From Fleas to Elephants

I knew I was at a Flea Market; you could tell by the elephants. I was busy combing through an excellent second hand book stand at the massive “Swap Shop” near Fort Lauderdale when a loud hailer announced “Make way for the elephants”. Presuming that it was someone trying out a bargain priced piece of equipment I paid little attention, but sure enough, two lumbering pachyderms plodded between the laden stalls followed by a lugubrious man pushing a wheelie bin and wearing a worried expression. It turned out that they were on their way to a daily performance at the Circus Tent that adjoins the market but I tell you this to illustrate how it pays to keep your eyes open in Florida. Take yesterday for instance; while wading out into the warm silken sea for a morning dip, I realised that not twenty feet away a stark naked couple mercifully standing up to their waists in water were sharing a Starbucks Coffee. It won’t do you any good to gawp and gesticulate; it’s Miami and that’s how things are. My ingrained British instincts tell me to politely look away or pretend I am searching for shells, but since they are grinning and asking “Are you having a good one?” it behoves me to be equally polite, to wave back and assure them that my day is going according to plan, except maybe I hadn’t planned on sharing my morning swim with such scantily clad coffee drinkers. Coming from West Sussex, nothing really prepares you for these sort of eventualities. Imagine waiting in the queue at the Chichester Farmers Market to pay for your new potatoes, and an elephant wanders past. I can already hear the thud as the Health and Safety manuals hit the desk and the sound is swiftly followed by an irate buzz emanating from Brussels. As for naked swimmers with your breakfast – well it’s enough to make you choke on your cornflakes. There’s another thing. The police here go into dangerous situations armed to the teeth, clad in body armour and wearing massive riot helmets. But during off-duty hours, they race around the city on huge Harley Davidson motor bikes wearing nothing but a pair of tight jeans; not even a shirt let alone a crash-cap. The girl on the pillion seat must have the requisite flowing blond hair, a waistline that would satisfy Queen Victoria and the smallest pair of hot pants that money can buy, but to spoil the image with a “skid lid” just isn’t cool. One could almost understand it tooling along the beach front, but thundering down a five lane highway weaving in and out of dense traffic makes me cringe when I think of the combination of skin and tarmac. America is learning to live with that sop to the conscience called “light ice cream”. This allows fast-food emporiums and restaurants that serve helpings that could feed a family of four for two days, to round out the feast with a double scoop of “Chocolate Fudge Tiramisu Rocky Road”. But because it has the magic word “Light” on the menu, everyone feels they can have an extra portion of French Fries – or “Liberty Fries” as some people choose to call them in these somewhat fraught political times – and can sit back knowing that desert is going to exorcise all their sins. It’s a bit like the weather at this time of year. Looking out of our 17th floor windows away to the west, it is a scene of black heavy clouds threaded with lightening and the rumble of menacing thunder announcing that the Everglades are getting another soaking. However, turning my head very slightly to the east, I see gleaming white cabin cruisers creating a light ripple on the surface of the Intracoastal waterway while out at sea, a passing cruise liner looks like a cardboard cut-out on the mirror-still water. So I’ve discovered that the trick is to keep your eyes open and see it from all sides, but just occasionally remember to close my mouth lest I stand accused of gawping.