Marty Meitus’

Excellent

      Florida Adventure

 

      Many months ago, when we were in the dead of winter, I promised a friend I’d go to Palm Beach, Florida, with her in May to celebrate her very significant birthday. And I don’t mean 30. It’s one of those promises you make figuring that May will never get here, and then, there it is – May – and suddenly you’re planning a trip. 

      If I had thought May was actually going to arrive at any point, I might have snagged one of the few frequent-flier seats the airlines set aside by booking way ahead. As it is, I have 3 million miles that are still unused because – wouldn’t you know? – whatever seat I could have booked using FREE miles was already taken. But thank you for playing our game.

      Still, a promise is a promise, and what do you know, I lucked out. No, I didn’t get a free ticket, but since I was willing to fly when the moon was in the seventh house and Jupiter aligned with Mars, it was relatively inexpensive. Besides, I’m not complaining. The last person I want mad at me is the pilot. I say, throw money at him. Or, as it turned out on this flight, at her.

      Although I fly a few times a year, I didn’t realize how many people fly Denver to Florida with a suitcase the size of an envelope. A big, fat, heavy envelope. That means waiting, and waiting some more, while everyone enjoys that well-known airline pastime called “Stuff the Overhead Bin With Your Bag and Too Bad for Everyone Else.” But, ha, ha, all you annoying people, I had paid to check my bag and I got priority boarding right up there with the small kids, babies, and folks who need a little extra time, all because I didn’t cram my shampoo into an eyedropper. I just walked right on the plane, sat down and enjoyed my in-flight entertainment, watching all you poor suckers getting your morning exercise. All I needed was a beach book and an umbrella.

      When we arrived in Florida, though, I found out I might have to check my body at the gate. Apparently only tall, thin blondes are allowed in Palm Beach. As you can see from my picture, I’m tall and thin, clearly, but not a blonde. Men apparently get a pass. While the women were all properly ironed and wrinkle-free – from their faces to their clothes – the men were allowed to look any way they wanted as long as they were tan and wore Polo shirts and shorts with their paunches hanging over their belts.

      Then there’s that beach thing. It’s true that I had steeled myself and shopped for a swimsuit for the trip, but now I couldn’t seem to get it out of the dressing room, metaphorically speaking. Buying a bathing suit is a special kind of torture reserved just for women. I spent an afternoon before I left tucking myself into one of those miracle suits that should have been my size, but no, bathing suits don’t run true to size. So you have to keep getting dressed, running out of the dressing room, returning with an armload of suits and starting all over again. You could shop at a store that helps you, but really it’s not about the suit. It’s about you. The odds of looking good in a bathing suit are 1 in 50,000. OK, so I made that up. But when I looked it up online to see if there was some kind of wacky statistic, I did find out that, according to the Internet, one way to look good in a suit is to exfoliate. So that’s the secret. For the record, I gave up and bought a cute coverup to use over my old bathing suit.

      As it turned out, we never really had time to do more than walk on the beach. I forgot that I don’t like to be hot and that I don’t like to swim because I have to take out my contacts. You may see lovely waves rolling in and out; I see a jellyfish that looks like a duck.  

      On a friend’s advice, we went to the Breakers, which is one of those amazing hotels like the Broadmoor. Their bar is an aquarium, so when you place your drink on the bar, fish dart underneath. The first time this happened, I screamed and grabbed for my drink, thinking a fast-moving bug had just sprinted across the table. The second time I said, “Wow, this is cool. Can I have another lemonade martini?” And the third time I said, “Wow, this is cool. Can I have another lemonade martini?”

      The last night of our vacation, we went to a nice Italian restaurant and I asked if they did anything for a birthday, which is code for, do we get a free dessert? The staff was appropriately complimentary to my friend, and we did that back-and-forth thing in which they called each other over and exclaimed, “No, she can’t be.” In this case, they were right: My friend looks fabulous. I look short and dumpy, and I’m not giving anyone a chance to guess my age. After we had stuffed ourselves at dinner, we both decided to skip dessert, but the waiter looked so sad I said, “OK, bring it on.” He brought a lovely piece of tiramisu that neither of us particularly liked or wanted. And then he charged me for it. Full price. Thanks, guys. I’m glad we could make you happy.

      The next day we drove to the airport, got lost, got yelled at by a cop for accidentally getting into the taxi lane because we were lost and then caught our planes. I settled back for the TV and a $30 snack that, of course, was not complimentary. I was in the last row of the plane, which I usually don’t mind because I can watch the stewards and stewardesses. They tend to hang out in the back, and if they look scared, then I get scared.

      Just before landing, the pilot told us to expect some turbulence. All of the sudden I was on the roller-coaster ride of my life. I didn’t care because suddenly the snack was thinking about bouncing out of my stomach, and I was more concerned about embarrassing myself than about dying. I looked wildly around for a bag. None in the seat pocket. My seat companion must have seen my pretty green face because he started looking around. No bag. He was clearly panicked. If I blew, it wasn’t going to be pretty. I did the kind of breathing that they teach you in Lamaze. I considered my options – raincoat, purse, floor. Then, just when I thought I was going to be the volcano that erupted, the plane straightened out, my stomach settled down and we landed.

            When I left the plane, I didn’t say my usual goodbyes and thank-yous to the friendly attendants. Thinking back to the non-free ticket, the non-free dessert, the non-free checked bag and the non-free snack and TV, I announced, “Here’s a place you might not want to cut corners: air sickness bags. Trust me on that.”

 

Ahh, another
vacation to remember. I’ll probably do it again. Maybe next May.