Surreal

What a marvelous age we live in: Step on an airplane at snow covered Logan airport and three hours later, get off at Ft. Myers, Florida in 70 degree weather and clear blue skies.  It's not exactly "Beam Me Up, Scottie," but it's close. Walking out into that warm, surprisingly dry, air you have the feeling of unreality.  All around you, people on bicycles with tennis rackets slung across their backs, people jogging in shorts look as if this is as it should be in February, nothing remarkable. 

Having waxed euphoric about the delights of New Hampshire winter, the Phantom was induced to make the journey, to do the Odyssey. Come on down, the weather's fine. And they were right. Of course, getting back home was not so simple.

A very successful trip: 1. The plane did not crash. 2. Upon return to New Hampshire, the dog had not died nor swallowed anything problematic at that Taj Mahal of doggy day care, The Barking Dog 3. Our new gas fireplace had not blown up the house. Anything beyond that, had to be a bonus.

In fact, in between departure and return, the Phantom discovered where the great blue heron who lives at Bachelder Pond had gone--he's down in Florida, with all his cousins.  The birds in Florida are magnificent. Egrets, like pigeons, wander all over the place. Pelicans, lesser herons, all sorts of birds who the Phantom could not name, but who sat at the tops of trees in the morning, until they got warm enough to swoop down to the water. Prime egg hunting territory. 

Naples, Bonita Springs, Fort Myers are clearly where the winners in our economic system winter. Apparently, the only cars allowed across the borders, or into the gated communities are Lexus, BMW and Mercedes. The homes are maintained with strict codes of uniformity: mailboxes must all look the same; the shingled  roofs must be sprayed with algaecide to prevent unsightly darkening; even the numbers which mark the addresses must be uniform, lest someone with less than ideal taste wreck havoc on the appearance of the community.

There is an undeniable demographic among those who can afford winter homes in these communities: They are not young. As my sister-in-law remarked, off handedly: "This is the ante room of Death." 

Well, they are enjoying themselves, until then. 

There are many locked gates. Just walking to get the paper, one passes through enough security to make you believe the people who built the Berlin Wall must have been consulted. 

If there is a generational strife in this country, you don't see it in these communities: Youthful staff wait eagerly on their elders at restaurants, bars, in their gardens. It is the older generation, after all, who support them handsomely. No complaints here about exploitation of young workers to support older workers. Here it's older patrons supporting younger workers.

The Phantom, of course, being admittedly odd, is disoriented by retirement communities. For the Phantom, work gives purpose to life.  For the residents of these communities, they no longer arise with a schedule of tasks to accomplish, of people to serve, of production schedules to meet.  So where is the purpose to their days? Not that you need a job. The political organizer. The community organizer. The woman who works for clean water, universal vaccinations, the man who serves on the school board, or directs a youth orchestra, they  are all doing meaningful, if not paid work.

There is only one child in the gated community where the Phantom stayed. A school bus carts the kid off every morning. Apart from that one child, there is no purpose imparted by the essential task of raising up the next generation. 

Women fill the tennis courts. There is a community center and men and women arrive for a discussion group. The topic this week is:  Great and consequential decisions of the Twentieth Century.  For some reason the Phantom thought of Bill Clinton's remark: "Now that I'm not President, I can say anything I want. Thing is, nobody cares."

We watched Dowton Abbey. It was fun watching with a group, for once. Aunt Violet, who once asked, "What is a weekend?" was in grand form, skewering a new hairdo on the one hand and, on the other, sliding deeper into the one, grand, forbidden passion of her life. That seemed meaningful, watching Downton.  For one thing, we were watching a set for whom every day is a weekend, just as it is for the retirees of Southwest Florida. But there is another thing: watching Downton is an exercise in that special form of communion which is experienced by those who can see in fiction meaning for the reality of their own lives.

The Phantom can see abandoning the workaday world for a life devoted to other projects, a life less scheduled and organized by others--sitting at the cafe in Paris, or in Central Park, with the world swirling around. But there is something missing when the people you are watching are not Parisians trying to get their kids to school, or New Yorkers who always look purposeful and busy, even when they are simply on their way to pick up their laundry.

One thing not to be missed: The Everglades. Take one of those air boats with the flat bottoms and big fans. It is not at all buggy this time of year, but those waters are thick with alligators, birds of every color and wingspan, the occasional snake--Pythons are a problem, especially for the alligators.

But that was then--this morning actually. Now the Phantom has returned to his home among the frozen, the hardy and the resigned. 

As he was told when he moved to New Hampshire, there are four distinct seasons here:  Almost Winter, Winter, Still Winter, Road Repair Season.

If you get tired of snow, well, there is always Florida.