Saturday,
February 17, 2024
The tales of travel, although not a lot. It occurred to me, while we were sitting in the sardine section of the airplane en route to Florida, that (a) I wasn’t particularly uncomfortable, and (b) smaller seats on airplanes is a first-world complaint; they are a lot better than riding in a Conestoga wagon crossing the American prairies in the middle of the 19th century—and hardly a problem comparable to the often deadly problems people face on a daily basis in less-industrialized countries around the world.
We get to the Avis rental car desk and the guy tells us they don’t have any of the middle-sized sedans that we had chosen. Instead, he gives us a no-additional-charge upgrade—to a Cadillac SUV. It is black, so in my mind it resembles a small hearse, and it’s far bigger than any vehicle I’m accustomed to driving. Who buys these things?
I have a perhaps idiosyncratic view of Cadillacs (and Lincolns): back in the day when there were basically no non-American cars on the road (when I was growing up), the only high-end vehicles were a Cadillac or a Lincoln. I always thought they were an ostentatious display of wealth.
Now, if you have sufficient discretionary income to buy a higher-end car, you suggest (in my mind, totally inconsistently) that you have some taste if you drive a BMW or Audi or a Mercedes. A Cadillac, however, remains for me a display of wealth with no taste whatever. So I am rather embarrassed to be driving it.
I initially thought we might return the Cadillac for the sedan we originally reserved. As it turned out, the Cadillac needed air in one of the tires and a dashboard reset, so I needed to bring it back into Avis. When I called about bringing it in, the guy apologized; he said they didn’t have any cars of my size ready but I could have a Camry if that would be acceptable. (He obviously didn’t know that that’s the size car we’d initially reserved and were driving a free upgrade.) After quick consultation, Kathy and I decided to keep the Cadillac. It’s nice to be sitting up higher when 50% of the vehicles around you are SUVs. So what does that say about me and the stigma I attach to Cadillacs?
I have commented in the past, during our now-annual Naples stay, that I am astonished at the number of expensive cars being driven around here. A few days ago, on a short errand, I was passed by three Jaguars in the course of a couple of miles. Also recently, at a stoplight, I had four Cadillacs around me: three in front, one on the right. Just today on the way home from lunch a Maserati convertible passed us. To say nothing of the multitude of Lexuses, BMWs, Mercedeses, Acuras, Infinitys, and, of course, lots of Cadillacs. The occasional Bentley and Lamborghini show up as well. Uff da. That’s a lot of money in automobiles.
While I am on the topic of transportation, as a number of friends know, I fell off a bike right outside our townhouse. It was really stupid: I looked back to my left because I heard a car on the (very quiet, within our HOA) street behind me. As I did so, I inadvertently turned the handle bars right—and both I and the bike went down on the asphalt. What was even more stupid was that I didn’t have a helmet on. So I got a nasty-looking gash on my forehead that bled all over the place. (The bike was fine.)
So off to urgent care we go. The doc there takes one look at me and says nope, you have to go to the ER because the ER can do a CT scan, which urgent care cannot. I groaned; I’ve never been in an ER for myself but I have repeatedly been in one in the past for others, especially Krystin. It’s never taken fewer than 4-5 hours to get admitted and treated unless you’re suffering from a life-threatening affliction. The doc tells us of a free-standing ER about 30 minutes away, says they always get people in quickly. So off we go. Here’s a little gore to add to my story.
Her advice was sound. The CT scan and the stitches in my forehead and all the paperwork took 90 minutes. The worst part of the entire sequence of events was not the fall, it was the Lidocaine injection before the guy put in the four stitches. Yikes, that stuff stings!
The upshot is that there was no concussion and the gash on my forehead has healed to the point where you can barely see it. One friend commented that the scar would make me look rugged. I don’t; it’s too invisible.
I will remain on the topic of bikes. Kathy and I rented e-bikes recently and expected to ride to and around one of the large local state parks on the Gulf. I frankly was apprehensive about riding, not so much because of my recent fall but because I worry simply about breaking something. At my age, breaks often do not have good outcomes.
The e-biking was fine, sort of. I can say with certainty that I do *not* like riding on a bike path on a major thoroughfare right next to the traffic. (For those of you who know Naples, Vanderbilt Beach Road.) My balance was mostly fine, but being so close to moving vehicles made me nervous. Whatever gain in lifespan I achieved by the little exercise one gets on an e-bike—perhaps 30 seconds—was offset by the cost to my brain from the tension from the traffic.
The insult was that a good portion of the state park was closed. It seems that they’re still cleaning up and repairing after Hurricane Ian in September 2022. So we rode several blocks on Vanderbilt Beach Road, another several blocks on Gulf Shore Boulevard (also next to traffic, although less), got to the park, and were able to ride just a short way into the park before turning around at the point where the park becomes more interesting. So we rode back to a local restaurant and had lunch and then returned the bikes.
Kathy and I will perhaps explore buying e-bikes when we get back to Minneapolis, where there are many more places to bike away from vehicular traffic.
Next, big houses. We had friends from Scotland stay with us for six days. While they were here, we drove to the Atlantic side of Florida and stayed with my classmate Shar Benson in Pompano. She is great fun and a fabulous host—and the view from her condo overlooking the Atlantic was spectacular.
While on the east coast, we visited the Flagler Museum (“Whitehall”) in Palm Beach. It’s one of those enormous mansions built by a Gilded Age millionaire; the entry hall is 5000 square feet, there is a grand staircase, and there is marble everywhere. Henry Morrison Flagler built the house in 1902 as a wedding present for his third wife.
Here’s a view of the entry hall (the staircase is on the right; from the web) and a view down the central staircase and of the second-floor hallway (courtesy of Kathy). There are many more pictures of the house on the web.
Chester Congdon (Glensheen, on the North Shore of Lake Superior in Duluth) and James J. Hill (James J. Hill House, St. Paul) were pikers compared to Flagler. Gleensheen has 39 rooms and 27,000 square feet, finished in 1908; the Hill House is 36,000 square feet with 42 rooms, finished in 1891. Apparently Congdon decided not to compete with Hill in the enormity of his house. By comparison, Whitehall is 100,000 square feet and has 75 rooms. Flagler probably knew nothing about the Hill house or Glensheen and cared even less.
I’d never heard of Flagler. He was a partner with John D. Rockefeller in creating Standard Oil; he also built railroads and hotels in Florida. He is credited with founding the cities of Miami and Palm Beach—because his railroads made them accessible.
I have commented before that I find these gigantic homes to be offensive. The Flagler was no different, although in this case there was an excellent docent who gave us an hour tour with a narrative that set the house and Flagler in the context of the Gilded Age and the history of Florida. In that sense it was worth the time because I learned quite a bit. I suppose there is one positive thing you can say about houses of this size: You wouldn’t have any trouble getting in your 10,000 steps, just in going from your bedroom to the kitchen to the dining room to your office. But I suppose in that kind of house, with servants and cooks, you personally never went anywhere near the kitchen for your toast and cereal in the morning. Realistically, no one needs this much space; these houses, like my view of Cadillacs, are an ostentatious display of wealth, not a practical place to live.
Another event
while our Scottish friends were here was a visit to a hydroponic lettuce farm
run by my high school classmate Mike Ferree. A fascinating process; here’s one
photo from inside the greenhouse (courtesy of Kathy). For those of you who know
the University of Minnesota campus, the greenhouse is the size of the Northrop
Mall.
They produce 32,000 heads of lettuce per week; they sell to local grocery stores in Florida. The goal is to get up to 75,000 heads per week by the end of the year. It’s a highly computerized, mechanized process that uses less water and no pesticides. And a very expensive process; Mike told us that they aren’t making a profit yet. Part of the problem is packaging; they want to use less, but the grocery stores say they want the plastic containers with a transparent top because buyers want to see the lettuce. Those containers cost 45 cents each and have a lot of plastic in them; they could use less plastic and pay 23 cents each, but so far the stores don’t believe their customers would buy the lettuce if packaged that way.
Mike gave us a gift pack of six heads of the lettuce. It tasted great.
The weather has been cool for Florida; I’ve worn shorts and a polo shirt perhaps 3-4 times since we arrived on January 3. It’s also rained more than usual. Even now, in mid-February, the predicted daily high temps for next week are only in the high 60s. Meanwhile, the Twin Cities is having the warmest winter on record; the gap in temperatures between Naples and Minneapolis is far smaller than it should be at this time of year!
With it cool and sometimes wet, I’ve had more time to devote to one of my pastimes, my paint-by-numbers. Here, the first time I’ve done a landscape rather than people, the house I visited growing up, lived in for 34½ years, and sold to my son and daughter-in-law. Some of my friends are true artists, including classmates in New Mexico, my son, and my colleague Melissa Anderson. Since I haven’t a drop of artistic blood in my veins, I do what I can 😊
My best.
-- Gary
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