The Bleak Look of RecessionFort Lauderdale, Florida, 2009

This cement wasteland was a bustling new and used car dealership near the heart of Fort Lauderdale. Cars whisk past on busy Sunrise Boulevard, heading toward the upscale Galleria Mall, just a few blocks away. Strip malls and businesses line this six-lane highway, some starving more quickly than others. These photos depict a panorama. Below, I am looking directly east, toward the Galleria Mall and ocean.


This view also faces east. The vast showrooms, guarded now by chain-link fencing, are a bleak memorial to American's economic distress.


The photo below faces north, directly in front of where I was standing at one-time entrance to the facility.



Facing west, the cement graveyard of the auto industry stretches many blocks in both directions.


This pile of rubble was a decorative island for plantings, on the fancy cobblestone drive into the auto dealership.


It hurts the heart to see the decay, the far-stretching emptiness of an economic boneyard such as this.

Florida, My Florida: Home Again & It Feels Great

South Florida makes me smile. Blue sky, warm sun on my skin. Sunglasses out of its case for the first time since I left Fort Lauderdale five days ago. Four days in the Northeast is about all I can stand.

There’s something to be said, I am sure, for a brisk walk in the crisp air, the feathery spikes of frost on a window pane, a blanket of white snow carpeting the ground, trimming the trees, and piling high on power lines. I am not the one to say it. I remember standing swaddled in a nylon snowsuit, snowbanks towering over me. I thought God had put me with the wrong family; surely I belonged with one in Florida. I moved South of the Mason-Dixon line as soon as I was old enough to do so. Baltimore was not warm enough, so eventually I moved to South Florida with little more than a Doberman and a dream of being able to stay. It has not always been easy.

My plane left Albany on a morning as gray as all the others of my Thanksgiving stay. Approaching Fort Lauderdale, the noonday sun reflects off canals and catchment lakes, turning them into sheets of hammered gold. Swaths of green are cut by black ribbons of roads as the plane descends. Grand homes on large lots yield to those closely huddled around cul de sacs.

In the first flush of leaving the terminal, all my gripes, fears, worries and concerns vanish in a rush of agape for this place. I love the feel of vitamin D soaking into my skin. The air kisses my face. I am home.

Voting Was Torture inFort Lauderdale, Florida

Voting was torture. It took three hours. The Florida day was dank and cool. I was close to tears by the time I reached the polling booths, from the pain in my hip and the arthritis in my neck and shoulders.

I finished the last three-quarters of a trashy werewolf novel and had time to knock off a few pages in an internet marketing book I am slowly reading.

A man started standing next to me as I read. He didn’t seem to have been there before. I whisperingly asked the older woman behind me if he’d always been there. She said no. As he inched in front of me, I softly said, “Sir, I was wondering where you came from. Because I’m right behind him (I gestured to a man with a baby in carriage), and she’s right behind me.”

“I was always here,” he said.

The elders in line started shaking their heads at this bald-faced lie. “No, you were back there,” several gestured. He didn’t fall back, but waited where he had been standing as we moved forward. I expect he’d try to find another unaware person – as he must have thought I was buried in my book – or a more timid soul than I who would not challenge him. My hip simply hurt too much after two hours in line to put up with a young buttinsky.

Just as we reached the door into the voting room – a cafeteria in this small development of 10 condominium apartment buildings that served three districts – a busload of handicapped elders came in. They were given chairs and ushered into line before us. I mentioned that I was in severe pain, even though I wasn’t handicapped. People even older than I who had been standing near me also started to grumble. the woman behind me insisted that she go to the check-in ahead of two people who were pushed in front of her. She was 70, at least.

No one wants to be unkind to the handicapped, but after two and a half hours on our feet, our own aches and pains were screaming for attention.

I will never again vote at a polling place. Never, never, never. Absentee ballots are inconvenient, because often they are due before I have all the information I need about the local propositions and local candidates. Nonetheless, when a 19^th century voting system is in place, absentee ballot is how I shall have to do it.

Mama Duck Saves Her Brood

This mother duck was quietly enjoying a lawn picnic with her ducklings when I happened by. Some were so comfortable, they were lying down while snacking on insects. The vigilant mama was distressed by the whirring-click of the camera.

She appears to be giving marching orders in this photo.

There they go. Mama conveyed the distinct impression that she is in a huff at how rude I was to interrupt their dinner with my clackety intrusion.



I felt guilty at disturbing this brood. It is late in the year to see Muscovy ducklings. Some South Floridians do not like the Muscovy ducks because of the wattles on their faces and the dirt they leave on the walkways. I am glad to see what I can of nature in our cityscapes.



Here is the catchment lake just a few yards from these ducks. There are many places for them to hide and sleep beneath the branches of trees and in the cattails.



These pine trees were stripped bare by hurricane Wilma in 2005. Even now, they have a strange, denuded appearance.

Palms Are the Poodles of Trees

Palms are the poodles of trees – tufts of fronds at the end of slender stems.I wish I could claim that thought as my own, but I read it somewhere so long ago I cannot remember the source.


They are useless for shade. Queen palms and several other varieties drop nuts that are remarkably fertile, causes sprouts everywhere that must be weeded. When the nuts are especially thick, they ferment, creating a odorous, slick paste that must be carried away. Only the coconut palm provides a useful fruit.




I am fascinated by the palms in front of this church complex on Federal Highway (U.S. 1) in Fort Lauderdale. The palms perfectly mirror the steep slopes of the roof. It was gray out, from the bands of hurricane Ike circulating in the Gulf of Mexico off the Florida coast. I experimented with different lighting effects on these shots.

CC's Oysters Rock -- CLOSED, noted 5/11/2009

I returned to CC's Fish Camp for a second round of fried oysters a mere four days after my first incredible basket.

I was pretty sure that my second meal would not measure up. I have a way of idealizing my first visit to a restaurant. I build it up so much in my imagination that it would be close to impossible for the next meal to live up to my expectations.

I was pleasantly surprised by my second visit. The oysters were as perfectly fried in light batter as they had been the first time. When I asked for a tad more cole slaw, the waiter responded with a bowl so large that I could not finish it.

A drunk in a corner booth carried on loud cell phone conversations against the too-loud retro rock on the sound system. Other than that, I enjoyed my second fried oyster basket as much as the first. Bravo for consistency, when the consistency continues standards for excellence. I hope your trip to CC's Fish Camp is as good as mine.

CLOSED -- Superb Fried Oysters, Light and Crisp, at CC's Fish Camp

Driving past earlier this week on May 11, 2009, I found CC's closed. Too bad.

It’s easier to cook oysters wrong than it is to get it right. CC’s Original Fish House got it deliciously perfect yesterday. A basket of fried oysters featured huge shellfish encased in perfectly seasoned batter, simultaneously light and crispy. Inside, the oysters were fully cooked with no trace of rubberiness.

The order was accompanied by French fries and cole slaw. If I can fault CC’s for anything, it is for the stingy portion of slaw. Cabbage, after all, is not yet a high-priced delicacy. The ice tea was full-bodied and served up in a huge glass.

CC’s is a plain structure with wooden floor, tables, booths, and a bar. The nautical décor is a bit out of place on the commercial strip of West Oakland Park Boulevard. The area is dense with dilapidated strip malls housing small businesses and walk-in doctors. I was not sure what to expect – a fast food joint or exactly the kind of individually prepared meals that CC’s Fish Camp has.

Every tourist and many a Floridian probably has sampled mediocre and over-priced seafood in tourist restaurants along our waterways. CC’s Fish Camp is off the beaten trail but well worth the trip. My delicious and generous oyster basket was $8.99 for lunch, plus a couple of bucks for all the ice tea I could handle.

Bring the kids. If they don’t like fish, they can try the burgers, chicken sandwich, or ribs. There’s even a delicious-sounding walnut gorgonzola salad for the vegetarian in your herd. The menu includes a Louisiana specialty – po’ boy sandwiches. This meal lived up to the best fried oysters I’ve had in New Orleans and fried clams on the Massachusetts coast. To see the menu, go to www.ccsfishcamp.com.

The danger of falling in love with a restaurant is that the return trip often doesn’t live up to my ideal. There’s any number of reasons why fried oysters, clams, or calamari (all on the menu) can go wrong. I was there on a Thursday and during an off-peak time in mid-afternoon. I had the chef to myself. I am still looking forward enthusiastically to my next trip to CC’s Original Fish Camp. The restaurant is located at 301 W. Oakland Park Boulevard, slightly west of U.S. 1. There is a good-sized parking lot. If coming from the west, you have to do a U turn to get in.

South Florida Is Home

It doesn’t seem that it should be so difficult for a lifelong writer and diarist to post once a week, which seems the minimum appropriate to have an ongoing blog. Yet, much of what I write is too personal to share, a voyage of self-discovery. Universal truths may be part of that journey, but each of us must discover and apply these for ourselves. That’s why the journey is personal.

I spent the past week in Fairfax, Virginia, and that was a real journey both in time and space and in inner discovery. As I grow older, I contemplate whether Florida is the best place to grow old. I believe it would be better to live in a city with museums and other cultural and intellectual opportunities, as well as with good public transportation. Baltimore is one such city, and it has the familiarity of a place where I spent 10 of the best (and sometimes worst) years of my life. But like many cities, it also has crime.

And, as the trip to Virginia illustrated, I already live in subtropical paradise. I arrived on a sunny, hot day, the end of an Indian summer heat wave. No one calls it Indian summer anymore; now its global warming and a sign of dire things to come rather than a respite from the cold and rain of winter. By the next morning, a cold front had arrived, and the rest of the time was spent with gray skies and rain of varying intensity.

The buildings, once charming to me for their federalist period facades of brick and stone, now seem hopelessly dated and dreary. Where are the clean white stucco exteriors, the sometimes Caribbean Popsicle colors, and the red tile roofs? Where are the palm trees and hibiscus?

I was happy to return to South Florida, to my messy apartment with its leak, my battle with the International Village condo association and the property manager to fix that leak, and the various trials and tribulations of ongoing life that we all experience. It is good to get away and better to come home.

Tiny snail

This tiny snail was in some laundry, curtains that I took off the patio to wash. I thougt it was a pretty little spiral shell that had come loose from an arrangement of airplants on driftwood. Imagine my surprise when it poked out its wee antlers and started oozing along the inside of my plastic laundry basket. It is so small, perhaps an half-inch long, with a beautifully patterned cone-shaped shell.

When I went to France in 1972, I was avid to eat snails in a cafe, a dish of which I'd only heard. In Spain, however, there were many snails stuck to the glass doors on the patio. They only came out of their shells when it rained. Then, their transparent bodies would slide gracefully along the window, tiny antlers twitching in the moisture. I've never been able to enjoy eating snails after that; it's too much like eating pets.

I thought snails came with round shells. I did not know that they also came with shells shaped like ice-cream cones. I returned this tiny fellow to the porch and hope he finds a place to survive.

Biking to the Caribbean

Biking to the Caribbean may seem impossible. Because of the rich cultural diversity of Broward County, the Caribbean is almost as close as my doorstep. Want to join me on a bike trip to the Post Office?

This is the road just beyond the gate of International Village. I stay on the narrow sidewalk. Inverrary Drive is a two-lane road with lots of speed bumps, so I am pretty safe here. You can see a faux English Tudor structure on the left. The cinderblock apartment buildings are identical, except for the Disneyfication of the exteriors to vaguely resemble various European architectural styles – Marseilles, Bordeaux, Inverness and so on. A lot of these details blew off when hurricane Wilma came through in 2005, but the exterior repairs go on and on.

The ride gets dicier at the intersection where Inverrary Drive meets Inverrary Boulevard. When we find a name we like, we go for it around here. It’s kind of like Atlanta, where at least half-dozen streets seem to be named Peachtree.

Inverrary Boulevard is a four-lane thoroughfare with a grassy median. Cars mostly ignore the 30-mile-speed limit. There is a bike lane, but knocking down bikers is good sport in Florida. Our state took high honors for greatest number of bicyclists killed by cars in 2005, 124 out of 784 nationwide, according to National Highway Traffic Safety Administration statistics reported in the November 21, 2006 South Florida Sun-Sentinel. Three bicycle riders were killed during a three-week period at the time of that report.

The bike lane ends, but a sidewalk lies just beyond this entrance to another Inverrary subdivision of small homes with garages. Residents can have dogs there, which I would like to do.






This water feature, pictured below, with its rocks and flowering plants add a note of serenity to the ride. It’s a popular spot for newlyweds to have their wedding photos taken. The clever landscaping hides a major intersection just a hundred feet or so away.












Oakland Park Boulevard, left, is a six-lane divided highway with right-and-left turning lanes, thus eight lanes in most places. Run for your life! I mean it. Drivers are so mean that the traffic lights are calibrated to show you how many seconds are left to get across the road, like an electric-chair countdown. I walk my bicycle across intersections, my parents’ voices ringing across the decades.

I have to cross one intersection from the north to south sides of the road, and this one from the east to west side. See that little piece of white cement at the other side of the road? Look closely. Yep, there it is. It’s a sidewalk. Despite the heavy traffic on Oakland Park Boulevard, I will be able to finish the trip on this sidewalk and relatively safe access roads. I do not have a death wish. But maybe I should wear a helmet. There are maniacs out there on these roads.

Here is the strip mall that houses our little local post office. Not Caribbean enough for you? What about the Creole Diner and Juice Bar? The little store that specialize in island music? The ten-buck nail salon? Or how about the seafood restaurant where the men cook blackened fish on grills made from oil drums?

I stop at the So Loved Market before heading home to buy a bottle of water. Click on photo to enlarge to see sign. Amazingly, I see someone I know at the laundermat. Last summer, in brutal heat, I gave an elderly woman at the supermarket a drive to her apartment because she is nearly blind. She is such a sweetie pie, and I haven’t seen her since. She peers into my face but remembers me quite well. Her vision may be going, but she is still sharp as a tack.

There are two waterfalls and a small pond at this entrance to the subdivision, directly across Inverrary Boulevard from the pond I shot earlier. It is another great favorite of brides and grooms for their photos.

I am almost home. Once I turn on Inverrary Drive, a head wind combined with the slight incline is too much for me. I walk the bike for a while, until the ground levels. My packages are mailed, I’ve gotten some exercise, enjoyed my trip to the Bahamas, and had a nice chat. Mission accomplished.