Sunshine State of Mind

Once upon a time I used to like Florida.  Miami Beach, Palm Beach, South Beach, Long Boat Key, Coral Gables, Coconut Grove, Ft. Lauderdale, Boca Raton.  Sunned there and loved that.

I even had in-laws who lived in St. Petersburg.  Hated that but I was crazy about this.

(I was nuts about their black bean soup and house salad.)

It’s getting to be that time of year when many of my readers will be heading back from Florida to their summertime digs.  That’s why I have been thinking about the Sunshine State lately.

No offense, Florida lovers, but I usually try not to.

When my ex and I were divorced, he got custody.  I didn’t fight him for it.  He ended up one of those Illinois snowbirds who lives in Naples six months of the year- avoiding skin cancer and Illinois state taxes with the same due diligence.

He does what all rich retirees do down there.  Plays a lot of golf, goes out to a lot of pricey dinners.   We call it “Assisted Living.”

(Don’t be fooled by the presence of the bicycles in this Naples publicity still.  I have it on good authority that the preferred method of transportation is the golf cart- followed shortly thereafter by the hearse.)

As you can see, I can get all riled up at the mere mention of the word “Florida.”  It hits my hot button.  (And if you especially love Naples and feel that I have maligned it unfairly, my sincerest apologies.)

But I have to be honest.  I do have some very good memories of that state and I’m in the mood to share them with all of you.

My first visit took place when I was in high school.  The Roffe family stayed at a hotel in Miami Beach called the Carillon.

It was nowhere near as fancy as the Fontainebleau, the Eden Roc or the Doral.  But it was on Collins Avenue and fifteen year old me was crazy about the pool.

I remember the heady aroma of Bain de Soleil, the card games, the fighting for lounge chairs and the constant paging of phone calls over the PA system.

This will give you a good idea of what it was like back in the day.

I especially loved the PA system.  Some of my friends were in town for that Christmas vacation.  Other New Trier cronies were in Winter Park, Colorado on a school ski trip.  In the days before cell phones, this system meant that I would never have to miss a phone call.

Vitally important for a teenager.

I did, however, have to learn the ropes.

“Call for Mrs. Newman.  Mrs. Belle Newman.”

“Call for Mr. Reynolds.  Mr. Robert Reynolds.”

“Call for Mrs. Price.  “Mrs. Phyllis Price.”

“Call for Mr. Rossi.  Mr. Alan Rossi.”

My mother gave me a nudge with her elbow.

“That’s for you.  Go get it.”

“Huh?” I was baffled.  “That call was for some man.”

“I’ve had this name longer than you.  Mr. Alan Rossi is you.  Trust me.”

And she was right.

It was all so glamorous back then.  The balmy weather.  The roar of the surf.  The soft breezes at night.

With stars in my untravelled eyes, I was Ellen in Wonderland.

There was the terribly exciting night life.  Even for a teenager- if Daddy was paying.

Billy took me to see the Supremes at the Deauville.  Jimmy took me to see the Smothers Brothers at the Americana, I think.  Maitre d’s bowing and scraping.  Swanky dinners with menus in French.  I think Jimmy was even served a cocktail- no ID required.

This was heady stuff for a teenager.

And then there were the fun places to eat like Junior’s and Wolfie’s.

And the great Vincent Capra’s.

And then there was Pumpernik’s.

OMG! I still go crazy when I think about Pumpernick’s.

Sure they had a huge menu.  But for me it was about one thing and one thing only.

This.

I was addicted to their cheesecake.  I craved it.  No heroin addict ever had a bigger jones.

When I went back to Miami as an adult in my early twenties, I still had the cheesecake monkey on my back.  Without the teen age metabolism, alas.

So I did what any sensible girl who wanted to look good in her bikini would do.

I ate nothing all day and then had one slice of Pumpernick’s cheesecake for dinner.

Sure it’s a tad extreme but since that one slice had about a billion calories, I wasn’t exactly starving.

Pumpernick’s is gone now.

And, funnily enough, so is most of my animus towards Florida.

Maybe next winter, I’ll give it another try.

Naples still might be enemy territory but…

The (east) coast is clear.