A Nice Sunday Outing...

Everything slows down with age, as the saying goes.
Heading out to the Coconut Grove Art Festival Sunday
with Jen drove that saying right into the ground.

Older drivers, many of whom need a booster seat
while driving, were defying the laws of motion,
squeezing themselves tightly between cars. I spent
most of the drive gasping and inventing new cuss words…

Nothing phases Jen at all, driving the Capsule
[what she calls her Tribute] with expert reflexes,
though I was white-knuckled most of the trip, commenting
how glad I was to live on the quieter side
of Florida. If I’d had dentures, they would have flown
out or been swallowed.
I know my eyes socket-popped a few times…

When we finally made the last left turn to the festival,
we picked out Pay and Go parking, only a few blocks away.
Should have been called Pay and Go Broke Parking.
After inserting a credit card, and selecting the time
amount, we waited for the transaction to complete and
print out a parking voucher.

Ha! I think the transaction was routed through Siberia.
Nothing happened.I thought of inserting cash, but couldn’t
find the money slot. Coins Only, Jen told me.
Like people are carrying a wad of quarters…
After trying another parking kiosk across the street,
we finally had our ticket.

The festival was packed.
We walked a few inches at a time along the tented streets,
downwind of Cuban cigar smoke and expensive perfumes.
Craning our necks to see some of the exhibited artists, we
wobbled around leashed gorilla-sized and dust mop-sized
dogs to view the artist displays.

After 4 hours and probably as many walking miles, we
found the car and hopped in and drove off with visions
of Bimini Bread at the Islamorada Fish Company occupying
our hungry thoughts…the streets were light and we made
all the green lights. I supposed drivers had made it to
the Early Bird and Happy Hour specials by then.

Miami is a real experience if one has steel nerves.
I mellowed out, enjoying the beautiful sunset as we
drove from Miami to Bass Pro Shops in Dania, near
Ft. Lauderdale. High rises shimmered pink and gold.

Yes, everything is supposed to slow down with age,
except the time it took for Bimini Bread to reach my hips…
Mmm, good!

Road Warriors...

Collier County has finally employed photo
enforcement at the busier and ignored traffic intersections.
The county collected over $400 in one week.
The national pastime for most drivers I’ve witnessed
is to run the red lights. Yellow means speed up to them.
It doesn’t matter if the intersection is as wide as a
football field--Zippy is zipping through.

Traffic operations has added a few seconds of wait time
allowing for red light busters, meaning: If east-west
traffic has the green light, west bound is already driving
while east bound sits at the light-- allowing for the
red light lefties to bust the signal.
That’s considerate--it gives you enough time to
file your fingernails , send a text, or run in to grab
a Dunkin Donut.

It was always tough to figure when the red light
was coming on--tough because the roads are such
long stretches between lights.
So you start thinking should I speed up, or start slowing down?
It took us some time to finally gauge the traffic lights.

When we moved here, we drove like little old ladies
from Pasadena, going 45 on 41, the Tamiami.
This caused some uptight drivers behind us
to honk their horns. I’ve often wished our car had
some techy James Bond gadgets so I could push
a button and send out a barrage of cow dung, or squid juice.

We eventually realized that 52 mph gets you through
most green lights and is still a cop-friendly speed.
If jet packs are ever available to the public, I’ll be first in line.