Last Thursday - my first flight down, alone, to see my honey in Florida. We have spoken, literally, hour by hour since he left home the previous Monday morning, bins piled atop the car, the back seat removed and the space filled to the roof with boxes and clothes and hangers, two bikes and a stepladder anchored at the rear on a climsy and uncooperative bike rack. The Beverly Hillbilly, my Billy, on his way to the promised land. I stocked up on lowfat dinners and waited out the days, and then Thursday came. After work, I went home, and with more than three hours to go, called a car for the ten-minute ride to the airport. Checkin was a breeze - curbside luggage surrender, and the luggage guy also gave me my boarding pass. This was the only pleasant surprise. The plane left an hour late, so I ended up in the airport for four hours. I looked all over the place for a nice restaurant - money's no object when Bill's a thousand miles away - but all I could find was grease, so I had grease for dinner. I would have enjoyed a nice sandwich and the luxury of an Amstel Light, but the meal I got didn't merit anything that pleasant as an accompaniment.
Arrived at about 1:30 - it was thrilling to finally see Bill, and the late hour didn't spoil our reunion. He had pushed our two twin beds together, and we cuddled happily all night long, happy in our element, wrapped up snugly like one person, which we are not.
On Friday morning we got up slowly. I cooked a failed breakfast of eggbeater omelette with tomato, toast and jelly. The eggbeaters worked bettwer a few days later, after I had some practice. We went to the pool, the exercise room, then began the hard work.
Friday afternoon, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. We shopped. Shopped for faucets in the bathroom and kitchen. Shopped for food, shopped for odds and ends, shopped for patio furniture that will satisfy Bill and my mother. Dealt with the minor emergencies that are the stuff of homeownership, albeit very-tiny-homeownership. We laundered, cleaned, argued over temperature and humidity settings, over the opening and closing of doors and winders and those infernal vertical blinds that seem to comprise at leaast half of the entire mass of the state of Florida. Privacy, security, comfort, taste. We are not one person.
On those days, too, we encountered. Encountered management to obtain our ID cards, gate-opening clicker, community directory and information. There are two nice, fast computers for the use of residents, but instead of setting them to prevent downloads to the hard drive, they prevent dangerous data by keeping the password a secret. In order to get online, we have to ask someone in the office (during office hours) to enter the
secret code to let us in. Encountered the beaurocracy at the tax office, finding out how expensive it is to become Florida homeowners, Florida auto-owners, Florida Drivers. Encountered neighbors: "What are you doing here" "You don't belong here" "Your husband, maybe he looks a few years older, but you?" Joined the library, where computers apparently operate on dialup. I get involved in a conversation there with Joan, who lives at King's Point but does not socialize there or use the facilities. She can't stand seeing people with walkers, who talk about nothing but conditions, medications, diets - She's there because she and her husband, who works, inherited the place. They have one car, she's alone all day long. Been there three years, no friends. I gave her my phone number, she gave me hers.
Sunday night I melted down. How can I live in a place where nobody's my age, nobody wants to know me, there's nobody I have anything in common with, everything's slow, hot, damp, expensive, we're treated like idiots. I need a social life, a family life - Bill doesn't. Bill loves the gym and the weather and he's found a skate club, but he's been chastened by our experiences at the tax office - we can't get a homestead exemption without fudging the application (the NY star exemption year overlaps into the next Florida real estate tax year), so we might not get the homestead exemption for 2006; it's real expensive to register your car here; auto insurance is expensive. Enthusiastic as he is about the place, when I start crying about feeling pressured and worried that I've made a terrible and expensive mistake, he is very cooperative and sympathetic - we decide not to worry about homesteading for this year. We'll sell in New York and we can stay in Florida while we plan any further moves. We'll proceed with homesteading for the following tax year (2008) and hope the market stays low so our assessment won't rise. Thepressure's off. By Monday night, I'm actually looking forward to my trip home, looking forward to walking out onto Northern Boulevard and seeing the Empire State Building in the distance. I can relax again.
We rise Tuesday morning at 3 a.m. I don't do anything in a hurry, and then it's nearly 4 a.m., and with a more-than-half-hour ride to the airport, we have to shake our tails. I have found a sweater that my Mom knitted, I'm pretty sure it was the last one she make for Drew, and one she made for Leah - the first - with a little bonnet. I pack these to take home. I'll ship them out with gifts for Christmas, for my grandchild and grandchild-to-be. I'm looking forward. I got to the airport about 4:30, and the security gate doesn't open till 5.
At Dunkin' Donuts, I get on line for a large, mixed caf-decaf with two sweet n'lows. The line isn't too long. Ahead of me in line, a dwarf is ordering his breakfast. His head and body are perfectly formed. His voice is deep and resonant. He has thick, black hair. What a handsome man he would be if only his legs were regular, I think. Then, I thank God, who has seen fit not to create me a dwarf.
Coffee in hand, I sit down to watch ESPN, the only thing broadcast in the sitting area outside security. Later, as I enter, there's some small to-do about my taking some footfungus medicine on the plane with me (I have no checked baggage) because it just looks like nailpolish, it is marked as "lacquer", and has no prescription markings on it. At last, I win the battle. On the plane, I rise to allow my my seatmate to pass. It's the dwarf, who chats about the condo he inherited, where he wants to retire, why don't immigrants learn to speak English. After a while, I open my book and read, nod off, time passes. By 9:30 a.m. I have landed, found and taken the express to Grand Central, and I am sitting at my desk, on the internet, eating breakfast. End of the first commute.
