Year in Palm Beach (4 page)

“I think you're right,” Pam says. “I think it is going to be good for us.”

For a dozen or more years, we would now walk through the lobby to the elevator and up to our room. But tonight we are walking through the lobby and out the front door to our cottage in Palm Beach. As we get to our front walk, Pam says, “What a thing.”

We'll sleep in our new bed for the first time. Maybe tomorrow I'll believe we're really here.

Wednesday, September 2

Pam and I are up early, and yes, I'm surprised to be here, but very happy. We go out for a walk to explore our new neighborhood. The ocean is less than a block away, and the Lake Worth Lagoon, part of the Intracoastal Waterway, about four blocks. After almost an hour of walking, we're back home to continue unpacking, setting up the rooms, moving furniture, hanging photos, and filling a few cabinets. Getting settled is going to take a while, but I love our first walk around the neighborhood.

From the outside, our new house is a small, one-story Bermuda-style cottage with white stucco walls, a black roof, and a large chimney. A twelve-foot ficus hedge shields the small front yard, and the east, west, and north sides of the property are also bordered by trees and hedges.

Inside we are surrounded by colorful walls, and the entire cottage has white wooden floors. The living room, painted bright coral, has a fireplace, built-in bookcases, and a tray ceiling. Interior French doors open into another, less-formal, soft yellow family room. From the family room, more French doors open out to the pool area.

We have two small bedrooms and three tiny bathrooms. We claim the slightly larger, sky-blue bedroom for ourselves. I put the electric “wood-burning” stove in the corner. The second bedroom, pale green, becomes our office and Duckie and Blanco's room. Pam and I have been working in the same house on a daily basis for over a decade, but we have always each had our own office. This room looks smaller than I remembered. Much smaller. We'll see.

The kitchen is like our first New York apartment kitchen. It's small but functional. An empty doorway off the kitchen leads to what is supposed to be the third bedroom, which measures about six feet by eight feet. For the time being, we are storing boxes there.

The pool and pool area are way out of proportion to the cottage. The twenty-by-forty-foot pool has a generous coquina deck and is completely and privately enclosed by giant seagrape, palm, umbrella, and ficus trees. Bathing suits will not be necessary.

Our small cottage has an even smaller guest cottage. This is, after all, Palm Beach. It houses a compact washer-dryer and its own tiny full bathroom, and I think there will be just enough room for a futon for guests, a bureau, an iPod dock, and some books. But at the moment it, too, holds still-unpacked boxes.

Thursday, September 3

Along with unpacking and settling in, we are waiting, the expected waiting that comes with a move, not my favorite activity. The cable people and the phone people are both supposed to arrive today. The man from the phone company arrives at ten o'clock as promised. In my experience, this is the exception to the rule. He puts on little booties, walks around inside, and finds six phone/internet jacks.

“Looking good,” he assures us. “I'll be right back.”

About ten minutes later, he is back at the door. His expression indicates that things are not looking good.

“There are no phone lines to this house,” he says.

Pam turns her head and points to one of the phone jacks. “What are those?”

He shakes his head. “I know,” he says, “you have phone jacks inside the house, but there are no wires attached to anything outside. Someone cut all the lines coming in. I can't hook you up, but I called it in. Someone will be here tomorrow between three and five. I'm sorry.”

“Cut lines? What's that about?” Pam says.

About four o'clock, Pam says, “Some guy is wandering around out back. I think it might be the cable guy.”

I go to the French doors, open them up, and say, “Good afternoon.”

“Hey, how ya doing?” he says, and walks over. The name on his shirt is actually Larry. “Buddy, I think we have a problem here,” he says.

By now Pam has joined us by the door.

“Can I come in?” he says.

“Of course,” Pam says, and the three of us step inside the yellow room.

Larry the Cable Guy looks around, spots a cable coming out of the east wall, walks over, and gives it a tug. It pulls right out of the wall and swings in the air.

“Someone cut all the cables coming into the house,” he says. “This is a big problem.”

Larry goes on to explain we need a special service team to come out and evaluate the situation. He can't do anything. He gives us a phone number to call and wishes us luck.

After he leaves, Pam says, “What is this cut wires and cables stuff about? Why would anyone want to cut all the cables?”

“I have no idea. Maybe we should call the property manager. His name and number are clipped to the lease.”

“Okay, but let's wait until tomorrow and see what the other phone guy says. At least by then we'll have a little more information,” Pam says.

Friday, September 4

I am realizing that the cottage offers some interesting challenges. There is only one medicine cabinet, the kitchen cabinets are missing shelves, there are very few hooks or towel racks, no toilet tissue holders, two of the showers don't have curtain rods or curtains, and two of the toilets are not attached solidly to the floor.

Each day we make a new discovery. This afternoon I am quite sure the pool has a leak, and Pam thinks the sprinkler system may not be working. I start a punch list.

Unfortunately, I can't make a punch list to correct the inherent smallness of the cottage. I am an off-the-rack 44 long, six three, one ninety. There are doorways I have to turn sideways to get through. One of the bathrooms I cannot stand up in, and I've already hit my head on the slanted ceiling in the guest cottage several times.

Then there are the other oddities, like I can't open my closet door without closing the bedroom door, and no one can get into the kitchen if the icebox is open. But the cottage isn't going to adjust to me, so I guess I'll be adjusting to the cottage.

The good news is that at ten to five the new phone man arrives and by six thirty the cottage has a working landline and internet service. Pam and I decide to live without TV for a while and don't even bother to call the number Larry the Cable Guy gave us.

Saturday, September 5

The list of problems is growing. This morning our pool man confirms the pool does have a leak, but he needs the property manager to okay the repair. I call Benjamin, who is listed as the property manager. Benjamin's machine picks up. I leave him a message and our number.

In the meantime, to make the cottage more livable, we need towel racks, tools, shower curtain rods, shelves, light bulbs, and several other items. Neither of us has a clue where to find these things in Palm Beach.

I discover a copy of the
Palm Beach Guide and Phone Book
in a kitchen drawer. Leafing through it, I say to Pam, “This is extremely helpful. I just counted over thirty entries for jewelry stores, and there are several dozen designer boutiques, ladies' shoe stores, and art galleries listed, but absolutely nothing resembling a hardware, houseware, or office supply store anywhere on the island.”

Pam laughs. “This is Palm Beach. People need Ferragamo and Armani, not light bulbs and screwdrivers.” After consulting her iPhone, she reports, “All the necessities of life are available over the bridge, strung out along Okeechobee Boulevard. Office Depot, Lowe's, Bed Bath & Beyond, Staples, Target, Restoration Hardware, and Pottery Barn.”

I get it. Real stuff is on the mainland. The stores in West Palm have everything a person might need. The stores in Palm Beach have nothing a person might need, but everything they might possibly want.

Sunday, September 6

It's time to find a grocery store. We have been existing quite well on grapefruit juice from Scotti's for breakfast, and salads and sandwiches from Sandwiches by the Sea for lunch, and just wandering out for dinner. So far we have walked to cocktails or dinner at Taboo, Bice, The Chesterfield, Renato's, Trevini, Amici, and Café Boulud.

The evenings have been wonderful, but I actually miss cooking. It is time to start normal life here. It dawns on me I have no idea where the grocery store might be or even if there is one on the island.

“Pam, do you know if Palm Beach even has a grocery store?” I say.

“There must be one. I'll Google ‘Palm Beach groceries' on my cell,” she says. “Looks like there's a Publix Super Market about a mile north on the island.”

I must admit that Pam's iPhone comes in handy from time to time, but I really hate cell phones. Or maybe just the way some people use them. I don't have one and don't want one. My daughter Samantha assures me that this fact alone makes me a weird old man, but she helpfully points out the list does not stop there.

I drive us to Publix, pull the car into the parking lot, and am greeted by a valet parker. Valet parking at the local grocery store. Welcome to Palm Beach. We skip the valet, park and go in, load up, and then head home.

Tonight, with cupboards, freezer, and icebox stocked, we stay home and have our first cookout. It is a balmy night, a sip and dip night. Pam marinates a flank steak, I shuck a few ears of white corn and toss a salad together, and then the two of us head out for a cocktail in the pool. I put the iPod in its dock and decide Don McLean should join us.

Having just confessed to hating cell phones, I must now confess to loving my iPod. I've got thousands of songs to choose from, literally hundreds of artists, and dozens of playlists. Making music a part of our life is very easy with the iPod. I am not a total dinosaur.

We wallow in the peace and privacy of the (leaking) pool. I start the coals and get back in the pool. Eventually, Pam goes into the kitchen and brings out the rest of the food. I put the steak and corn on the grill and then start a wood fire in our fire pit. “Are those birds watching us?” I say

“The ones on the guest cottage?” Pam says. “I think they're doves.”

“Whatever they are, they've been sitting there watching us for quite a while.”

“Maybe they want to meet Blanco and the Duck,” Pam says.

After dinner, Pam and I walk over to the beach. There is no one else around. Walking back home, for maybe the first time, I feel like we really live here.

Monday, September 7

Today it is pouring rain, so we work around the house, thinking Benjamin will be returning our call from last Saturday. Pam has discovered the clothes dryer in the little guest cottage is not vented. When the dryer is on, the hot exhaust just fills the room. Even with the air conditioner on, the temperature is about 100 degrees in there. We've also discovered the disposal doesn't work. I call Benjamin. Again. This morning he actually answers. He doesn't seem to really know who we are or what he should do, but he agrees to come over and meet with us at two o'clock.

A little after three o'clock, Benjamin is at our front door. Benjamin, it turns out, is a college student who looks like he just stepped out of
The Preppy Handbook
or perhaps a surfer dude magazine. He does not inspire confidence, but he's a nice kid and seems sincere, so we go over our typed list of problems. I politely point out that many of them were outlined in an attachment to the lease and supposed to be taken care of before we moved in.

Benjamin agrees we “should fix some of these things up.” He takes a copy of our list and promises to be back tomorrow morning, before ten. As he's leaving, he explains, “You can always leave a message, but I'm mostly available on Saturday and Sunday.” A strange bit of information.

Tuesday, September 8

Pam and I are on an early morning walk exploring our mostly empty neighborhood. We're on Peruvian Avenue near the lake when I hear a man yell, “Honey, which car are you taking?”

After a second or two, a woman says, “I'm not sure; I guess I'll take the blue one,” and they both start laughing. As we pass the driveway, I see there are two Bentleys parked side by side, exactly the same blue, except one is a coupe and the other's a convertible. I guess she could have just as easily answered “the Bentley.”

Two Bentleys. Welcome to Palm Beach.

Benjamin was supposed to show up this morning before ten, but he didn't. I call him at noon. I get his machine. I don't know if people are supposed to be here today, but it seems wise to stick around on the off chance someone actually comes and tries to fix something. The cottage has never been professionally cleaned as outlined in the lease. Pam and I decide to tackle the cleaning ourselves and spend all day going at it.

About seven thirty, Pam says, “It's been a long, dirty day. Let's have a hot shower and a civilized evening.”

“Café L'Europe?” I say. “That's one place we haven't been since we moved.”

“Perfect. I'll be out of the shower in five,” she says.

“Or maybe ten,” I say, “but we're not in a rush.”

I'm getting the birds new food and water when Pam appears in the office wrapped in a towel. “There is no hot water,” she says.

“Oh crap. Let me take a look.” Two minutes later, I walk out of the bathroom and say, “There's no hot water.”

Pam laughs. “The guest cottage has its own hot water heater. I'll sneak out there and shower. You can try to call our surfer dude property manager.”

Benjamin's machine picks up. Again. I leave a short message and then inspect the water heater. It seems to be gas powered. I don't do water heaters, but there is a phone number pasted on the side. I call and leave another message. I'm getting quite good at leaving messages.