Email ElizabethThe Difference Between 21 and 61 at Lorelei’s Restaurant
In Limbo Gift Shop Overseas Highway Islamorada
Hungry, thirsty and sitting in the rain on a hard chair — even if it’s on a beach and surrounded by tipsy, happy people — is not my idea of a fun time. It was at one time, though. See, I like to believe that when we get older, we become more tolerant, even if it’s not really true in all aspects. We do tend to become more forgiving of others. We don’t expect other people to be perfect because we’re wise enough to realize that everybody is flawed. We all have our quirks.
Mine is service. I expect to get service at establishments that provide service. When I don’t receive service, I get grumpy. It takes my husband much longer to reach that plateau, but he eventually gets there, too.
Sailboat at Islamorada Sunset
When I was in my 20s, like many of today’s kids, I didn’t really give a crap if I sat in a chair at a restaurant and no server approached my table to take my order because it was a treat just to sit in a chair at a restaurant. If I wanted a drink, I could ask my date to go to the bar and get it, or I could get my own then skinny butt up out of the chair and get it myself. Which is what I thought about doing last night just before it started to rain.
At first, it was just a drizzle. The band had stopped playing. My hair was already a tangled mess, and I did not care if the light mist falling turned it into a frizzled jungle. The waiter at Lorelei’s stopped by our table after we patiently waited for 20 minutes, tapped it with his fingers, “I’ll be right there,” he promised, and then ran off kicking up sand, as though to show us how fast he would return to make good on his promise. I watched the lights sparkle, wound tightly around the palm trees. He didn’t come back. Another 10 minutes passed. He especially didn’t return after the downpour started; yet guests at the other tables continued drinking and laughing.
Right there is the difference between 21 and 61. We left. There are plenty of other restaurants in Islamorada. Places where everything is not deep fried.
Photos: Gift shop in Islamorada featuring kickass 1960’s stuff, and a sailboat at Sunset, by Elizabeth Weintraub
American Crocodiles and Florida Keys Manatees in the Everglades
Everglades National Park at Flamingo
People will tell you that there are no crocodiles that live in the wild in the continental United States but “people be wrong.” How do I know this? Because we visited several more national parks in Florida yesterday, and not only did I learn about the distinctions between alligators vs. crocodiles, but I actually spotted a crocodile swimming in the canal in front of the Marina store at the Flamingo Visitor Center in Everglades National Park.
In my excitement to capture him on film, I ran around the entire cement rectangle. When I first noticed the crocodile, he was swimming away from the dock in front of the Marina store where I was standing with camera in hand and clutching a cheap-ass pink Everglades T-shirt made in Haiti. I figured that if I could get to the other side of the marina before he did, I could shoot a great photo of his entire silvery body and beautiful whopping big head. Panting, I scampered down the ramp and gingerly tiptoed out on the dock.
Crocodiles live in ocean water. Flamingo, Florida, is about the northern-most point in the United States where a crocodile will venture because that’s where the salt water meets fresh water. You can easily tell the difference between an alligator and crocodile because a crocodile’s teeth hang out and are bared, whereas an alligator keeps her teeth neatly tucked inside her lips. Crocodiles are also more gray with a slight hint of green and alligators are black or dark gray. But it’s the teeth that easily differentiate.
The crocodile was mesmerizing. Big ol’ eyes staring. Staring at me. Uh-oh, he saw me. I temporarily forgot that I was standing on the dock with my camera in hand, switched to the On position, ready to shoot. The minute I raised my camera to my eye, the crocodile slipped under the brackish water. I captured a a sinking silver streak.
Elizabeth Weintraub’s Manatee Made in China
All was not lost at the Flamingo Visitor Center. On the other side, where the boats are put into the water, some guy pulling up his canoe looked at us and asked: What does a manatee look like? Here, I had completely written off getting to see a Florida Keys manatee in the wild. I was so certain we would not see a manatee that I bought a small plastic manatee made in China at the national park at Biscayne Bay just so I could take a picture of it. See, the thing is if you spot a manatee in the Everglades, you most likely only see a snout sticking up through the water and, from a distance, it can look like a a coconut. Receiving an opportunity to actually see a manatee up close was very unlikely.
But there she was. Right next to the dock. Poking that cute little nose up through the filthy water littered with trash and cigarette butts. My very own Florida Keys manatee. She said: Hi, do you have any Grey Poupon? They will eat small fish but these mammals are primarily vegetarians.
Florida Keys Manatee at Flamingo Visitor Center
Manatees are protected in Florida. They are endangered. Careless boaters run over them and leave big gashes on their backs. Probably the single biggest issue that causes a reduction in the number of manatees in Florida is loss of habitat. They can grow to 800 to 1200 pounds. Their closest relative is the elephant, and they are so danged sweet-looking and inquisitive that you can’t help but want to pet them.
A skinny little boy who didn’t quite reach my waist, bouncing a head of soft black curls, said he wanted to jump into the water and hug the manatee. When I asked if he could swim and he shook his head No, his sister volunteered to help him swim — that’s how badly these kids hanging out at the dock wanted to play with a Florida Keys manatee. The thought crossed my mind that I could jump in the water myself, but without any food to entice the mammal, I suspected the manatee would swim away.
See, I may have the instincts of a child at times, but I possess at least one thing that children do not. Foresight.
Photos: Elizabeth Weintraub, Everglades National Park at Flamingo
Reasons to Choose a Boutique Resort in Islamorada
If you really can’t stand the sound of kids squealing and screaming and enormously loud Texans hollering at each other, then a smaller boutique resort in Islamorada, Florida, might be perfect for your next vacation. Maybe it’s just me, but I grow increasingly uncomfortable when I am shoved into tiny hotel rooms where the TV doesn’t work, there are no robes and slippers, and room service always messes up breakfast. I much prefer a place where the manager stops by to introduce herself and mentions that our travel agent forced her to do it or else.
When asked if there is anything else she could do for us, I hesitated. Should I tell her that the surface of the floor in our main room is carpeted and would be dramatically improved if she would install engineered hardwood, such as perhaps hickory plank? That a moving walkway down to the beach would be lovely? Or, that I have no intention of wearing the life jackets she said the Coast Guard requires us to wear in order to go paddle boarding? I think not. Things would be different if I ran this resort in Islamorada.
Instead, we asked for an in-room coffee pot. Well, my husband requested it and then he blamed it on me. Which meant that I was now forced to come up with something else that she could do for us. I brought up the fact that our threshold to the bathroom is raised and not properly installed, leaving an inch-and-a-half drop onto the marble flooring in the bath — in other words, it is a toe-stubber. There is no smooth transition.
Even though I do feel that sheer curtains around the bed, since there is a frame for the curtains, would lend a certain amount of dramatic flair, I did not mention it. Lips zipped. Overall, the best words I can use to describe this Islamorada resort are uncomplicated, refined elegance. If you start to improve it too much, the ambience would vanish. Still, hardwood floors, gotta say. Would make this lovely resort in Islamorada all that more lovely.
While at the Green Turtle Inn last night sipping my Turtle Tini, which is decadence times 11: like a Snicker’s Bar with salted caramel and a combination of at least 3 creamy chocolate-laced liqueurs, I received a signed counter offer. You may wonder why I was checking my cell but it was all lit up to advise that Feastivus is awaiting me in Plants vs. Zombies. I love putting Sacramento homes into escrow.
Photos of a resort in Islamorada by Elizabeth Weintraub
Buying Homes on Christmas
Gulf Bay at Islamorada Resort Casa Morada
One would think that the real estate business, especially in Sacramento, would be pretty slow over the day before Christmas and on Christmas itself but I still had showings on my listings. I guess I could see this if parents were in town visiting and had but one chance to look at homes with their kids; however, if the main objective was to shop and not buy, like for shoes at Macy’s, that could be done online.
Let me depart for a moment and say how unhappy I am with the quality of merchandise at Macy’s in the downtown Sacramento mall. Its inventory has been downgraded. Gone are many brand names and with it the expensive price tags, which I suppose is a result of supply and demand: Macy’s supplies and then buyers purchase those items online. I propose that shoppers would buy directly from Macy’s if a shopper could ever locate a clerk. You’re lucky to find one clerk per cash register, and that’s if you can find the cash register, which is probably buried under returned items dumped on the counter.
You might think I am just a grumpy old person who goes around complaining about everything and nothing makes her happy, but you would be confusing me with a tourist who had spent time in Miami. Who can be grumpy with the above view from her deck in Islamorada? OK, maybe a person who didn’t get any coffee.
I stumbled into the breakfast room, which is right around the corner from our deck that overlooks this lovely view. Pretty convenient. Scooted past bent-over-guy who was trying to read the headlines of the New York Times without actually touching the newspaper because there could be lizards tucked away inside, I guess; I have been warned to be careful what I pick up around here and I imagine he’s heard the same thing.
Fumbled on the counter for a coffee cup. Picked up the coffee pot and dumped it upside down, shaking out every last precious drop into the paper coffee cup. Grabbed another pot and repeated episode. If my husband’s eyes were not open, this would not have been a problem, but we needed 2 cups of coffee and not just one. I called room service. I don’t think they can identify you at this small resort upon answering the phone, but I was still polite, even though the opportunity afforded me the chance to snarl. I did not snarl, just for the record.
I simply said there was no coffee in the breakfast room. Anticipating that I would be asked if I checked all of the coffee pots, I added that all of the coffee vessels were empty. My husband heard that conversation as a person who did not yet have her morning coffee.
This was not a day for me to receive an email from a buyer’s agent demanding that I educate my sellers on sales prices. My sellers are so educated they should be sporting real estate graduation caps. But it’s the day after Christmas, and I didn’t get into it. Serves no purpose. Besides, when you think about it, I am not the agent who was forced to drag buyers from house to house on the day before Christmas.
Photo: Gulf Bay in Islamorada, Florida, from private resort deck, by Elizabeth Weintraub
Merry Christmas from Marco Island
Sunset Marco Island
Marilyn Monroe said that if you can make a girl laugh, you can make her do anything — but take that piece of insight with a grain of salt because look at what happened to her. Still, my gut often aches from laughing, listening to my husband. He can do accents. I can’t do accents. He could write for Saturday Night Live.
We were sitting at a Florida Gulf beach-side restaurant finishing a lunch of creamy potato soup, which arrived at our table accompanied by a chunk of bread. Out of nowhere, a large grackle leaped to the back of a chair and claimed its piece of real estate. The bird was not leaving. He paced back and forth on top of the chair, head bobbing, eyeing me and my plate. My husband launched into a skit, sounding just like a gigolo from Argentina:
I see you have some BRE-ADDD, he whispered breathlessly into my ear. The bird continued its frenzy pace. We have a common goal, you and I . . . Do you come here often? I have not seen you here before . . . How about you and I and your BRE-ADDD get outta here?
Outta here, to a massage. Fortunately, the hotel where we are staying offers a series of different types of massages at its spa. Usually we opt for a couple’s massage, a Swedish, but this menu of spa choices featured a Signature massage. My husband questioned the Signature Balinese massage: a Chinese / Hindu / European combination. Maybe they roll hot bamboo sticks over your back? I suggested. No, says he, they use Sharpies. Madam, do you have a preference in color?
We compared notes afterward because we were in separate rooms during the massage treatment. Yup, 3 bangs on the foot, just like a Chinese gong. Yup, prayer at the end, that was the Hindu part. We could have saved a few hundred and just requested Swedish.
Our dinner last night was not from our hotel because the cuisine is just so-so. Instead, we opted for Italian a few doors down Collier Boulevard where they hire waitstaff on student VISAs from the Philippines and serve wines from Oregon. While in Portland, we grew particularly fond of wines from the Willamette Valley. That is a very hard word to say — Willamette. Because you would think it is pronounced like it looks, a man’s name with ET at the end, but it is named after a river that is pronounced Wil-LAM-it. Just remember laminate floors and you’ll be fine.
Because our waitress could not pronounce the name of the wine, she placed the menu back in front of us and questioned our selection a second time. I like Elk, they’re such beautiful creatures, and a Cove is a great place to escape a storm, plus 2010 was a pretty good year, I explained as to why we chose the Elk Cove 2010 Pinot Noir from Willamette. My husband is right. My sense of humor is lost on some people.
That is why although I thought of it, I did not request an accompaniment of 10 blueberries with my greek yogurt this morning and will instead leave the bowl of assorted berries they brought to rot on my room service cart. I do not want to be known across the web as that anal person at the Marriott who ordered 10 blueberries with her breakfast room service.
Merry Christmas everybody. Today we leave Marco Island and head for Islamorada. Sister still stuck in freezing cold in Minnesota, check. Housesitters still hated by our cats, check. Husband’s family still not celebrating yet dining on duck in Chinatown, check.
Photo: Sunset over Marco Island, Florida, by Elizabeth Weintraub
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