Pampered by Jane Tolbert

Early mornings . . . my internal alarm goes off before NPR comes on. I make a frenzied and inefficient rush to fix coffee, grab breakfast and run to work. However, my path is littered with obstacles—crumpled rugs, toy mice and rearranged furniture—all evidence of some wild pet play during the early morning hours.



Coffee—shower—dress—pack bag—make an effort to make the bed—tasks that are normally fairly simple in a pet-free house. However, here, my one resident cat usually has cousins visiting. To access the coffee pot requires negotiation--a cat treat, an open window so they enjoy the early morning. If a dog is visiting, that means a trip outside.



The cats usually beat me to the bathroom—that’s where the cat hair brush is kept, and they both want to be brushed before I can take a shower and put on makeup. I’d like to scrub out the shower, but a damp shower is another favorite place to pad and track prints. . . .and of course the bed will never be made because I find them sacked out, dead to the world.

While I race liked a crazed person on a caffeine high, the pets, exhausted from nocturnal activities and from early morning ritual, now lounge. If laundry or ironing is in the plan, the pets position themselves atop the basket of clothes, making this impossible for now. Back to the closet to find another outfit for work. The vacuum at any time of day—nearly impossible—not just because the pets dislike the sound and disruption. But pet toys have been known to clog even the most powerful systems.




People from pet-free households probably wonder why my books and notes are scattered and chewed, or why makeup brushes can be found in odd places and why my clothes always seem to have pet hair or snags. . . .

But on the flip side, these pets are always happy to see me, and they never have grumpy days or mood swings. . . or complain or want to return to their cave. Most importantly, they are teaching me to loosen up. They have given up on my caffeine addiction, but so what if the bed isn’t made, the clothes aren’t ironed. . .

ça passe ou ça casse . . . by Jane Tolbert

A narrow street in Belgentier (Var), France, where I feared encountering a resident or pet emerging from a doorway or someone laden with shopping bags of baguettes or fresh product.

Often, when cars and people meet in situations like this, they joking comment, "Attention les pieds" (watchout for your feet) or "ça passe ou ça casse" (it will get through or take it out).



Parking in alleys requires small cars, rear view mirrors that fold flat as well as the ability to straddle a sidewalk without leaving too much of your fender in the main road. An invaluable skill is also to park your car in the space the size of a tiny envelope in less than 10 seconds flat. It's not that traffic won't stop, but it's more than someone else might get into the space.

Older parking garages accommodate only small cars--the length of newer cars makes it nearly impossible to back in and out of spaces or negotiate the spiral shape of the garage ramps.

Europeans have always seemed more environmentally minded, but their selection of a car has also been affected by the price of gas and the size of the roads, and until recently, the tax on engine size.



Street scenes like this one in Juan-les-Pins attest to the value of a small car.




With more than 80 percent of Floridians commuting in a car to work, thinking small is becoming the next big thing. Everyone who has a parking permit for the University of Florida campus knows that it as only the permit to locate a space. Parking lots have spaces designated for zip cars, scooters and car pools, leaving few options for faculty and staff who drive cars. Due to the lack of parking spaces, an increasing number of people have opted for scooters or bikes. Even the Smart is making inroads. In Europe, it offers the ease of parking both parallel and perpendicular to the curb. In the States, it can beat out competition for tight spaces.





In a world of uncertain gas prices, a growing sense of social responsibility and climate change, small is becoming the next big thing, or so it seems.




Although large cars might carry some status, they are impractical in many French cities and increasingly in the States. Here, a US pickup truck and a French Twingo face off on the Cap d'Antibes. On both sides of the Atlantic, the behemoth SUVs seem to be going the way of the fur coat—garaged or closeted.

But small cars do offer one main disadvantages--their small size precludes taking luggage or even a large purse. Fortunately, I do not have a chauffeur, or I would have to worry about him also.

The Paradox of Tailgating by Jane Tolbert

Years ago, Dad encountered problems at a grocery when he tried to buy a bottle of wine for communion on a Sunday morning. Years later, when we lived in Melbourne Beach, different local ordinances had us racing to and fro if we ran short on the ingredients for a mimosa for a Sunday brunch or if I just wanted to finish the week’s shopping. Although the Melbourne area has since changed its ordinances, Gainesville seems to lag behind the times.

Granted, football games are held on Saturdays, and alcohol seems to flow fairly freely at the pregame warm-ups known as tailgate parties. On the day of the game against the University of South Florida, the pickup trucks were parking before 8 a.m. Some had generators and a flat screen TVs mounted in the back, and all had coolers of beer or Jell-O shots. Fans were already taking swigs and calling on their cell phones for reinforcements--more ice and beer.

Students, who normally would not get up during weekdays for an 8 a.m. class, could be seen in front of their fraternities or in the rental houses near the stadium, standing with beer or chips in hand, or grilling hot dogs and setting up a tailgate party with an energy and enthusiasm unknown to their professors. In a city with Sunday alcohol restrictions, this early-morning imbibing seemed . . . something of a paradox.

My thoughts are that if game day were to change to Sunday, the city would eliminate these restrictions on the sale of alcohol. Until then, the brunch host and hostess as well as the employee who wants to finish the week’s shopping on Sunday before 1 p.m. and the member of the alter guild will just have to demonstrate better planning.

A trip that wasn't, a day that shouldn't have been by Jane Tolbert

As a kid, I remember reading plenty of stories about witches and evil spells. That’s the only explanation of what happened this past weekend. I planned to return to Melbourne for Labor Day weekend and reconnect with friends and nature. Tandas of tango at a milonga, wine and gossip, biking and breakfast. Now that I had left the coast, I could even return as a tourist—I’d take long walks on the beach and watch the sunrise.
Everything seemed to go as planned. Well, almost.

I succumbed to a curse, a mysterious “bug” that left me housebound for days. The trip back to Gainesville, normally three hours, seemed an eternity, and I felt every dimple in the pavement. When I arrived at my mom's house where I am staying, I left my suitcases in the car (the tango shoes, the bike gear). It was one of those "bugs" that my dad always described as making you feel like you were going to die, then sorry you didn't. At least my healthcare had kicked in Sept. 1, or so I thought.

The days of accumulated mail told me that my state healthcare application submitted more than a month ago had never been registered. Combine this news with my brewing bad feeling, and add to this volatile mixture one article in the WSJ about an author who has more than 450,000 readers of his blog. . . .

Last night, I went to the tango practica, knowing music and dance would uplift my spirits. Given I had been functioning on three cylinders the past several days, I had never unpacked. The clothes needed ironing. Extracting the ironing board (a chore even when in perfect health), brought down a column of plastic bags and old brooms. Obviously, the evil spell was still with me, and I was in a black mood. And I am sure most family, friends and pets have steered clear of me these past days. I did take two pairs of tango shoes—luck would have had it to break a heel or a strap.

I spent some time at the library en route to tango—no, not looking up ways to remove spells or for cures in self-help books. Just some light reading, some “chick lit.” Escapism might be a way to beat the spell. Today, things look brighter. Fortunately, family, friends and pets are still here too. And coffee tastes great this morning.

A Compact City by Jane Tolbert

It started with a conversation the other day at the Great Outdoors Café in High Springs. A former high school classmate described Gainesville as a great place to live—earn your money here, take trips to other places and bring back those experiences to the city. Good advice that I plan to follow. The mixture of people—local and international, well traveled or experienced, well read or educated in life—is what makes up the fabric of the city.

Gainesville has been my home off and on for many years. Although I’ve been tempted by large cities, which offer more activities, they usually require a commute to work. The reality is that at the end the day (especially one that requires a commute), even the most tempting restaurant, play, museum opening or milonga will not draw me out.

However, in Gainesville, with most activities within a 15-minute driving radius, I actually get out more. The community seems friendlier, the streets seem safer for pedestrians (I think it’s more than the brick cross walks) and more people are out on the street. Landscaping appears more sustainable—it’s actually Florida-Friendly. More effort to blend environment and structures, more parks at least on the UF campus. I hope to have more time to explore the city itself.

Each time I return to Gainesville, the city has progressed. When I used to take my kids on the rails trails probably about 15 years ago, the bikes always got mired in the deep sandy trails. The rails trails, now asphalt with connectors, attract numerous cyclists. I can bike from the UF campus and join the greenway that cuts just south of the historic downtown with its restaurants, galleries, theatre and residential areas. If I had the energy, I could ride to Hawthorne.

Although the town has close to 130,000 inhabitants, I always run into someone I know at one of the popular watering holes, an opening at Media Image or even on the rails trail or on campus. We greet then admit our embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. I never was too good at names.” On those weekends when all events seem to have shut down, someone gets a call out of the blue. “Can you come—I’m giving a birthday party for an 80-year-old friend. Please, no presents.” The friend in question—a matronly crepe myrtle in full bloom.

So what is missing? Maybe pétanque?

My images are missing too--they will be uploaded asap!