Fifty years ago I attended my first Mardi Gras. I drove with my college roommate from Villanova to New Orleans non-stop, taking turns behind the wheel, occasionally biting into lemons to stay awake. The crowds, the floats, the costumes, the beads were all intoxicating but not the most memorable part of the trip. It was my first time in the South, and the people in shirtsleeves in the middle of winter, the live oak trees dripping Spanish moss, the languorous, happily unproductive atmosphere, opened my eyes to another world.
Our guesthouse sat near the courthouse, on a street that was closed to traffic. The nearest parking lot was $35 till eight o’clock, at which time it moved to another price I didn’t register because my mind was still focused on the first one. I found a spot blocking a driveway and left Hania inside with the keys while I took our bags to the guesthouse.
I asked about parking. The receptionist told me of a lot a five-minute walk away, and the system of payment that sounded somewhat complicated. I envisioned a modern parking machine designed by a graduate of MIT. But the price of $15 a day seemed worth the effort of trying to figure it out.
The lot belonged to the old school on Southard Street, and was only about one quarter full. I parked in front of some tall bushes and followed the signs to the pay station, which was on the school’s old porch. There I found envelopes, each one printed with lines asking for my license number and the number of days of my stay. I filled in the blank spaces – a pen sat on a desk for those who didn’t have one – put a twenty and a ten inside the envelope, sealed it, and then dropped it through a slot in the door. Short of an attendant, it was the simplest and most old-fashioned payment system one could imagine. I had an extremely pleasant stroll back to the guesthouse.
Worth Ave. was very quiet. We found a parking space easily and walked down Via Mizner to Pizza Al Fresco. In addition to excellent pies, the restaurant has a lovely outdoor courtyard which contains, on one side, the tombstone of Addison Mizner’s pet monkey Johnnie Brown. Our friends arrived, Ohioans originally from Poland, and expressed delight at the weather. I told them the clear blue skies were depriving them of Florida’s shapely clouds.
After eating our lunch, and paying respects at the grave of the monkey, we strolled Worth Ave. Most of the stores, including the rare book shop, were closed, so we headed to the Society of the Four Arts, where we wandered through the botanical garden, admiring trees I didn’t know the names of and sculptures modern and representational. Chris posed for a picture with Roosevelt and Churchill.
From there it was a short drive to The Breakers. The cathedral-like lobby contained two trees and lots of garlands; brunch was still being served in the dining room (the pastries appearing like festive decorations). Down the south loggia we exited the building and stood by the sea wall, the waves of a size rarely seen in South Florida. (They helped make up for the lack of clouds.)
Leaving the hotel, we drove south along the ocean, then down side streets of high-hedged mansions. At one point I heard from the backseat a quiet plea for the possibility of a redistribution of wealth.
Last month in Poland the weather was cold, damp, and overcast – just as I remembered fall. It so successfully transported me back to my years there in the early ’80s that, at 2:30 every afternoon, I felt I should be heading to my classes at the English Language College.
Even Poles remarked on the premature chill – it rarely got into the 60s – though it’s tourists, who are out and about, who are most inconvenienced by bad weather. And it’s not just our personal discomfort but the fact that one of the pleasures of travel – strolling and observing the street life – is greatly reduced when people are bundled up and walking briskly. Of course, the cold made the hot chocolate at Wedel Chocolate Shop taste even better.
Also, wearing a scarf every day, I was able to hide my lymphedema. Yesterday I went to physical therapy for the first time in over a month and my therapist measured my neck in three places, as always, and found slight reductions in size in every one. She explained that cold weather sometimes helps reduce swelling.
After a month away I'm still surprised by certain American tendencies. At lunch the other day, the waitress brought some honey for Hania's tea, for which Hania thanked her.
"My pleasure," she said. "Enjoy."
Three words we never heard in Poland