Saturday afternoon we drove down to the Coral Gables Art Cinema to see Casi 40 (Almost 40; judging by the audience, the movie should have been Almost 70). The director introduced it, looking a bit like a younger Woody Allen: small-framed, fair-haired, horn-rimmed. What followed was a quiet road picture with a very small cast, limited scenery, and lots of fine dialogue. Almost all of it was between the male and female leads, the latter a retired singer who goes on a short tour with her unsuccessful ex-boyfriend, who has booked her into a series of bookstores. Appropriately, after the movie the director was speaking about his new novel across the street at Books & Books. And fittingly – this being Saturday – there would be live music in the courtyard. Unfortunately – this would have been too perfect – it would not be provided by the actress in the movie.
The one bright spot in our palm tree saga (other than the kitchen) is the fact that I’ve learned a new word. Hania took a picture of the bullied trees to her office and showed the city horticulturalist. He not only confirmed the improper trimming job but gave it a name: pencil-necking.
Why do landscaping companies hate trees? Every time I see the trucks come onto the island I fear for our palms and gumbo limbos, our banyans and tabebuias. Not to mention my aesthetic pleasures and quality of life.
Yesterday two trucks arrived and, unfortunately, I had to leave for a dermatologist’s appointment. When I returned, it was to a sun-drenched kitchen. The four palms outside our balcony – which had grown to produce a green wall of fronds protecting us not only from the sun but a view of the parking lot – had been reduced to spindly sticks. (None of the deleted fronds came close to touching our railing, so building safety was not a concern.) Afternoon reading on the balcony, and al fresco dinners, were gone with the buzz saw. Unless I wanted more visits to the dermatologist.
Looking on the Internet, I found articles about palm trees. All of them stated that massive trimming of healthy fronds could be harmful to the tree. So the landscaping company’s overzealousness was more than senseless, it was potentially detrimental. Furthering its contributions to the environment is the fact that we will now expend more energy on air-conditioning.
Yesterday evening, tasting rums in the carved-wood-and-fringed-thatch majesty of the Mai Kai, I felt as if I had penetrated the tiki sanctum of Caribbean-Polynesian South Florida.
The young man standing outside Publix asked politely if I could give him 84 cents for a box of chicken. It seemed an odd sum; I told him I’d buy him a box.
In the deli section, the boxes of chicken all sold for $8 and change. Perhaps I had misheard the man. Also, they seemed quite large for a single person. I went to the counter and ordered a couple breasts and a couple wings. The total came to $7 and something.
Outside, I handed the man his chicken. “Thank you,” he said. “God bless you. Do you have a dollar so I can get something to drink?”
I told him to try another shopper.
Yesterday I picked up my friend Don in Boca and drove to Delray, where we had reservations to watch the England vs. Croatia match at the Blue Anchor Pub. (I had called Monday, repeatedly, and failed to get through, but somehow Hania had had success.) I found a parking spot on Atlantic Avenue and discovered that you now have to pay for parking in the city. I put my credit card in the machine and got time till 4:13.
The pub was packed. It took a while for the hostess to greet us; when she did, she told me my name was nowhere on the list. I told her my wife had reserved a table for two and, begrudgingly, she led us to a table/booth in the darkened back of the pub, in front of a regular size TV. The people in the bright front room had a large screen.
I ordered a shandy and a Ploughman’s lunch, asking if the baguette was fresh. “Sir, I’m too busy,” the harried waitress said, before adding perfunctorily “Yes, it’s fresh.”
Music blared from speakers, despite the fact that the TV was showing the pre-match program. Don put in earplugs. It surprised me that the English were louder than the Brazilians had been.
Our lunch arrived; Don’s fish and chips looked a lot better than my Ploughman’s lunch. The baguette was more of a hoagie roll.
Someone turned off the music shortly before both teams walked onto the field. Halfway through “God Save the Queen,” the picture froze and the sound went off. The singing of the anthem was taken up by patrons at the bar.
As if inspired by this, the English scored early on a free kick.
I asked a waiter what the Wifi password was. He told me the restroom was in the corner. I repeated that I wanted the PASSWORD and he gruffly told me he was too busy.
In the second half I went to use the men’s room – I now knew where it was – and squeezed my way past crowds at the bar. While inside, I heard a loud groan, and when I emerged I learned that Croatia had scored their first goal.
The match went into overtime. After the first 15 minutes, I went out to add more parking time and found that I had a parking ticket. Apparently, there is a three-hour limit, despite the fact that the machines sell tickets for more than three hours.
When I returned to the pub, I learned that Croatia had gone ahead.