So, we’ve finally settled into our new apartment. It was a rough start. But we’ve hung some pictures, unpacked the boxes and tonight we’re watching the Red Sox. Can I tell you something? I’ve always loved scruffy, dirty boys. I’m talking Johnny Depp.
Long hair, scruffy beard, maybe a tat or two. A bad boy, an edgy boy. But this Red Sox beard thing. I don’t get it. It’s bordering on Amish, it scares me. I don’t like it. It’s definitely not attractive. When I watch sports with my husband, I like to look at good looking men. Tom Brady kind of guys. But enough of that, let’s talk about about my new home.
The baseball game is brought to us by our new dish.
The really good looking Cuban guy who installed the dish said, “It isn’t very attractive, but what you are going to do?” However, I like the inadvertent shade it provides in the late afternoon, an unintended umbrella we didn’t realize we needed.
My husband has always loved the pass through window Rob and Laura Petrie had between the living room and kitchen, the one with the shutters. Seriously, he has referred to it numerous times over the years.
Now we have one of our own:
This is the view from the pool:
I love the vibe here. It is 1950’s Florida. A noir kind of vibe. I am constantly anticipating a complicated crime involving sex. A woman in a trench coat, a man wearing a hat. They meet in the hallway, duck into one of the apartments. It also reminds me of the movie Body Heat. I think of those wind chimes, the sound of a slight breeze during a hot Florida night, putting you on edge. There is nothing quite like the heat of a summer in Florida. Just ask my husband, who has been painting the exterior of a house these past few weeks.
Our deck overlooks a courtyard full of palm trees that rustle like silk dresses at a cotillion ball.
The laundry is in a small room at the end of that outdoor hall. It’s not a big deal, it’s easier than lugging it up and down the stairs at my old house in New Hampshire, where the dryer was in the formal living room. I know, don’t ask. I can’t explain. However, I can tell you there was nothing formal about that living room.
I accidentally took this photo while washing clothes this morning:
It’s my shadow. Then I took this one:
That’s my pink shirt and blue plaid shorts. I don’t how it happened, but I like it. It evokes the vibe of this place. Dashiell Hammett or John D. MacDonald or Elmore Leonard could have lived here. Weird things happen in South Florida. I awake to the lonesome whistle of the train traveling along Dixie Highway. I hear sirens at night, rushing to another Florida crime scene. The other day two police cars, riding abreast behind me, pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot, met by a third car which circled around the back of the golden arches. Just a routine day in South Florida.
Parrots screech in the trees at night. It is a strange new world. Toto, we are not in New Hampshire anymore.