When the plane landed, I began to imagine what the coming weeks would offer. Relaxation, business at a sensible pace, uninterrupted time with my wife and son, and plenty of time on the water. I envisioned lengthy poolside time-wasting, mid-day sails, and little else. What I failed to realize was the fact that Mrs. had other plans, and within 60 minutes of landing, she began scribbling out our schedule for the next weeks. A robust roster of dinner party "YES" RSVP's had been sent and those nights and afternoons began vanishing. Three nights into our stay, and the social calendar is overbooked.
Bostonians who resented last years heavy snow have taken up down here for winter retreats, several of them having cashed in on the liquidated real estate prices... not as investments, but as getaways. They tend to have jobs that allow remote employment and so long as they meet their publishing, consulting, or whatever other deadlines, they while away here before the humidity presses too heavily. During the first dinner party, an old friend cooked a head-spinningly good Moroccan meal for us and politely abstained from the bottle I brought as he readied himself for the squash doubles finals back in Concord this coming weekend. Fine, more for me.
As the spiced lamb was served, a tall-ship entered the port. I couldn't make the name on her, and my angle concealed the lines. Anyone know who she is? Observe the beautifully tightened harbor-furling on her spars.
The Boston folks here tend to be uninterested in the over-the-top theater of the Palm Beach scene, preferring the LOW prices and relative anonymity that Miami can offer. Ever New Englanders, they tend to rise early to do their writing, painting, research, or business. Like my trips to the Caribbean, I wake up when most people are just going to bed. I avoid the trendy club scenes of South Beach in favor of smaller parties where people actually wear clothing.
Boston friends are all wearing canvas Toms espadrilles with their blazers or light-weight sportcoats, and all but one were smart enough to cut off that stupid little tag on the side that says TOMS. Among the others everywhere else, the women are several tiers better presented than their "dates" and the majority of men continue to opt for some bizarre Euro-MTV look with cancerous tans and gym-inflated upper torsos rendered incapable of any actual athleticism. Thankfully, I avoid the majority of these spots during the fashionable hours, the regular attendees of which don't normally arrive until after I have left (and gone to sleep).
There are other quietly stylish circles and crowds that seem more fitting to a stale Yankee like me, and they don't involve the foreign sports/luxury cars. More on those in the coming days.
Oh, no. I'll take over the top theater if it means seeing Stubbs and Wooten needlepoint instead of Toms.
ReplyDeleteShe is a beauty...the ship not the shoe.
ReplyDeleteA fine squaring away by the crew...I hope orders were issued to splice the mainbrace at the nearest mahogany reef. If not I will do it in their honor.
Not a sailor, but I would have thought yards on a hip like this, not spars, was the proper term - why not?
ReplyDelete*All yards are spars. but not all spars are yards.
ReplyDeleteMany of my friends, male and female, seem to wear nothing but Toms. One has shown up in a suit with black Toms on. I think they look ridiculous and offer very little protection. As it is, I rarely even like cloth boat shoes (aside from my intentionally in your face, go-to-hell patch madras pair). *shrug* To each his own, I suppose.
ReplyDelete