Enter: the mysterious stranger. Where the others wear tank tops and shorts, she wears black capri pants, a long-sleeved red t-shirt and a fleece vest, a sweater tied around her neck. She moves slowly along the beach, stopping regularly to sit against the dunes and look at the Gulf. What is her secret? What is her @#$% problem?!
She has a bad cold or the flu, that's her problem. On this day in paradise, she is feeling like a fuzzy bag of lint. But she's trying to stick her face and chest into the sun, to burn out this bug that has taken her over for the second time this winter. And she will succeed. But not today.
Today was going to Publix to get some groceries, wandering amongst the bewildering infinity of choices, most of them poor. When I'm down here, I always find myself standing in judgement on my fellow Americans. How is it that the richest nation on earth - or what once was - is full of people who do not know what actual food is? And why must they trumpet their allegiance to their flag? The parking lot, full of enormous cars fluttering Stars and Stripes from windows and aerials. I try to imagine a French parking lot, full of Citroens with the French flag flying, and laugh.
But then, a French grocery store wouldn't be full of people who smile so warmly. Anyone whose gaze meets mine offers a friendly grin. I love these crazy people.
No, I don't. These people might elect Rick Santorum. But still, they are amazingly open and warm. Even I, in my fog, feel that. Here I am, with palm trees and wifi - what could be better? I simply request the return of my brain, my sinuses and my throat.
Fading shot - inside a small, bright condo, sitting near a large box of Kleenex, the mysterious woman sips a Californian shiraz, eats a delicious Fontina cheese and taps with her fingers. Outside the wall of windows to her right, the sun is setting on the bay. The pelicans, herons and egrets are fishing. Even without a brain, she knows she is one lucky mysterious woman.
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