South Beach

I don’t think I could ever live in Florida.

We drive down streets surrounded by palm trees. The sky is covered with soft, white clouds like dots on a Dalmatian. The buildings are a rainbow of pastels.

We leave the jacked-up air conditioning to be taken over by the humid heat. A block from our hotel, we can see locals walking on the beach, colorful bikinis showing much of their perfect bodies. People are suntanned. People are dancing on tables while they sip fruit drinks. They’re laughing, chatting, partying.

It all seems too good to be true.

I stare at my surroundings and mentally compare the environment to the one at home, in New York. New York is just as hot right now. But it has no palm trees. The buildings are much taller and they are brown, gray or mirrored. They tower over you and pierce the sky. People have no time to chitchat. They’re walking down the street in hurried steps while talking on the phone about an urgent matter.

Women wear stockings. Men are in suits and ties. Each person is carrying a nondescript briefcase and looking at their watches every three minutes. Most of them don’t acknowledge their surroundings. Who has the time to look around? They all have things to do, places to go.

No one notices the trees on Wall Street.

Life here seems so different. People are relaxed, they try to enjoy life. They don’t seem to spend their time running from meeting to meeting and even if they were, the streets and the weather make running so much more fun here. The entire place feels like a continual summer resort. How can anyone be miserable in this weather, in these surroundings?

I look at the beach again. I wonder what I was thinking when I turned down the job offer in Florida.

And then I realize that I could never live here. This feels too much like vacation. If I lived here where would I go for vacation? If these beaches were the norm for me, I’d be so spoiled. I’d probably end up taking it all for granted.

And then I’d have nothing to whine about.

Previously? Spontaneity.