Ahhhh, Florida

So we got back from Florida yesterday, forsaking the white sands of Clearwater Beach early in the afternoon for the white out blizzard of Minneapolis later that same day. "Are we crazy, or WHAT?" Jay and I taunted each other as our trusty farm truck made its careful way along I-94 amid the hyperspace-effect snow pummeling the windshield. Seriously.

But even in March the foot of white stuff here has its romantic qualities, and I have to admit that it was so good to see the farm family again; in other words, my homebody nature rendered our three-and-a-half days in paradise just exactly the right amount.

Our motel was fine - small but clean, and definitely of the one-star variety, owned by a bickering Polish couple (as half of that couple, Walter, advised Jay in a thick accent: "Stick with the first wife. No matter how bad it seems, always stick with the first wife"). When we arrived Saturday night we were a bit chagrined to find a mob of very shiny young people in giant sunglasses and stiletto sandals making a big racket yelling and yakking on cell phones and trying to blow out the subwoofers in their SUV stereos with that darned rap music all the kids are listening to these days. Our first foray into the velvet sand that night kept us there.

By Sunday most of the party crowd had vamoosed and things quieted down. Both Sunday and Monday boasted record highs of 85 degrees, and Jay and I ended up walking 10 or 15 miles of beach both days - once to the nearly deserted state park/island to the north and once to the similarly quiet state park to the south, talking and frequently breaking for luscious dips in the gleaming gulf. I ate ice cream every day, burned the shit out of a 3 X 1 inch stip of my arm (the palest, inner fatty part - overlooked by the sunscreen lathering! Drat!) Jay, meanwhile, got a sad little lesson in receding hairline burn. We braved on, however, foregoing the schmaltzy souvenier shops for beach beach beach with a two hour siesta in the motel room during the heat of the day. Brilliant.

Boy, I'll tell you though - if you want to feel like a real meatball, try being a 34 year old pregnant lady from Wisconsin on a Florida beach amid a thousand 18 year old hardbody girls in small bikinis. Oh, and a couple of leathery senior citizens in small bikinis. Really, I discovered that for the most part, Florida beaches are for the young and the old. The other people my age had a few kids in tow and frankly looked a little dazed. Jay and I also spent some time ruminating in our liberal white guilt, feeling bad about being waited on by folks who were most certainly too poor to live there, empathetic to the love/hate they must feel for the endless line of tourists who simultaneously make constant noisy demands and butter their bread (however meagerly).

Enough on that. Highlights included finding a truly marvelous tiny authentic Italian cafe discovered the last night (best tiramisu I've ever tasted - and many of you know I've made it my life's mission to try every version on the planet) and sighting a bunch of dolphins cavorting in the gulf together just before our return home. We had a great time - we're relaxed, my hair is a little blonder, Thelonious is a little bigger and kickier, and Florida is two people emptier.

Love and crabcakes-n-coleslaw to all,

Charis