another one. There are other ways to spend a minivacation - in Washington's museums for example, perhaps on Manhattan Island , or in Appalachian Mountains...