Notes from Morocco and Italy, June, 2019

The following is the first in a series of blogs based on recent travel to Morocco and the island of Ischia, Italy.

Royal Palace Gate, Rabat, Morocco

     Morocco sits at the rounded northwest corner of Africa, between the Atlantic Ocean to the west and the Mediterranean Sea to the north. We flew from Boston to Paris overnight and waited five hours before continuing to Casablanca on Morocco’s western coast. After another three-hour flight, our guide (Rasheed) and driver (“Bob”) met us to drive north along the coast to Rabat. We had arranged Rasheed’s and “Bob’s” services through our travel agent in the States, who had contacted a well-known agency in Morocco which she'd used previously. Rasheed was in his fifties and spoke perfect English. Both men lived in Marrakesh.

Our guide, Rasheed, with hostess at our Riad in Fez

Our driver, "Bob," pouring tea at lunch. We couldn't pronounce his Moroccan name.

     It would have been almost impossible to tour Morocco without a guide, since the country is Arabic-, Berber-, and French-speaking, and road signs and customs are often indecipherable. Both men were with us during our eight days, as we followed a circular route from Casablanca and Rabat on the northwest coast inland to Meknes, Fez, and south to Marrakesh, coastal Essaouira, and back to Casablanca. For a day trip we would enter the mid-Atlas Mountains between the northern Rifs and the southern High Atlas. We did not enter the desert to the south because of the heat in June.

     Morocco has five cities of importance: Rabat, the diplomatic and administrative capital; Casablanca, the economic capital; Fez, the intellectual, historic, and spiritual center; and Marrakesh, the tourist capital. Tangier, on the northern coast below Spain, is the shipping capital.

Walls surrounding city of Rabat and man-made lake outside King's palace

     Before leaving Rabat, we walked around government buildings and outside the primary residence of the king, King Mohammed VI, who owns thirty palaces. We continued northeast to Meknes and the Roman ruins of Volubilis in the Middle Atlas Mountains. 

Charley posing with water seller, Meknes 

Acrobat, Meknes

     Everywhere, in cities, on mountain roads, and in villages, there was construction. The following week in Casablanca we counted eight cranes in our line of vision. Apartment buildings and golf resorts were going up in areas surrounding Fez, Casablanca, and Marrakesh. Rasheed explained, “King Hassan II, our present king’s father, declared Morocco must be green and must have electricity, water, and education for its population.” I wondered how the cranes fit into the “green” mandate.

     “We pay no taxes on property here until we’ve owned for five years, so we can use the home for vacations till then but it must be unfinished. After five years, we will be taxed, so we sell.”

     Meknes is the Berber capital of Morocco (more on the Berbers in a subsequent blog). With 850,000 inhabitants, the city offered a chance to experience all the sights, sounds, and smells of Fez on a more manageable, provincial scale. The central highlands between Meknes and Fez in the Middle Atlas Mountains contain Berber villages, secret valleys, scenic woods, barren landscapes, and hilly plains blanketed with olive groves. The region can be covered in heavy snow in mid-winter.

     After touring Meknes, a guide met us outside the Roman ruins of Volubilis, the capital of the Roman province of Mauritania 2000 years ago. At its height, the capital boasted 20,000 inhabitants on twenty-eight acres. The entire city was visible on surrounding hillsides and walkable without crowds, probably because the temperature hovered around 90 F in June. Foundations of homes, ceramic tile work, and the marketplace were easily accessible, though we couldn’t step on the mosaics of private homes. We could lean backwards into the public baths and imagine Romans clearing their heads after overindulging. Wood storks nested on the remains of pillars, a hint of the hundreds we would see around the country perched on anything resembling a telephone pole.

Our guide, Aamir, in Roman ruins of Volubilis

Wood stork nest in Volubilis

   

Our guide demonstrates how Romans cleared their heads after overindulging

Mosaics on the floor of a private home, Volubilis

  

Street where our Riad Myra was located in Fez

     From Volubilis we drove northwest to Fez, a UNESCO World Heritage Site (along with Meknes). A city of 1,000,000 inhabitants, Fez is the Arab capital of Morocco, divided into two parts:  the 8^th Century labyrinth of the Medina behind its stone walls with two historic sections, Fez el-Bali (Old) and Fez el-Djedid  (New); and Ville Nouvelle, the “New Town.” Morocco declared independence from the French in 1956 after forty-four years, but remnants of the French language and architecture are still evident. We walked through a winding alley (street) with multiple closed doorways announcing commercial establishments, finally arriving at the Riad Myra (restored 16th -century palace built around a courtyard with flora, fountains, and hammam – ritual steam bath). We stepped through the wooden framework of an over-sized door into a structure that filled almost an entire block. In the center was a two-story covered atrium. Guest rooms ran around the perimeter of each floor, surrounded by pierced plaster and laser-cut metal fretwork. 

Our room (left) on 2nd floor of Riad Myra in Fez

Mint tea or lemonade at Riad Myra

The door to our room

Detail of tile and fretwork on the wall of our room, Riad Myra, Fez

     We got settled in our room (“La Favorite”) on the second floor and went down to relax on sofas in the central courtyard for drinks. For dinner the hotel staff served us chicken shish kebabs on skewers and slow-cooked vegetables from circus-tented terrines. An apple tarte tatin appeared for dessert, along with delicious mint tea that followed every meal. Even Charley switched from Coke Zero to tea!

View of four square miles of Medina (Old City) of Fez 

Medina of Fez below, with Ville Nouvelle on upper plateau

Read about our adventures in the medieval Medina of Fez in my next blog.

Condo Living

     Charley recently received a call from one of the two condos on our first floor. The woman had been our association president a few years back. "Charley, I want to mention a problem in the front entrance of our building," she said.

     "Oh, what is it?"
     "Well, the wooden frames of the two upholstered chairs inside the front door are knocking against the wallpaper and it might have to be replaced. Someone keeps tilting the chairs inward toward the stairs. They should remain straight."
     "Why are you telling me this?"
     "Carmen (a member of the staff) tells me you walk every other day and use the main entrance."
     "I do walk but I don't touch the chairs. I wouldn't dare! Isn't there a chair rail along the wall?"
     "Yes, but the chairs seem to rub against the wallpaper anyway. The backs of the chairs curve outward above the chair rail. I thought since you're coming back on the Board of Directors, you should be made aware of the problem. Every time I go out my door I straighten them if they're tilted."
     "Well, thanks for the heads-up. I'll make sure I don't go anywhere near the chairs."
     Charley then informed me of the call.
     "I'm the one pulling the chairs out from the wall and tilting them, but don't tell Dolores," I said. "The decorator placed them that way so they wouldn't block the door and besides, they're farther away from the wall when they're tilted. When they're straight, the backs are more likely to hit the wall."
     "Just don't touch them again and I won't tell her," Charley said.
     I wasn't about to let the CHAIR NAZI lecture me! After all, I had owned a design company for almost fifteen years and had seen Dolores' apartment, which was stuck in the seventies.
     The next time I went to the pool I checked to make sure Dolores' car was gone. Then I tilted the two chairs.
     The cat-and-mouse game continued. The chairs were straight against the wall when we went out to dinner.
     The following week I noticed the chairs were tilted away from the wall. I hadn't played the game that week, but someone else had taken up the cause! I figured it had to be the new guy on the maintenance staff, who wanted to enter the building without bumping into anything. I exited the game, knowing it was in good hands.
     The next week I went to the pool and discovered one chair straight against the wall and one chair tilted inside the front door. Someone had a bad case of schizophrenia!
     When we left Florida to go north for the summer, the chairs were in the opposite positions, one straight in front of the door and one tilted on the other side. I love condo living!

Support Hose

     Do you have sore or tired legs? Recently had a surgical procedure on your legs?
     Then compression hose are for you!
     They come in full or knee-length, different sizes according to your height, and either dress, athletic, or casual styles.
     There's only one problem: getting them on!
     I recently had a minor surgical procedure done above one knee. Since companies don't make support hose for single legs, Laurie, the doctor's assistant, asked what my height was. After I told her, she returned with a pair of skin-toned compression stockings and some thin rubber gloves.
     "These should fit," she said, "They're casual, and not too thick. Please wear them for two days, but take them off at night." She had a smirk on her face.
     The stockings looked like Pantyhose, with the standard construction of a strong elastic band at the waist and nylon covering the hips and buttocks thicker than the leg portion. If these were the thinnest variety, I pictured the thicker ones resembling an alligator's skin. "What are the gloves for?" I asked.
     "You'll see. First, sit down on the examining table so I can help." She handed me the gloves to put on, put another pair on herself, and sat on a low stool at my feet.
     "Many patients think this is just like putting on Pantyhose. It's not. The first thing you do is scrunch up the hose in your hands all the way down to the ankle. That way you can put your foot in without getting it caught."
     She handed me one scrunched-up leg. The flesh-colored nylon that filled my entire hand was at least three times the thickness of a Pantyhose. I slipped it over my foot.  So far, so good!
     "OK, now pull the hose up about six inches. It's much thicker than Pantyhose, so don't expect it to go farther than that. You'll have to straighten it every few inches. The gloves will let you get a firm grip." From the floor she helped the hose go north of my ankle. "You try the rest of the leg."
     The opening for my upper thigh was about the size of my fist. "Are you serious? I have to put that over my thigh? I feel like an elephant trying to get into a pail."
     "Keep working every few inches."
     At first I pulled so hard I thought the stuff was going to rip. Then I jumped down from the table and twisted. I squirmed. I thrashed. I got the damned nylon up to the middle of my thigh but by then sweat was dripping into my eyes so I couldn't see. Laurie was trying to stifle her laughter. She handed me some paper towels.
     "It is pretty funny," I said, sitting back down on the examining table. "I felt a twinge in my abdomen. Maybe I pulled a muscle there I didn't know I had!" The stocking was binding my thigh like a lasso pulled tight. "Maybe I've got some blog material here." I began to laugh with her.
     "Now the other leg," Laurie said. She left me on my own for that one.
     "Can I try it without the glove?" I asked, thinking I'd get a better grip with my very sweaty hands. It felt as if my first leg had a tourniquet around it. I began to feel pins and needles creeping along the seam and looked down to make sure the leg wasn't turning purple.
     "Sure, go ahead," she said.
     I removed the gloves and held them upside down. They dripped moisture as though I'd used them in a tennis match. I scrunched up the other leg all the way down and tried to put the wad over my foot. My hands slipped and my foot got caught half-way up the wad. So much for bare hands! I put the gloves back on, got my second foot in, and jumped down from the table.
     At mid-thigh level on the second leg, I felt as if I'd played three sets of hard tennis. "There's no way the rest of me is going into this opening," I said to Laurie, holding open the elastic that was supposed to go around my waist.
     She just kept grinning from the floor. "Just a few inches at a time," she said.
     My hips weren't the problem. It was my butt. I've never had a small butt, even when I was twelve years old. It's a wonder I was able to get off the ground during all the years I was a cheerleader! You would think the exercises I've done for years at the fitness center and all the tennis I play would have made it smaller.
     I began to do the twist, pulling the nylon over my butt first on the right side, then on the left. Laurie clapped from the floor. Next I pulled up the waistband and jumped up and down. Too bad I couldn't get a few jumping jacks in, but I'd had enough exercise for one day. "Just a few more inches," she said. "Maybe your husband can help you tomorrow."
     That sent me flopping back on the table in hysterics as I pictured Charley stuffing me into a sausage casing from the floor. "Are you sure I can't leave them on tonight?" I asked.
     "Trust me. You won't want to!"
   
   

   
   

The Joy of Lifetime Friendships

     Last month five of my high school girlfriends visited me in Florida. Previously, we'd reunited in Massachusetts before the 50th class reunion. We'd also stayed at an inn in Greenwich, Conn., prior to the 55th.
     Marilyn was my best friend from elementary through high school. Our mothers were Girl Scout leaders together; we rode bikes to Tod's Point Beach and had sleep-overs on weekends; at age sixteen we were camp counselors in Litchfield, Connecticut, together. After high school I headed to college in Maine and she to Ohio. Subsequently, we were in each other's weddings and got together sporadically when in the area. Charley and I visited her daughter and family in Italy and I attended her husband Wayne's memorial service in Ohio.

Pam and Marilyn, 2013

     In 1995 Charley and I sat in the wooden stands at a "AA" Red Sox game in New Britain, Connecticut. Our son Todd was on the team. After several innings listening to the conversation between the husband and wife seated a few feet from me, I sheepishly asked, "Are you Cindi King?" It was a high school classmate, the captain of my cheer-leading squad, and her husband, the captain of the ice hockey team.

Greenwich (Ct.) High School Hockey Team, 1960

     During that first girlfriend gathering in Massachusetts all of us were tentative with each other.  We talked of parents and siblings we all knew. Over bottles of wine we broke out our high school yearbooks to reminisce about proms and boyfriends, our favorite teachers, college weekends our parents consented to, and cheer-leading uniforms we paraded in. We had shared the trivialities of the teen years through quasi-adulthood. During walks on the beach we felt each other out to reveal medical problems, failed marriages, and worries over kids.

Westport, Mass., 2011

2011

     Over time we've relaxed with each other. There are no longer any pretenses. We know each other's family secrets. At our latest gathering, we made no excuses if we needed to run to the bathroom at the last minute or keep our slacks on when headed to the pool. We knew the traumas each had suffered and we'd been there, physically or emotionally, despite great distances.

Delray Beach, Florida, 2019

     Science has begun to show the value of close friendships on health. One study of over 3,000 nurses with breast cancer found that women without close friends were four times as likely to die from the disease as women with ten or more friends. The study found that it wasn't the number of interactions or amount of contact that mattered. Simply having the friendships to protect from stress was enough. This may be one of the reasons women live longer than men. (Information from Tracey O'Shaughnessy's "Lifetime Friendships Are Something to Envy," The Sunday Republican, December 23, 2018, p. 1E).

Wakodahatchee Wetlands, Delray Beach, Fl., 2019

     During our group's good humor and reliving of shared experiences, there was a nurturing element in familiarity. We basked in the glow of each other's caring but felt enriched by our own capacity to express that kindness. The Benedictine nun Joan Chittister wrote in The Friendship of Women, "Friendship reminds us that we are irreplaceable, vital to a life beyond our own. Once we are loved, we have an obligation to live as best we can."

Pam with Pat, Mystic, Conn., 2017

Delray Beach, Fl., 2019

     What of our grandchildren, who claim hundreds of "friends" on the internet and may spend up to nine hours a day online, including homework and playing games with a bot (artificial intelligence)? Thirty-two percent of tech professionals, according to Stephen Asma in "This Friendship Has Been Digitized" (NY Times, March 24, 2019, Sunday Review, pg. 10), now believe digital life will harm our mental well-being over the next decade. Recent research suggests that isolation is increasing, as intimacy among teens is replaced by texting and other forms of digital communication.
     Young people, however, don't seem to be concerned. They feel socially supported by large networks of "friends" they never see face-to-face. The kind of presence required for deep friendships does not seem cultivated in on-line relationships. There we cannot touch or smell each other, detect each other's facial expressions, or moods. We can easily replace on-line "friends" and often don't know where they live or if they're a he, she, or bot. For the disabled, however, that is an advantage.
     Asma in his article proclaims the most defining feature of deep friendship is "doing for," as when a person is sick and needs soup or a ride for medicine or appointments. "The emotional entanglement of real friendship produces oxytocin and endorphins in the brains and bodies of friends - cementing them together in ways that are more profound than other relationships."
     Kids still get a large amount of face-to-face time in school and after-school. However, when Professor Asma asked his college students if they had people in their lives who would bring them soup when they got sick, they laughed. They told him they'd order from UberEats!

The Breakers Hotel, Palm Beach, Fl., 2019

   


   

   
   

   
   
   

Raising a Royal To Be "Normal"

     Is it even possible to raise a British royal child as a "normal" person?   
     According to a Vogue Daily on-line report (March 26, '19), Prince Harry and Meghan Markle will raise their first-born differently from previous royals.

     The nursery will have vegan paint, eco-friendly products, and, according to People magazine, the duchess will "probably make her own baby food." She is considering hiring a doula (someone who provides emotional and physical support during birth) and will focus on "calm and positive energy around the birth."
     A source told E!News that "Meghan is also keen for her child to be fully aware of his or her American heritage." This may translate into sending the child to an American school, one of which is located not too far from the couple's new home of Frogmore Cottage in Windsor.

     The pair is considering a "manny," or a male nanny. Per a source in The Sun, Meghan "is keen to introduce the royal family to what she considers a more enlightened, modern American" (who must be bi-lingual because Meghan speaks Spanish and is picking up French).
     What about the child's title? "The Duke and Duchess of Sussex will not seek any official royal role for their first child," according to The (London) Times in October, and may forego a title.
     Does this make a royal child "normal" in a house that is now undergoing a $2.5-$3.8 million renovation (which will include a Scarlet O'Hara double staircase, yoga studio, all new fireplaces, five bedrooms, and soundproofing, among other things)? Based on the life Meghan is living prior to the child's arrival, it's doubtful.

     Meghan's baby shower was held in New York City in a 10,000-square-foot penthouse in the five-star Mark Hotel. Guests included Serena Williams, Gayle King, and Amal Clooney, who received leather tote bags retailing around $200, as did all the guests. The totes were filled with a designer candle, designer body butter, rice enzyme powder, and Honest Beauty products (company founded by Jessica Alba), also known for natural baby products. When the guests departed, they received Away suitcases, retailing for $225-$295.
     I don't remember receiving favors from baby showers that weren't a candle, a fake flower arrangement, or a picture frame (presumably for the new baby's photo)!
     The guests at the Markle shower participated in a group activity. Under the direction of a professional florist, each guest made an individual vase. The arrangements were then donated to Repeat Roses, which delivers to hospices, homeless shelters, and treatment centers like the Ronald McDonald House.
     Let us hope the new baby will be raised in this spirit of charity and will at some point actually visit a Ronald McDonald House.


   


   
   

A Trip to Mt. Dora, Part III, The Fla. Highwaymen

     No, “Highwaymen” does not refer to robbers on the Florida highways!

     In the late 1950’s a collective of twenty-five loosely-associated African-American men and one woman from the Ft. Pierce and Vero Beach, Florida, areas painted their way out of the despair awaiting them in the citrus groves and packing houses of south Florida. The Highwaymen created idyllic, quickly-realized images of the Florida dream and peddled some 50,000 of them from the trunks of their cars to restaurants, businesses, and anyone passing by. Hence, the name, “Highwaymen.”

     Why am I writing about the Florida Highwaymen? Because when my sister and I met at Heron Cay Inn in Mt. Dora, Florida, in February of this year, over 100 of these paintings surrounded us on the walls.

     Southern segregation was in its prime in the ‘50’s (no galleries for these artists!) and roaming the streets with a stack of framed paintings was suspicious. Anonymity and quickness were the keys to their success. In addition, a white landscape artist from Ft. Pierce named A. E. “Bean” Backus invited African-American high school student A. E. Hair to paint in his studio. Hair became the star of the group, wowing buyers with burnt-orange skies or unnaturally florescent yellow, aqua, or peach clouds. He would mix a specific color and apply it across various canvases at once, creating twenty landscapes at a breakneck pace. The paintings originally sold for $20 - $25 and enabled Hair to buy a Cadillac, which served as his storefront.

     An amorphous group, some of whom painted together on Sundays, the artists spurred each other on to create faster, competing to see who could sell the most. They painted on inexpensive Upson boards used by roofers and created frames from crown moldings. Shrubs were roughed-in; grass was a few brush strokes; subjects were minimally depicted. The imprecise but lively brushwork with slashed-in highlights became Hair’s trademark. Characterized early on as “motel art,” the paintings reflected popular visions of Florida: the ocean, the setting sun, wind-swept palms, billowing cumulus clouds.

     With Hair’s death in a barroom brawl in 1970 at the age of 29, the group disbanded and eventually sales waned. After Florida art dealer Jim Finch named the group in 1994, interest revived as an American art form, a depiction of a place where one could realize the American dream. Today the paintings sell for as much as tens of thousands of dollars and are owned by Michelle Obama and Shaquille O’Neal.

Photos are my own. Information in this article from:

Hurd, Gordon. “Alfred Hair” in the “Overlooked” section, N.Y. Times, February 3, 2019, pg. 8.

Monroe, Gary. The Highwaymen: Florida’s African-American Landscape Painters, The University Press of Florida, 2001.

A Trip to Mt. Dora, Fl., Part II

     My sister and I spend our winters in Florida and meet half-way for an annual get-together. This year we chose Mt. Dora and I made the arrangements.
     The blue-and-white exterior of the inn was reminiscent of Key West style, but faced Lake Dora. When we arrived, the massive wooden front door was locked. We slammed the brass knocker against the oak panels several times and heard the bolt draw back. Maggie, the proprietor, threw a "Welcome" to us sideways, past the gray wisp that hung near her mouth. "You must be the two sisters we're expecting. Come in." In slippers she led us past the winding wooden staircase (covered in oil paintings of Florida), down the central hall (covered in oil paintings of Florida) to a white wicker folding screen. "We can't let the dogs out," she said, folding back the first section of screen with long fingers that didn't match her diminutive stature. She stepped aside for us.
     "May we leave our bags inside, since we're early for registration? They're in our cars. We'd like to have lunch in town."
     "Of course," Maggie said, swishing aside one of the three cats sitting on the kitchen counter and reaching for registration forms behind canisters of cooking ladles, spatulas, whisks, and tongs. The cat leaped onto the kitchen table. "I'll lock them in the closet down the hall till you return. First I need your information and a credit card for the balance. You paid fifty percent on-line."
     "May I use a rest room, please? We've both had a long ride."
     "Yes, it's right down the hall on the right."
     "Do the cats roam the inn?" my sister asked, concerned about her asthma.
     "No," I heard Maggie respond as I made my way past the table strewn with ceramic salt and pepper shakers representing Santa Clauses, kissing children, and assorted animals, and ducked under hanging pots which could not have threatened Maggie's head.
     Inside the bathroom a cat licked milk from a bowl on the floor. Its white fur was so thin and the ribs so pronounced that I thought we were probably witnessing its last day. I hadn't heard Maggie following me in her slippers, but she  bent down to pick up the cat before I could turn around. "Piddly's sick," she declared. "She got like this once before, but recovered."
     "What is it? Mange?"
     "No, not mange. We're not sure." Then she left me alone.
     When I came out of the bathroom, I trailed a Borzoi back to the kitchen, where it sprawled on a comforter in the sun. There were two other Borzois lying across the floor amid planters of ferns, small palms, and philodendron.

Front porch of our inn with Borzoi statue

Side yard of inn with Borzoi statue

     Borzois, or Russian wolfhounds, are believed to be the mix between ancient bear hounds from Central Asia and tall sheepdogs. Their sleek stature, like the greyhound's, possesses incredible speed, which allowed Russian nobility to hunt wolves and hares. The association with the royal family, however, proved fatal for the breed, as many dogs were disposed of by their owners after the Russian Revolution in 1917. The specimens that remained in kennels, as well as those left with foreigners, were used to rebuild the breed. Everywhere we turned in the inn there were statues or paintings of Borzois. Fortunately, the living specimens remained in the kitchen.

Parlor with Borzois and Xmas decorations, including top of wall!

   

More Borzois over fireplace!

 "Here are the keys to your rooms. I'll put your suitcases in before you return," Maggie said, leading us back to the front hall. "Deidre is still touching them up. If you need transportation, here's a number to call for a shuttle." She handed us a business card from one of the twenty-odd card holders on a desk. The card holders were surrounded by pamphlets in graduated dividers built into the desk. They promoted adventures and eating establishments in the area.
     "I recommend Pices Rising for a fish dinner or the Olive Branch, which is a Mediterranean version of Italian. You'll probably need reservations, with 500,000 visitors coming for the art show this weekend. Any of the restaurants are good. The walking path to town begins at the end of the parking lot. You probably won't be able to get a parking space downtown after 5:00."
     "Would you be so kind as to call Pices Rising for a reservation at 7:00 for us, please?"
     Maggie secured our reservation. In town, lunch was as good as her claim. Afterward, we ventured into shops featuring nostalgic coats, dresses, shoes, crafty beach decorations, artists' galleries, and antiques. We saved the museums for the following day.
     Back at the inn, we entered our rooms to unpack. We were surrounded by lace doilies, four-poster beds with flowery faded chintz, and faux Tiffany lamps. On the bureaus laminated sheets announced a cold breakfast would be served until 9:00, after which there would be eggs and sausage ("Please reserve for the hot breakfast!"). In my bathroom sugar ants scurried out from under the faucet when I turned the water on. A wooden shelf unit hung over the toilet but the shelves weren't wide enough to hold my makeup case. The only thing in my room that was new was the television mounted on the wall and the mattress. There were at least eight oil paintings of the local Florida area. I had a beautiful view of Lake Dora, as did six of the other rooms. My sister had no view, next to the garage, but she had her own patio and didn't have to climb the one or two flights of stairs. I fell asleep in my clothes.

     When we met downstairs for dinner, we explored the parlor and dining room. Collections of china plates and glassware covered in dust stood in china cabinets in both rooms. Antique cash registers provided the backdrop for a carousel horse. Santa waved an arm with a mini bulb in his candle or towered over bowls of Christmas balls, although it was February. A briny scent emanated from a glass container of star fish amid ceramic Christmas trees and plates stacked for breakfast. A chipmunk held a barrel of mini golf clubs for an unidentifiable purpose.

     Maggie must have been a frequent shopper at the Antique Emporium in town, which was two-football-fields long. Statues, paintings, or prints of Borzois reigned over everything. More chintz flowers covered the round tables in the dining room.

   

    "Do you think we should eat here in the morning, with the cats and dogs in the kitchen?" Cindi asked.
     "I'm only gonna eat a wrapped muffin or some cereal from a box."
     We got a ride to town for our dinner reservation. Again, an outstanding meal!
     Afterward, we needed a ride back to the inn. We called the number on the business card for the shuttle, but it had shut down at 8:00. No answer when we called two taxis. "Is there Uber or Lyft we could call?" I asked the maitre d'.
     "Not here," he said.
     "Well, we can't walk back to the inn in the dark. What do you suggest?"
     "We're going to be closing in about fifteen minutes. If you can wait, I'll give you ladies a ride."
     Fifteen minutes later Devin pulled his dune buggy around to the front of the restaurant and I climbed in the back seat. Except there was no seat, so I sat on the floor. Cindi sat next to Devin. "This reminds me of our trip to St. Maarten," I said to my sister, laughing. "Remember when Quinn pulled out too fast and the back seat of the jeep collapsed? Mom and Dad ended up on the floor!" After that remark, Devin slowed down around the turns. We were grateful for his ride and tried to thank him with a generous tip, which he refused.
     At breakfast I passed up some crusty banana bread for a wrapped muffin while Christmas music blared through the speakers and Maggie explained to anyone who'd listen how she'd acquired her Borzois.

To be continued: A Collection of Florida Highwaymen's Paintings.....