They call it a gated community, but I fail to see much difference.
The very first time I ever visited Florida, I was an escapee from the north, having just single handed the six day offshore passage from frigid NC. Anchoring in the warm, clear water, I was looking forward to my first shore trip. I expected everyone to be happy, relaxed, smiling, and friendly, basking in the balmy air. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Heading to the supermarket in search of fresh food, as I crossed the parking lot, I almost got run down numerous times by mean looking people in new German cars. Inside the market, everyone was cranky, pushy, frowning, and generally impolite. I should have known as I rowed ashore past the piles of condos. I guess it’s a sad thing, when you work your entire life, looking forward to retirement, the holy grail of American life. And what do you get? You get to sit there in a box, surrounded by other boxes all the same, staring at a box. Yeah, that would make me pretty cranky too. That was my initial thought, and while that was partially correct, there was more to it, as I later discovered when I got a job washing boats in a private marina in a gated community.
I biked every day, and every day, I had to stop, sign in, and get a pass before I was allowed to enter. And at the end of each day, I had to stop and turn in my permission slip. This meant sitting on my bike in a long line of cars, both in and out, while foot traffic could simply pass by. This in itself was a silly thing, because there were times I would get a lift and get dropped off at the gate, where I could simply walk in lugging a back pack full of explosives, no questions asked. But the warden at the gate was insistent that if it had wheels, it had to be properly signed in, no matter how many exhaust fumes I had to suck up. I tried walking in pushing the bike, but that wasn’t allowed either. Not long after that, I found a way around the useless entry procedure. I simply waded through the one foot deep moat, carrying my bike across and up through a gap in the bushes, and then peddled on down to the marina. This not only saved me half a mile of travel time, but speeded my entry by not having to wait to sign in. Before discovering the shortcut, I had often recognized residents walking the sidewalk outside the prison. If I said hello, they would recoil in disgust. And yet, if I ran into the same folks inside, they would be smiling, relaxed, and friendly. Aha, I see. They truly believe that they are safe in this protected world in here, and outside their gates it is a dangerous war zone, where their odds of being killed are extremely high. Now I get it. The prison walls, which I so easily breached, gave them a false sense of security. And anyone inside must be okay, because they passed the inspection at the gate. Outside, well, you just never know. I felt pity for these people who lived such fear-ridden lives. And I’m sure they felt the same for me, living so unprotected in the big bad world outside.
I was reminded of this when I went to visit a friend who lives in one of these places. Normally the guards are friendly, but on this day, the woman was cranky bordering on rude. At first I thought she was hard of hearing, as I had to repeat my answers to all the questions she asked. Then I realized that the TV inside the turret was blaring. Finally, after she grudgingly handed me a pass as though she was doing me a favor by letting me enter the promised land of double wide mobile homes, she motioned me to drive on in. As I did so, she yelled at me to stop and made a big deal of having to look past my bike mounted over the license plate, which required her to tilt her head a bit to the left to see the last two numbers. Then she had the nerve to approach my window to start a lecture on how I should not have a bike over my plate. I stopped her by saying very sweetly, “Gee, I’m so sorry you had to leave your TV for that,” and then shot off into the nirvana beyond the gate.
I’m glad I came to FL, even if it is about the same icy temp as at home right now, because it has reinforced my notion that I’m on the right track about deciding to settle in the frigid north. It may be miserable in winter, but there are no gated communities where I live. In fact, we only have a vague idea of how to work a lock. One of the best practical jokes to play on a friend is to go lock up their house while they’re not in it, because when they come home, they can’t get in. Keys? Door locks? Huh?
Don’t fence me in just yet.
The very first time I ever visited Florida, I was an escapee from the north, having just single handed the six day offshore passage from frigid NC. Anchoring in the warm, clear water, I was looking forward to my first shore trip. I expected everyone to be happy, relaxed, smiling, and friendly, basking in the balmy air. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Heading to the supermarket in search of fresh food, as I crossed the parking lot, I almost got run down numerous times by mean looking people in new German cars. Inside the market, everyone was cranky, pushy, frowning, and generally impolite. I should have known as I rowed ashore past the piles of condos. I guess it’s a sad thing, when you work your entire life, looking forward to retirement, the holy grail of American life. And what do you get? You get to sit there in a box, surrounded by other boxes all the same, staring at a box. Yeah, that would make me pretty cranky too. That was my initial thought, and while that was partially correct, there was more to it, as I later discovered when I got a job washing boats in a private marina in a gated community.
I biked every day, and every day, I had to stop, sign in, and get a pass before I was allowed to enter. And at the end of each day, I had to stop and turn in my permission slip. This meant sitting on my bike in a long line of cars, both in and out, while foot traffic could simply pass by. This in itself was a silly thing, because there were times I would get a lift and get dropped off at the gate, where I could simply walk in lugging a back pack full of explosives, no questions asked. But the warden at the gate was insistent that if it had wheels, it had to be properly signed in, no matter how many exhaust fumes I had to suck up. I tried walking in pushing the bike, but that wasn’t allowed either. Not long after that, I found a way around the useless entry procedure. I simply waded through the one foot deep moat, carrying my bike across and up through a gap in the bushes, and then peddled on down to the marina. This not only saved me half a mile of travel time, but speeded my entry by not having to wait to sign in. Before discovering the shortcut, I had often recognized residents walking the sidewalk outside the prison. If I said hello, they would recoil in disgust. And yet, if I ran into the same folks inside, they would be smiling, relaxed, and friendly. Aha, I see. They truly believe that they are safe in this protected world in here, and outside their gates it is a dangerous war zone, where their odds of being killed are extremely high. Now I get it. The prison walls, which I so easily breached, gave them a false sense of security. And anyone inside must be okay, because they passed the inspection at the gate. Outside, well, you just never know. I felt pity for these people who lived such fear-ridden lives. And I’m sure they felt the same for me, living so unprotected in the big bad world outside.
I was reminded of this when I went to visit a friend who lives in one of these places. Normally the guards are friendly, but on this day, the woman was cranky bordering on rude. At first I thought she was hard of hearing, as I had to repeat my answers to all the questions she asked. Then I realized that the TV inside the turret was blaring. Finally, after she grudgingly handed me a pass as though she was doing me a favor by letting me enter the promised land of double wide mobile homes, she motioned me to drive on in. As I did so, she yelled at me to stop and made a big deal of having to look past my bike mounted over the license plate, which required her to tilt her head a bit to the left to see the last two numbers. Then she had the nerve to approach my window to start a lecture on how I should not have a bike over my plate. I stopped her by saying very sweetly, “Gee, I’m so sorry you had to leave your TV for that,” and then shot off into the nirvana beyond the gate.
I’m glad I came to FL, even if it is about the same icy temp as at home right now, because it has reinforced my notion that I’m on the right track about deciding to settle in the frigid north. It may be miserable in winter, but there are no gated communities where I live. In fact, we only have a vague idea of how to work a lock. One of the best practical jokes to play on a friend is to go lock up their house while they’re not in it, because when they come home, they can’t get in. Keys? Door locks? Huh?
Don’t fence me in just yet.
