I live in a condominium, and this book was my travel companion this week. Sometimes Art imitates life, or vice versa. This gem of a paperback set the tone for the adventure to the Sunshine state. It is by John D. MacDonald, a prolific author of detective stories set in Florida, and which I used to devour each time one came out. Of course, that was when both of us were alive, and I have to confess this aging thing has got me over a barrel, and not the way I would like.
The travel on Wednesday about KO’d me. I have been having trouble sleeping through the night for a variety of reasons, and in the Forida pre-dawn on Wednesday my eyes popped open a little after three, not to close again for an extended amount of time.
After travel to Sarasota from Tampa, storms, delays, turbulence and lost bags, I got to bed at home in Washington around midnight.
Before any of the people whose company I enjoy in the Sunshine State start sniping at me about not calling them up, there just was no time. I care deeply about ya’all, and that was the reason for the frantic activity on Wednesday. It was business on the front end with no rental car, and then a frantic effort to hook up with a Realtor to look for the right place to be, dodge the winter and see you all regularly.
It was a long, long day, and more stress when I was able to open my eyes without assistance Thursday morning, realizing I had no idea where I was supposed to be for the meeting with the Agency functionaries, and had to bludgeon myself into a blistering hot shower and into jaunty business attire that belied the fatigue. I then wove the Panzer out to Herndon, returning to write the trip report, stopping only to listen to one of my fellow Big Pink residents rail on about seeing her Ex at a restaurant, which was a convenient distraction from the bummer about the state of the building in which we live. The vitriol in her voice increased as she described the young couple who live across the hall from her, and how they had filled up and run their dishwasher before they retired Monday night.
The pipe under the failing appliance broke and gushed water for five or six hours before anyone noticed, and of course it was not them that noticed, despite the lake that soon encompassed their bed. So, my neighbor came into the still-developing story with the building engineer pounding on her door at 0530. Since the leak was on the 7th floor, the 14 units in the stack below the offending dishwasher were flooded, as was the parking garage. Naturally, I was gone when it happened and I had hoped that my unit was dry and that the Panzer had not taken a bath.
I was relieved to walk in the front door and see the place was unscathed, and later that the Mercedes was as dirty as usual, and that it drove fine when I got down to inspect it.
My place was dry, but it brought to mind my favorite French quote- “La soufferance des autres c’est toujours supportable.” Or, in the Gallic manner, ‘the suffering of others is always bearable.’ Not quite as grim and determined as “they shall not pass,” which might be a motto to bring back in these times, but directly applicable to the nature of living at ‘critical’ after the Manchester bombing.
Of course, we always say that, every time the jihadis do one of their now regular savage attacks. I don’t know when we are finally going to wake up. It would seem overdue. “They shall not pass” would work for this generation, too.
Travel and the conference ate Monday and Tuesday completely. I did not have enough time to spend doing anything interesting, and through the one spare day at looking at real estate. I toured one place that was sort of oppressive- in a village of villas that sort of looked like the family housing at Kadena AFB on Okinawa. Comfortable, in an industrial sort of way, with neighbors that had an impressive number of empty liquor bottles in their recycling.
Then there was a very nice little two-bedroom place on the doorstep of Siesta Key. If I was as imprudent with snap decisions that change my life as I normally am, I would have put an offer on it. I do have to say that Sarasota looks pretty darn nice. Flagler-era pink architecture downtown was saved and preserved- human scale. I could do that in a flash.
There is even some culture down there- or what passes for it in the Florida context. I asked at lunch with my financial advisor and his assistant about the place where author John D. MacDonald used to hold court at the Sarasota version of the Algonquin Roundtable. It was just up the street from where we had a delightful lunch at the Cafe Epicure. After we finished up, I was taken down the block to look at the place. It had been The Hotel in the downtown area for years and years, and I was primed, since I had been reading MacDonald’s fine novel “Condominium” as orientation for the trip.
This is what it looks like today, now not a hotel but a mixed-use commercial enterprise.
Upon my return to Your Nation’s Capital, I managed to get through the meeting and return from Herndon unscathed. I was forced to get back to the Front Page when the time was right for Attitude Adjustment Hour on Thursday, despite my fatigue and lingering travel zombie-dom. I was immediately struck by the fungible nature of our world. The Earth’s Crappiest Mall across the street from the bar has been shut down for extended renovation, and the footbridge to connect it to the Ballston Metro Stop was deemed- for whatever reason- to be redundant.
The footbridge was there when I arrived in Washington in 1986 and was happy to get a 14% mortgage on an overpriced little shit-box rambler starter house out in the wilds of Fairfax County. Any time I was in Ballston, that bridge was a striking landmark, topped as it was back in the day with a neon disco sign that proudly announced you were in Ballston, wherever that was. It was deliciously tacky and helped me navigate as I got my sea legs in the triangle County of Arlington.
Before the trip, I got cabin fever with not enough time to get to the farm and back in time for the flight on Monday. I got cabin fever with the pool still closed, and went over to Front Page to flirt with the weekend bartender, a former exotic dancer and educator. The way to the front door was blocked with cyclone fence, forcing me to walk back all the way around the National Science Foundation building. I saw that the long-anticipated demolition had commenced.
Thursday afternoon the fencing was gone, and so was the footbridge. Entropy- and real estate development- always wins. You could ask John D. MacDonald about that.
I will not be so crass or insensitive to wish you a happy Memorial Day- I find that offensive and have to bite my tongue when people say it to me. Enjoy the time off- though of course that is becoming a welcome habit most of the time for much of my cohort. Monday: the new Saturday.
Copyright 2017 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com