Saturday morning I went up to the tennis center and asked five people if they wanted to hit. All declined, though each had a different excuse: not playing today, just played, waiting to hit with a friend, waiting to hit with the pro, leaving shortly. I went inside the clubhouse and found a man watching Sports Center. "You're not watching the Nadal-Federer match?" I asked. "They don't get the Tennis Channel here," he said.
Sunday morning, while we were eating breakfast and reading the paper, a cascade of water fell from the balcony above, hit the railing, and splashed onto my glasses and numerous sections of the Herald.
"Hey, we're eating breakfast down here!" Hania called up to our neighbor.
"It's just water," a grumpy voice called down. "Can't a man clean his balcony? I've lived here 30 years and never had a problem. Go write a letter to administration."
"Calm down," Hania said. "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood. We were just having breakfast and were taken by surprise."
The neighbor went on ranting, and it occurred to me that South Florida is one of the few places in the world where someone can spill water on you and then, instead of apologizing, yell at you.
On a brighter note, Saturday afternoon we drove to Dillard High School to listen to the jazz band before its trip this week to a competition at Lincoln Center. (Our friends' son plays tenor sax.) The band leader was delightful, the musicianship amazing, and at intermission they served dessert. I think more Americans would attend jazz concerts if they always included brownies.
