Yesterday afternoon I took a bike ride along the New River. Around the performing arts center, vendors were taking down tents (which had been set up for the monthly jazz brunch) but picnickers still lingered on the grass. They lounged in low-slung folding chairs, or stretched on blankets, talking, eating, drinking. They were the folks I always thought of whenever the editor of the paper told us - as he frequently did - that people no longer have time to read.
The Irish pub at the Riverfront was packed with more people on tight schedules, and bunches of type-A's strolled Las Olas (including four bronzed girls in their summer dresses, though one had added a hat and a tattoo).
Coming back along the Riverwalk I saw a couple sitting on a bench reading books. I slammed on the brakes.
"What are you reading?" I asked.
They showed me the covers: David Remnick's King of the World (his), Madison Smartt Bell's All Souls Rising (hers).
"Where are you from?" I asked. Something told me they weren't Lauderdalians.
"Miami," the man said. "We just came up here to relax."
