A Parent Looks At 40

With apologies to Jimmy Buffett…

Some of you who read this blog with any frequency know that I was recently down in the Florida Keys for a little R&R. I’ve been to Florida several times as a child and adult, but don’t ever recall traveling down to the Keys. I was blown away by this area’s natural beauty. Florida in February sure beats Philadelphia in February, that’s for sure.

For part of the trip, I got to see how “old” money passes its time waiting for that Big Mahjong Game in the Sky. I stayed at a swanky, self-contained planned community known as the Ocean Reef Club. I didn’t see one car during my stay; didn’t need to – everyone traveled by golf cart. And not just any golf cart, mind you, but custom carts made to look like Benz’s, Bentley’s and Hummers. Everything you could ever want is pumped in for you – provided you have the means, of course.

Mrs. Goldwater then joined me later in the week for the second leg of the journey. I planned to pick her up in a shiny convertible on our way to cruise the streets of South Beach, her Ricardo Tubbs to my Sonny Crockett. However, in the eight minutes it took me to drive from the car rental place to the arrivals terminal at Miami International, my face and neck were visibly red with sunburn. After a liberal application of sun block (about as liberal as I get), we were finally off to the mean streets of South Beach. But in the twenty years since “Miami Vice” first aired, the means streets of South Beach have become more like the gay streets of South Beach. There was lots of shopping and restaurants, but not a lot of parking space. Oh well, at least the food was good.

The next day, we headed due South toward Key West. Key West is a beautiful town – similar in atmosphere and architecture to Charleston, SC. or even New Orleans. The lower part of Duval Street in Key West is like Bourbon Street without the vomit and urine smells – bar followed by tacky souvenir shop followed by bar. It must have been Spring Break, because every one of the bars was packed.

And I’ve got to admit, the sounds of laughter and fun emanating from these places called to me like a siren’s song. I wanted to slog up to Joe’s Place like Hemingway must have done years before me to embark on a bender to remember (or not). Mrs. Goldwater, on the other hand, wanted no part of it. “Honey,” she said in that sweet matronly tone I’ve heard her take a thousand times with the kids, “you’re 41 years old. We have to drive back to Key Largo in the dark. You pass out after two beers, and even when you were their age, you hated those places. Now, do you have to go pee before we take the guided tour?” And with that, I gathered the shards of my shattered ego and loaded them onto the tour bus with the other octogenarians. Sometimes that woman can be too honest.

Oh sure, overall the trip was great fun, but it could have been Hemingway fun…