Speaking of human, we mentioned to our pilot neighbors that Hania and I met in London 50 years ago next month. Rochelle said, “Wait,” and dug into her bag, extracting after a few seconds a large green canister from Fortnum & Mason. “Happy anniversary,” she said, handing us what turned out to be delicious pistachio and clotted cream cookies.
Yesterday afternoon in the garage we came across our neighbors getting bags out of their trunk, which was amusing because a few days earlier we had seen them in the same spot putting bags into their trunk. Then they were flying to London; now they were back; Rochelle still in her pilot’s uniform. Her husband, who is also a pilot, showed us the video of their arrival a few hours earlier at MIA, the plane greeted, as it taxied to the gate, by celebratory arcs of water in honor of Rochelle’s retirement. We hadn’t known that she was retiring but obviously the airport had. In a business that is seen as increasingly impersonal and joyless, it was heartening to see an institutional acknowledgement of the human.
We had lunch with a friend in West Palm Beach yesterday and the drive up was pleasant until near the end, when we saw the first sign for the Donald J. Trump Airport.
The Tartan Army occupied Mickey Byrne’s in Hollywood yesterday afternoon, filling the inside with their navy blue jerseys and crowding the sidewalk outside, where a line stretched in front of a small tent from which a woman in a bikini top and tight shorts dispensed bottles of beer and the occasional bucket of bottles. Her face was painted with the Scottish flag.
I asked two blondes with four tow-headed children if they were Scots from Scotland or Scots from Florida.
“I live in Scotland,” the taller one said, “but I’m originally from Poland.”
“What city?” I asked her.
“Warsaw.”
“What district?”
“Ochota.”
I told her I lived for two years off of Opaczewska Street with my wife Hania.
“My name is Hania,” she said.
I mentioned that I taught English at the English Language College
“My father taught English at the Warsaw School of Economics.”
People started singing, “No Scotland, no party.” I bumped into a man in a kilt who immediately turned around and put his arm around me. Another man in a kilt, with a shirt that read “Tartan Army Copenhagen,” stood at a table drinking beer with friends. “I’ve lived in Denmark for 40 years,” he told me. “I love it. The people, the lifestyle.”
I asked about the weather. “To be honest,” he said, “when winter comes we go to South Africa.”
I asked if he wasn’t uncomfortable in his wool kilt. “It is a bit hot,” he said. “but we get a nice breeze sometimes that cools us underneath.”
The St. Augustine Pipe band, which had come down for the day, took their places next to the tent. And soon the majestic sound of bagpipes drowned out conversations and turned Hollywood Boulevard into The Royal Mile.
The other week I stopped by my dentist’s office to pick up my mouth guard. I’ve been going to Dr. Moraitis for 37 years and I would say the place reminds me of my childhood dentist’s office except that I dreaded going to my childhood dentist’s office.
Cheryl the receptionist handed me the new guard, told me a bill would be coming and then, as I headed to the door, said, “Happy grinding.”
We arrived early to our early dinner in Miami on Monday and, driving around the neighborhood, we saw a large church a few blocks away. Heading over, we discovered that it was St. Mary’s Cathedral. Happily for us, the side door was open, and we walked inside, passing half a dozen people sitting in pews. Completed in 1957, the sanctuary is newer than Trinity Episcopal Cathedral downtown (which celebrated its 100th birthday last year) but it is impressive in size and architectural features. We particularly liked the stained glass windows that had a spare, modernist look.