goodbye 2020

If someone would have whispered into my ear this time last year that we would be living in a condo, smack dab in the middle of the urban colorful streets of Florida, I would have surely told them to f**k off. I mean, I never ever ever thought we would go back to living in urban dwellings after living the country life. This move is temporary, but still, it has been our reality for a few months now (with one month left before we set sail). However, when we initially moved into our Airbnb rental, I was surprised at how comfortable I felt. After all, I had lived in apartments most of my adult life, before I had kids. And, much to my surprise, I had an overwhelming sense of comfort and security I hadn’t felt in years. It immediately brought back to living in the concrete jungle of Manhattan when I was young. Not to mention, when we were living in the country of Northern California, I would say to my husband that I wanted to expose our kids to culture and urban life. Well, I guess it only took a pandemic to give them a full education cause they are acclimated now! And, ya know what, they love it. They love living in a highrise condo, more than living in the country. Go figure. You see, a mother always knows…

A few weeks into living here, the fire alarm went off in the middle of the night. It took me a minute to gather myself to this reality, as it does, and wake up to hear a recorded voice over the loud building speakers repeating, "There is a fire in the building. Remain calm. Take the stairs and leave now." A fire, I thought. In Florida? What are the odds? We can't escape them, I guess. We were more prepared to deal with an emergency situation though, I must admit. We kinda calmly gathered our kids, the dog, got dressed, grabbed a few items, and walked down the stairs to the bottom. Thankfully there was no smoke in the stairwell, but strangely there were also no people either. My kids were freaked out. Especially my daughter. It was one of the first times I was able to see the effects the past few years has taken on them. We have lived through 3 (or is it 4) of the major catastrophic wildfires in Northern California so that lingering PTSD can come out when you hear the word FIRE. Thankfully, when we got to the bottom and out the exit door, we learned that it was a false alarm. Some water pipe burst and hit the fire sprinklers or something. A sigh of relief washed over us and, in those 20 minutes or so, it made the pandemic disappear (though we were still masked up!), which was a bit of relief as well.

We have all pretty much acclimated into the swing of urban life. Humans are so adaptable. This year was a huge test to that. Every morning at dawn, I walk the dog through the underpass. This underpass hangs above the small concrete walkway in between the highrise condo and the vast Walmart parking lot. It's also alongside a gorgeous waterway where boats go through to the sea, passing under this massive drawbridge. I've never experienced anything like it. The sailboats that are to tall to go under the bridge call in the station (a little building that is reminiscent of a lifeguard station on the beach), and they request the draw bridge to go up so they can sail through. An alarm sounds, flashing polls go down (a la railroad) with a warning to the pedestrians walking on the bridge and the cars driving to hurry up or stop cause these gigantic concrete slabs (which is the road of the bridge you actually travel over), are about to split and lift up into the air. It's kind of a magnificent sight to see. At first, just the sheer mechanics of the thing. How they smoothly lift up with the gentle ease of cutting through soft butter. A beauitful sight of solid engineering.

We are going on our 3rd month living here, so I have gotten to know some of the familiar faces around the neighborhood too. There is an older homeless woman I walk past who lounges on the small patch of grass, propped up against a metal grocery cart, talking to herself as if she is surrounded by friends on a comfortable couch drinking hot tea. We smile at each other each time I pass. At first, I engaged her, asked how she was, if she needed anything. Her response informed me she wasn't listening and that she was lost in her own reality. She seemed to be happy in there too, always smiling, haven't seen the darkness buried within yet. I hope I never do. She is also the only woman of the bunch. A few other homeless men sleep under this pass, tucked up on the perch with the pigeons, resting on an old cushion, above the little natural shallow duck pond formed from the frequent tropical rainstorms. Another homeless man sleeps up against the coconut tree in a larger grassy area covered with more trash than visible grass. Then, in the Walmart parking lot, a few people seem to be sleeping in their parked cars, which, it appears, you can legally do if you need a place to park for the night (just an FYI). I learned this bit of information when we were traveling in our RV.

Oh, and then there are the party cats. The ones who are probably just coming back from the club when I'm walking the dog. We see a lot of party people around here. And we see TONS of party boats too. All packed in like sardines with no masks in sight: only a DJ and an open bar and dancing. We are in Florida, after all, where Trump flags are abundant, and half the people still don't think this virus is true. Or maybe, more to the point, don't give a shit about anyone but themselves. Thankfully, I haven't come across too many of that lot. Overall, most people I encounter are masked up, stand at a good social distance, and smile with their eyes. And, for the most part, the assholes who don't care are all sticking together - meeting at clubs, bars and dancing the night away in tight unventilated sweaty spaces. Breathing on each other, touching each other, partying like it's 1999. Those fuckers. We are surely living in an area where the party cats come. My husband has a theory that the pimps and/or strip club owners in the neighborhood (so many) put up their crew of rotating traveling strippers in this apartment building. Big botty, fake breasted, colorful wigged out, tattooed and pierced up women who travel in groups with one lone skinny man in charge who wears an island printed dress shirt, smokes endless Cuban cigars, and always seems to be holding a fruity cocktail. I know what you're thinking; this is super stereotypical. It completely is, but it has proved to be true. The pimp (assuming here) and I have passed each other in the lobby a few times. He always winks at me then calls me "baby" while he opens the door. The next time I saw him, I opened the door for him and his crew of girls, all wearing blinged our sparkly masks as they all piled into his blinged out Bentley. I smiled with my eyes at him, but I didn't call him baby.

This past year had been full of so many challenges, so much uprooting, so much upheaval and heartache across the globe, with all of us trying to hold on and adapt this unsteady way of life. It kinda makes sense to me now that this is where 2020 will end for us. What a year it's been. A year of not visiting family, or having dinner parties, working from home, virtual meetings, homeschool, mask fashions, figuring out a new way of living, existing, and ultimately surviving. I see the adaptability so strongly in my kids. How they have just embraced it all. Wearing a mask, keeping their distance, not playing with friends, virtual school, and going to the playground only when no one is at the park so they can run around and be free. This is their childhood. This is the way of life for now. It's amazing how resilient we all are. So, cheers to a new year. Who knows what 2021 will bring (I am cautiously optimistic), but I do know this, we have all survived almost a year of quarantine life, and that THAT, my friends, is something to celebrate.