Things I’ve Learned On the Beach

 

Vacations are not breaks from learning. The powers of observation can be amazing educational tools. I’ve learned more about bathing suits than I ever thought possible. Notice, I’m not saying it’s good. Below, a list of lessons. Yes, they’re kind of critical. But clearly, somebody has to say it.

1. European men still think Speedos are the way to go.

I really don’t understand this. It’s like they stubbornly refuse to wear any bathing attire other than a Speedo. And apparently, the more brightly-colored or wildly patterned, the better. I’m amazed I didn’t see anything with feathers strut by. Why do these guys not understand how incredibly UNflattering these things are, even when you’re 26 and gorgeous? Are they really comfortable? How is it possible that they’re comfortable? If you want to be seen, wear one. If you want to be seen and not make people look away, stick to trunks.

1A. The only thing worse than a guy in a Speedo is an old guy in a stretched-out Speedo.

I don’t think I need to explain this. But it did remind me of an episode at a different beach a few years ago. This guy wearing some sort of natural-colored fishnet “cover-up” decided to make camp right next to us. He had long, curly bleached blond hair and a leathery tan. He wore, I kid you not, a stretched-out gold lame’ Speedo. And…

…wait for it…

a fanny pack.

It was like Sammy Hagar went on a bender, forgot where he was, and decided to catch some rays.

Exactly like this, but with a belly and a tan. Wait. It might have actually been Sammy Hagar. (Image from the uber-classy sucksorrocks.com)

After he was finished with his visit, he climbed on a bicycle and rode off.

I’ll let you fully process that image.

Okay then.

2. There is seriously  no end of middle-aged, potbellied men who believe it’s perfectly acceptable to show at least two inches of butt crack while walking around the beach.

These men are usually with their wives. I don’t understand how they’re permitted to get away with this. They’ve got their shorts slung so low, everyone else is subject to their posterior crests. And it’s not cute. In fact, it’s usually furry. And not kitten furry or puppy furry or baby bunny rabbit furry.

3. There is also no end of women of all ages who wear ill-advised bathing suits.

I suppose I should applaud these women and girls for having a healthy enough body image to flaunt the flab, the cellulite, the jiggly bits. In a way, I think it’s great that they’re comfortable with their bodies. But people, I’m not that old and I’m a healthy weight, and I still keep my cellulite covered. It’s just polite. I know that my flaws lie in my proverbial trunk, and I’m not going to show you what they are. It’s so much sexier if you don’t let it all hang out. What is it about the current times that make people thing it’s better to show everything right from jump? Am I my grandmother? Are there kids on my lawn? I don’t think so.

4. There are also plenty of girls and women who don’t feel the need to keep their legs closed while they’re lying about on the beach. One of them was facing me directly. And when I say her legs were not closed, I mean if her doctor were around, she’d be totally ready for a quick pelvic. She was from some other country, but I’m  not having that as an excuse. Knees together, love. Where is your mother?

But, turns out…

5. There are parents who seemingly don’t care what their daughters look like on the beach.

Now. I have plenty of therapy-necessitating issues borne of my mother ‘s criticisms. But never, not ever, did I wear a bikini, untie the top strap that goes around your neck, tie it behind my back instead, and then slouch over to play cards. Legs akimbo, and fabric I mean barely covering nipples. She could have been wearing pasties, for all the good this bikini top was doing while she had the top strap tied around her back. And her parents were right there. Right there! How does that happen? I wasn’t even allowed to wear a bikini for as long as I lived in my parents’ house. I swear, I didn’t own one until I was 22. But here’s this lovely 17-year-old girl with a sweet face and she’s all exposed. In front of her father. I wanted to roll up my magazine and smack him in the head with it.

I don’t get it.

6. Trying too hard automatically negates attractiveness.

This is one of those things you don’t learn until you’re older, and God, do I wish I knew it ten years ago. The people I see trying too hard are younger, and it breaks my heart. They’re teetering on four-inch heels and wearing short skirts that they keep having to pull down as they walk. Their hair is all Done, but it’s humid and it’s breezy, so they’re getting frustrated with it. It’s hard work to be beautiful. But at their age, it’s harder to just let yourself be beautiful, and that’s sad, because it’s so much easier to look lovely naturally when you’re 22. I just want to stop these girls on the street and tell them to relax. Don’t make it so much harder than it is. I say this in all seriousness and heartfelt sincerity: there is more beauty in grace than there will ever be in glamour. If you’re not comfortable, you’re less beautiful. Let it go, and it will come to you. You’ll be irresistible. All the great ones knew it: Hepburn, Kelly, Bacall. There are famous, beautiful women right now who know it: Halle Berry, Diane Lane, Ashley Judd come to mind. Confidence and grace. They’re what make you beautiful. They’re what make men stare. Hairspray and spandex are for rookies.

I Am Woman, I Am Invincible, I Am On Vacation

Vacation makes you do things you wouldn’t do in real life. Random sex with strangers. Drunken misbehavior. Brazen breast-baring.

(You thought there was going to be a picture there, didn’t you? Fine, here’s your gratuitous, implicative photo:)

Unmade bed suggests sex. Bikini top suggests the reciprocal toplessness. Happy?

Yeah, I don’t do any of those things.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t get down with my personal version of my bad self.

One of the things that I like about being on vacation in a faraway Happy Place is the complete anonymity. I walk around like I own the place, because by now I’m familiar with the area from having been here a few times, but nobody knows who I am. I am that mystery woman who ducks quietly in and out of little shops, maybe twice, maybe three times (there’s a gallery here that I love, even though in the four years since I first set foot in it, I’m pretty sure only one item has sold – and of course it was my favorite item). She wears a Mona Lisa smile. She’s somewhere between annoyed and amused when strange men whistle at her as she passes by. (Annoyed because it’s obnoxious, immature, stereotypical, lecherous behavior. Amused because a compliment’s a compliment, and hey– someday, they’re gonna stop looking.) She wears dark sunglasses. She mostly looks brooding, but when she smiles, her whole face changes. And then she pays cash and disappears.

My bad self is quite the enigma.

The other thing I like about vacation in a faraway Happy Place is the freedom to throw caution to the wind. This is relative, you understand. See first paragraph as example of cautions I still keep.

I stay up til 2am watching trashy television. I sleep in. (This hotel’s blackout shades are a gift from the heavens. Ten a.m. in Miami and you’d never know it. Amazing.) I drink two mojitos at 2:00 in the afternoon, and am entirely unaffected. I don’t have to do a damned thing I don’t want to do. If I want to get to the post office to mail my godson a postcard, but I don’t make it in time, you know what? To hell with it. I’ll go tomorrow. Because I can. I don’t have to do anything.  I don’t even have to stay with my friends. I can venture off on my own, and no one will be offended. Its’s glorious.

I can eat new and exotic foods. I can have ice cream for breakfast (but I don’t; I’m a savory breakfast person). I can paint my nails very bright colors that I would never wear to work. I can entertain the notion of buying myself a new piece of sparkly jewelry, or trying on a ridiculous, Carrie Bradshaw-esque outfit. I can wear outrageous earrings and sexy dresses and unreasonably high heels, and totally pull it off.

I am invincible when I am on vacation.

Right now, I’m drinking a Diet Coke from the mini-bar. That’s right, I said mini-bar. Since arriving, I’ve also had a small can of Pringles, half a bottle of cranberry juice and the vodka they had in there.

See that empty space on the top left? Thats where the Diet Cokes used to be. But the big Evian bottle lying on its side on the shelf is from the drug store. Im not paying $3 for a 16 oz. bottle of water. Im not THAT reckless.

Reckless abandon, people. It comes in many forms.

Vacation: All I Ever Wanted… and Also Cancer

 

I know, I know. Cancer isn’t funny (despite my college friend’s hilarious and totally unexpected joke one day: “You know what’s funny?” – blank, expectant stares – “Cancer.”  – peals of hysterical laughter at the inappropriateness). And honestly, I’m not laughing this time. But I’ll get to that in a few paragraphs.

So, my fight with the universe has at least led me to victory in the effort to get here to my Happy Place. I’ve now been here for 36 hours, having arrived late Sunday night after a daylong traveling adventure.

First there was the rich experience of people-watching at the airport, about which I could not resist writing an entry on the first flight. I say “first flight” because technically there were three to get me here. I flew from home to Milwaukee (because who doesn’t fly to Milwaukee on their way to Miami Beach?), had a three-hour layover, and then flew to Tampa, where we stopped to deboard/pick up about 100 passengers in what appeared to have been an even exchange. One of the flight attendants did an excellent job briefing the people in the emergency exit row, two rows ahead of me, about their duties. She was very thorough. She also told them how many people and babies were on the plane.

She told them three times.

That shouldn’t make me nervous, right?

My people-watching continued thanks to the family of the most stereotypically accurate New York Jews I’ve ever encountered. Now – don’t get me wrong – I have zero problem with where they’re from or what faith they practice. Zero. But people who unknowingly play directly into stereotypes crack me up, and this could have been a Seinfeld episode. Naturally, they sat right behind me, with the woman on the phone before takeoff with her apparently addle-minded mother (“Mom, did you have an awltuhcation with someone today? Did you have an awltuhcation? Did you have a disagreement with someone? I was told you had an awltuhcation.” and then “Okay, Mom, heah’s what weah gonna do” followed by the plan, and then, “Don’t you tell me no, Mommy! Don’t you deah tell me no, Mommy!” Mommy? You’re like 53 years old, you’re calling her “Mommy?”)  Meanwhile, her husband was next to her, lamenting repeatedly, “Oh, my Gawd. Shhhhhhhhhhh. Shhhhhhhh.” You know how some people actually shush louder than most people talk? Fascinating.

But they were very nice.

Incidentally, here’s what I don’t understand about airlines. Part of the reason for what can only be described as ridiculous ticket prices these days is the fuel, right? So why is it that a silly circuitous fuel-burning route from the east coast to Milwaukee to Tampa to Ft. Lauderdale costs less than any other flight on any other airline? Aside from the mind-numbing hours of travel which, I realized, totalled nearly what it would have taken me to just drive to My Happy Place, already.

Anyway. Once I got to Ft. Lauderdale I had to get my pre-paid shuttle to Miami Beach. I’ve done this more than once and I like the company I use, because they’re cheap and prepaid and it includes the tip. Sure, you share the ride with other people most of the time, but how bad is that? You’re on vacation. There’s no schedule and no need to be annoyed.

The people on my shuttle did not see it that way.

I dunno, it was late, they were travel-weary, I get that. They were good-humored, but with a bite. And I don’t think they understood our driver.

Our driver was a mildly deranged Russian guy whose name I never got, but who looked not a little like Telly Savalas. I wound up in the front passenger seat, which had been moved far forward to accomodate the gentleman seated behind me. No problem, I like sitting on the dashboard. Now, Telly was refreshingly unencumbered by the social pressures of driving within legal parameters. I thought it was a kick, but then, I was on the dashboard and could see better than the 25 people we seemed to have behind me, who were vocally concerned for their collective well-being. Telly, in what I believe was an effort to assuage their fears and convince them that he was more than capable, launched into a story about how his papa wuz chief of eh, somesing like troopers, same ting, in his hometown on Black Sea Coast. Telly drive since 12 years old. Wiss pillows under. Papa wuz very good friend wiss district attorney, there, very good friend, 50-some years. They like drink, and they like play card. In backseat. So, when they start drinking and playing card in backseat, Telly drive. And even though only 12, everyone know not pull over ziss car. Everyone know who car is ziss.

I was delighted by this story. The others were apparently only more concerned. They didn’t really get why he was telling it. Plus they kept alerting him to the pedestrians that kept wandering into the path of the van while he enthusiastically told his tale.

At one point, while most of the people behind me were chatting amongst themselves, Telly turned on the radio. Light rock. Chicago, “Will  You Still Love Me?” Interrupting everyone’s conversations, Telly bellowed: “A little muzik, eh? Not too much. Just little. Why not, right? EVERYBODY OKAY WITH AIR CONDITION?”

 I love this guy!

Very happy with the hotel, too. My trips to My Happy Place have been sort of like Goldilocks’ visit to the three bears, out of order. First hotel: fabulous, at a discount rate we’d never get again. Second hotel: tragic and horrible. Won’t make that mistake twice. The walls were paper thin, the doors were two inches off the floor, every word of every person’s conversation was clear from four rooms over, and not one member of the staff spoke English. I’m not a hater, but if you’re in the service industry and most of your visitors are Americans, you should probably speak some English. But this hotel is great: friendly staff, very helpful, lovely accomodations, lots of perks and extras, and the walls are the appropriate thickness. Except, I discovered, the bathroom wall. This morning I heard a man sneezing and thought he was actually in my bathroom.

The first full day of vacation dawned. Here’s what I love about the way I do vacation: no schedule. Do what you want, when you want. Eat what you want, when you want. It’s so great. Given the horrific sunburn I got last year, and the fact that my natural shade is surprisingly similar to the shade of Florida sand…

I match the beach!

…I slathered on the Coppertone Water Babies waterproof, oil free, unscented SPF 50 with zinc oxide and headed out. Yummy overpriced food: check. A walk to the drug store to fetch some bottled water, as well as deodorant and toothpaste, which I had forgotten to pack: check. Beach chair and towel from the hotel: check. Now. Beach.

This doesn't suck.

Ahhhhhhh. Yes. Toes in the sand, book at the ready, trashy magazines in the beach bag (I only read these on beach vacations), water bottle handy, sparkling, blue-green water in front of me, amusing people-watching… excellent.

Two and a half hours later:

WTF.

How does this happen with Coppertone Water Babies waterproof, oil free, unscented SPF Freaking 50 with Freaking Zinc Freaking Oxide?!  Dammit!

Now I’m definitely getting cancer. After last May’s sun poisoning and now this, I’m definitely set. Crap.

So, then I was worried. I got a little anxious between coming back from the beach and dinner. I was starting to go a little downhill, mood-wise. The very real possibility of cancer will do that to you. I was already thinking about the conversation I would have to have with Jack about the diagnosis and how I would need him to be there for me, and how his emotional unavailability would be a problem. The awesome dress I was wearing to dinner  now matched my right arm and left shoulder. My friends were kind enough to pretend not to notice this.

Then we had sangria and authentic Peruvian food and that made it all better. Did you know sangria and authentic Peruvian food cures the possibility of cancer? Yup. It’s true.

But I only had one glass of sangria, because I was worried about dehydration in the wake of the fresh sunburn and last year’s sun poisoning.

Still, a good night.

Today, the debate is over whether to make it a shopping day so I can stay out of the sun. I do have a long-sleeved cover-up, but I’m pretty sure I would pass out from heat stroke if I wore it. And walking around from shop to shop won’t necessarily keep me shaded.

Maybe I should have Telly drive me…