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!

The Value of Benches by Jane Tolbert

I remember buying a pair of shoes years ago in Paris. . . and hobbling from bench to bench in the Luxembourg Gardens in an effort to walk in these ill-fitting shoes. . . . Since then, I have retained a respect for benches. Benches provide a "soulagement" for those with pinched feet.



Benches like this line the Juan-les-Pins boardwalk, a zone with numerous sidewalk cafes or vendors. These benches are full of people on sunny days. Early in the morning, before the sun warms the air or sea, a few bathers can be seen emerging from the water and sitting on benches to brush sand off their feet before putting on shoes. At the end of summer, the tourists leave and locals and pets return to their "place" the benches.

Other benches, like the one shown below, are usually less crowded and offer spectacular views of the sea.






This view of the Mediterranean (at Juan-les-Pins) is from a bench just above a private beach and restaurant by the boules field at the pinede. You can usually find a private place to sit from which you can see but are not seen. The view is the the Port Gallice in the distance. These benches offer a type of therapeutic value.

The pinede (or pine woods) is a small park in the center of Juan-les-Pins with winding paths, a play ground and carousel, and of course, petanque fields. It is also the site of the jazz festival. Hotel workers sit on benches on their breaks and many light up a cigarette. Friends meet friends. Parents and grandparents watch over small children. Benches serve an important social function!



This empty bench is probably a bit too noisy given the proximity to the road (the western point of Juan-les-Pins) even though it overlooks the sea.

Benches in Gainesville range from those with spectacular views of Paynes Prairie, to the meditation benches near Lake Alice or the smaller and less significant. But right now, it's far too hot and muggy to enjoy a bench here unless . . . you have purchased a pair or ill-fitting shoes.




A bench overlooking a retention pond on the rails trails, Southeast Gainesville. This bench probably sees lots of activity in the cooler late afternoons or evenings if the Florida mosquitoes are not out!

In the land of [wall] outlets by Jane Tolbert

France, the land of outlets that take only one plug. . . .

Leaving my café terraces and boardwalks behind in France has always been difficult, but at least I know I will return to the land of plug outlets. For some reason, French plug outlets only hold one plug. Anecdotal evidence from France suggests that electricians charge per outlet, which makes the homeowner balk at numerous plug outlets in each room. As a result, each wall outlet can handle only one plug, which necessitates using a series of interconnected outlet strips that snake across the floor. Although we may cover these cords with rugs, these cords eventually snare the unsuspecting visitor or the inattentive resident.



Years ago, when we traveled abroad, we had to carry large, ungainly transformers as well as plug converters to use our US electronic devices that ran off of 110 volts. These days, everything is compatible and at most requires a plug converter. But compatibility does not preclude the problem of outlets. Although wireless networks address this problem to a limited extent, cell phones, laptops, cordless phones, camera battery packs still need to recharge. These plugs requirements add to the existing demands of the coffee pot, the land line, the TV, the iron (well, sometimes) and hair dryer. In France where companies like Orange, Alice and Bouygues offer great rates (such as unlimited calls to the US for free), our main problems has been keeping the phones recharged.




The two-outlet wall plates in the States have reduced this plug problem on the home front to some extent. But I still crawl and scramble under desks or chairs, or squeeze behind bookcases to connect electronic appliances. And my coffee pot. . . . Well, that’s another problem. Although sufficient outlets exist (on that multiple-plug strip), the cord is just a little too short.

The quest for the ideal balcony by Jane Tolbert

Balcony near the Cours Salaya, Nice



Balcony in Juan-les-Pins

In my dreams I am sitting on an opulent, turn-of-the-century balcony overlooking the Mediterranean. Geraniums overhang the balustrade. Lemon trees grow in large clay pots. It’s only a dream--it is not the typical French balcony for that period. Rather the older French apartments have spacious rooms and large, double windows that open onto a tiny balcony or more commonly, a grill in the window. Even the paintings of Matisse show iron-work grills in the window rather than large terraces with chairs. Residents in these older buildings do spend a lot of time learning on the grill or balustrade, watching passersby below. After all, their balcony space only enables the placement of a few pots of geraniums or a small line of laundry.

In contrast, the apartments I rented (circa 1970s and more recent) had large balconies and small rooms. A terrible irony emerged. My large balconies quickly filled with boxes, my bicycle, a laundry rack and numerous terracotta pots, which held live flowers at one time. This clutter left little room for those lemon trees, comfortable lounge chairs or visiting friends. At another apartment, the balcony facing north remained empty. It was too cold. Another ground-floor balcony overlooking a peaceful garden could not be used either—the apartment rules and regulations strictly dictated the type of furniture that could be displayed.



Somewhere in Nice

My quest for the ideal balcony côté sud has taken me to coastal cities between Cannes and Nice as well as inland to Grasse. Those turn-of-the century apartments with small balconies or window grills for leaning seem to indicate a transformation of lifestyles. After all, we do have more conveniences (no need to rush to the outdoor lavoir to do laundry), so perhaps we do have more leisure! But many of these newer apartments are just outside of the centre ville and its activity—the passersby, the flirtatious encounters, the pets on their walks and the children. We commute to return to our newer and larger balconies that overlook parking lots instead of city streets.

Perhaps a loggia would be just the thing.



Moorish style house with Loggia near Bijou Plage, Juan-les-Pins

A Trip to Blue Springs by Jane Tolbert

Crazed end of the past week. Two unhappy cats rode in their carriers. Hours spent on automated phone systems for address changes. Additional time to set up accounts associated with a new job. A car crammed with last-minute stuff--my coffee pot, vouvray wine, tango shoes and music as well as my notebooks. I could survive anywhere.

After I arrived in Gainesville, my sister decided a trip to the springs would be just the thing to get my mind off of those details associated with a move.

On this hot, bright Florida day, Blue Springs (at High Springs) quickly filled with screaming, splashing kids. Watchful parents gave advice about safety, and many small kids wore life vests. Coolers and bags of gear lined picnic tables. Kids raced to the edge of the chilly waters with inflatable floats. Others waded along the narrow sand beach or jumped in from the diving platform. A few people rented those red canoes stored neatly under the boardwalk. The focal point of activity was the head spring, known for its opaline blue color.




The quarter-mile and slightly undulating boardwalk took us along cypress and dense vegetation with two deer. Turtles basked on partially submerged logs. Underwater stretches of white sand carried a bluish tint that appeared iridescent beneath thick areas of hydrilla, an invasive plant that has choked the waterways.

Further down, dense eelgrass, which my sister compared to a brocade tapestry, lined the run. Water lettuce and duck weed dotted the water’s edge. Small bass appeared motionless as if suspended. A larger, striped bass hovered with a crayfish in its mouth. The fish disappeared into the eelgrass, where we hoped the crayfish would escape its destiny.

--Nope, he just got eaten, one bather commented.

The kids with fishing poles--well mannered with “please” and “excuse me” as they hastened past—raced to the end of the boardwalk where a larger observation deck with benches overlooked the Santa Fe River. Tannin has left a coffee-colored translucent stain on the otherwise turquoise waters.

Those kids frolicked like crazy in what might have been their last trip to the springs before the start of school. For me, too, the trip provided a nice respite before my first day at my new job.