There’s a cat sleeping on the sidewalk underneath my car. I can see it out my window, periodically moving from the shade to bask in a patch of sun, where it rolls its brown fluffy body around in ecstasy. I can relate. I’ve never spent a whole winter in a warm climate before, and there’s something to be said for rolling around in the sun.
You can say what you want about Florida, that it’s the land of Tiger King and the mockery of memes. Like the guy who held up a mini mart with a duct taped alligator, or the guy who kidnapped a psychic to make his dog immortal, or the couple who sold fake gold lottery tickets to heaven for $99.99. And people bought them. But in addition to the warm weather, the exotic wildlife and natural beauty of Florida, this diverse identity is what I find so entertaining about living here.
I rented a studio in Lake Worth Beach, which is like a carnival version of the fancier and more sanitized community of Palm Beach just to the north. You won’t find monster trucks or muscle cars at The Breakers, no tattoo parlors or vape shops along palm lined Flagler Avenue. The citizens of El Dub (as the locals refer to Lake Worth) comprise a melting pot of age, ethnicity, and interests. Aging hippies, retirees, and people living off the grid blend with working families, millennial hipsters, artists, beach bums, and a handful of homeless people who sleep under the shade trees in Bryant Park.
The majority of houses in my neighborhood are small bungalows, some dilapidated and seedy looking, some well kept and painted in shockingly bright colors like tangerine or periwinkle. The gardens of these houses run the gamut between plastic pink flamingos perched on astro turf and surrounded by cyclone fencing, to being landscaped in gorgeous bougainvillea and hedges of mangroves, set around elegant water features.
In town, large murals cover many of the buildings in artistic abandon. People spill out of bars and restaurants on Lake Avenue at all hours, laughing and drinking and smoking. At night, joy riders thunder by on motorcycles, stereos blasting. Further down, the town square is lined on one side with magnificent ancient banyan trees, aa big fountain dominates the other side, and in between there are engraved tiles of famous black historical figures. The library sits across the street facing the square. One of my favorite things about the neighborhood is the dozens of small kiosks filled with books, dotted every few blocks. The glass fronted cabinets are set on wooden posts with signs that read, “Take a book, Leave a book.”
Every morning I walk down to the water, either through Bryant Park along the path that hugs the Intercostal waterway, or over the drawbridge and back, gazing at the skyline of Palm Beach in the distance, the sailboats moored in the channel, and the pelicans diving for fish. In the park, old men play horseshoes and feed bread to a gaggle of ibises. The walkway goes underneath the bridge where there is a mural of a beautiful, dark haired girl painted in the centermost supporting beam, as if she’s guarding the lagoon.
Now out my window a young, dread locked woman is walking her Great Dane along the sidewalk. She’s wearing a crop top and running underwear, and most of her muscular body is covered in tattoos. Her giant dog stops to sniff under my car, but the cat has vanished.
Comentarios