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  As the day of my departure for Florida neared, it occurred to me that I had never visited a retirement community before, and so I had no idea what to pack. How does one dress for golf and bingo? I certainly didn’t want to cause the Andersons any embarrassment. With gritted teeth, I resolved to purchase a pair of casual loafers, argyle socks, and a sweater vest.

  2

  Where’s Beaver?

  THE VILLAGES IS LOCATED ROUGHLY IN THE CENTER OF FLORIDA, about an hour north of Orlando International Airport, where I touch down feeling like a dork in my new argyle socks and loafers, and surrounded by giggling children running around in mouse ears. Given my travel budget, I rent an old beater, which is spray-painted black and is missing hubcaps, and whose odometer registers a quarter-million miles. The car shudders and misfires as I drive north along a relatively lonesome patch of the Florida Turnpike, which to my surprise cuts through rolling pastureland instead of swamps. This is Florida’s “high country,” home to the state’s cattle industry, which is slowly disappearing as ranchers sell their sprawling properties to housing developers and land speculators.

  The sides of the road sprout billboards advertising retirement communities. Photos of seniors playing golf and relaxing in pools are plastered with slogans such as “Life is lovelier,” “On top of the world,” and “Live the life you’ve been waiting your whole life for!” Interspersed are signs advertising the central Florida of old: hot-boiled peanuts, deerskin moccasins, and ’gator meat.

  I don’t see any advertisements for The Villages, but I do see state highway signs that guide me there via an off-ramp and a few small towns filled with vacant storefronts and roadside citrus vendors. I know I am getting close when the loamy soil and piney solitude segue into a construction site that stretches as far as the eye can see. A billboard displays a joyful phrase not often seen these days: “The Villages welcomes Wal-Mart!”

  A short distance farther I spot the top of a beige water tower painted with The Villages’ omnipresent logo—its name written in a looping 1970s-era faux-Spanish script. The construction is soon replaced with lush fairways speckled with golfers. I turn on the radio and tune in to WVLG AM640, The Villages’ own radio station.

  “It’s a beautiful day in The Villages,” the DJ announces. “Aren’t we lucky to live here? OK, folks, here is a favorite I know you’re going to love. The Candy Man Can. C’mon, let’s sing it together.” I listen in resigned silence to Sammy Davis Jr. and his effervescent lyrics about dew-sprinkled sunrises, feeling slightly claustrophobic and uneasy about living in a gated retirement community for the next month. Can someone under forty and as restless as I am survive an extended stay without going stir-crazy? Can I relate to people who play golf all day and play pinochle at night? Will they inundate me with Henny Youngman one-liners and stories about the Brooklyn Dodgers until I cry uncle?

  It doesn’t take long before I am hopelessly lost. Every direction is filled with nearly identical rooftops, curvy streets, gates, and flawless golf courses. A little while later the pleasantly landscaped, meandering boulevard I am driving down ends abruptly at a pock-marked county road. Across the way, the green grass and lush golf courses are noticeably absent, replaced with a narrow sandy road surrounded by a scraggly pine forest. Once upon a time, these inscrutable forests were home to fiercely independent subsistence farmers, called Crackers, who delighted in squirrel meat and rarely traveled except to move deeper into the pines. I watch as a towering pickup truck with a Confederate flag turns onto an unpaved road and briefly loses its footing in a patch of deep sand.

  I make a U-turn and continue to drive around aimlessly until I spot an arrow pointing toward Spanish Springs, one of The Villages’ two manufactured downtowns. A sign beside the road cautions against speeding, noting that The Villages is a “golf cart community.” The road is more of a parkway, four lanes across with a handsome palm-studded median. What at first appear to be unusually wide sidewalks turn out to be roads specifically designed for golf carts, which whiz silently along them. I see another sign reminding visitors, “It’s a beautiful day in The Villages.”

  A few miles later, I drive by a hospital, an assisted care facility, and a large Catholic church. I go through another roundabout, cross an ornate bridge, pass something built to look like the crumbling ruins of a Spanish fort, and suddenly I’m in the “town” of Spanish Springs. I spot Betsy outside a Starbucks standing beside her shiny red Miata, dressed attractively in pale pink slacks and a white cardigan, and sporting a nice tan. She greets me with a relaxed smile and a friendly hug, and insists on buying me a very welcome cup of iced coffee. It’s comforting to see a familiar face from back home.

  “Isn’t it nice?” she asks. “People call it ‘Disney for adults,’ and I’m beginning to understand why. I just can’t believe I’m here. I’ve met people that have been here for five years and they’re still pinching themselves. It’s like being on a permanent vacation.”

  Surrounding us is an imitation Spanish colonial town spiced up with a few Wild West accents. There’s a central square with splashing fountains, a mission-like building at one end, a stucco church at another, and across the way a saloon in the style of the old West with wrought iron balconies. According to The Villages’ mythology, Ponce de León passed through this area, just missing these waters—the fountain of youth he so desperately sought. The streets around the town square are lined with buildings that appear to be about 150 years old. There are faded advertisements on their facades for a gunsmith, an assayer, and a telegraph office. I feel as if I’m on a movie set, which strikes me as an uncomfortable place to live.

  Betsy and I take our coffee to the central square, and sit on a bench beside the fountain of youth, which is strewn with lucky coins. The sun is shining, but it’s not hot. We catch up on neighborhood gossip, the miserable New England weather, and the uncertain fate of our neighborhood park. Betsy is left pondering her incredible luck. “If we were still living up north, those problems would be our problems,” she says with a sigh. Although not meant unkindly, her comment stings. But she’s got a point; her life promises to be a lot more carefree down here than it was back home.

  We mosey around the square and then head to the western-motif saloon, Katie Belle’s, which is for residents and their guests only. Outside, a historical marker explains the building’s colorful past. “Katie Belle Van Patten was the wife of Jacksonville businessman John Decker Van Patten, who, along with a number of other investors, built the luxurious hotel in 1851. …”

  The plaque looks so authentic that I have to remind myself I am standing on what was pastureland a mere decade ago. Inside the saloon the walls are covered in dark wood, and heavy draperies hang from several large windows. An enormous Tiffany-style skylight catches my eye, as do two dozen line dancers keeping time to a country and western tune. Many of the stools along the bar are filled with retirees holding draft beers. I look at my watch. It’s just past two in the afternoon. “Line dancing is very popular here because you can do it without a partner,” Betsy explains. “They say the only problem with being a widow in The Villages is that you’re so busy you forget you are one.”

  Although I’ve sat for a beer at an American Legion Post before, I’ve never been to a bar solely reserved for senior citizens. The first thing I notice is that no one is what I would call particularly beautiful, at least not to my age-biased eyes. But they all look as if they’re having a good time.

  Ever the host, Betsy suggests I drop my luggage off at their house and join them for dinner. “They call it ‘Florida’s Friendliest Hometown’—and that’s just what it is,” she says as she gets into her Miata. “Everyone’s so friendly because everyone is so happy. So make yourself comfortable at our house and enjoy your stay.”

  I decide to first take a walk around alone to get my bearings, and perhaps acclimate, before popping over to the Andersons’ house later in the afternoon. Although “hometown” is a relative term given that everyone here was born someplace else, dam
ned if, as I look around, everyone I make eye contact with doesn’t greet me with a big friendly grin.

  I retreat to Starbucks to catch my breath; the coffee shop with its generic interior design feels like a portal back to the real world. I pick up a New York Times and scan the headlines. I’m oddly comforted by the fact that there’s been continued violence in the Middle East.

  Back outside, I walk down the street to a little room with a large display window—the main WVLG broadcast studio. A DJ with a large potbelly and a graying chinstrap beard talks into a microphone while pressing colored buttons on an extensive control board. An outdoor speaker hangs from the building. The DJ repeats the mantra that I will hear so often during my stay: “It’s a beautiful day in The Villages!” Then it’s a Lesley Gore classic: “Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows.”

  The studio is attached to the chamber of commerce. Inside, I look at a rack of brochures, but I note that all the information pertains exclusively to activities within The Villages. I purchase a map for five dollars. It is large and double-sided and depicts only streets inside The Villages. Anything outside the community—even something just across the street—is represented by a white void. Curiously, there is a large white empty space in the center of the map as well.

  I ask the woman at the desk about the big white space, but she doesn’t know why it’s there; nor does she know why there are no brochures for any businesses outside The Villages. Typically, a chamber of commerce displays information from a much wider area. “I guess there just isn’t space for more brochures,” she says, adding, “People ask us the darnedest things.” When I ask to use her phone, I notice that The Villages’ sales office is the first number listed on her speed dial.

  From Spanish Springs, I drive for what feels like a good twenty minutes until I finally approach the Andersons’ village. I’m a bit concerned because much of the muffler seems to have fallen off on the drive up from Orlando, and the engine is leaking a lot of oil.

  The Andersons’ village is clean and new, with rows of tidy ranch homes ending in quiet culs-de-sac. Lawn sprinklers effortlessly turn on and then off in near unison. The lawns are perfectly edged, and try as I might, I can’t find a single weed. The driveways are so clean they looked scrubbed, and in fact some are.

  The neighborhood is so immaculate that it resembles a set from Leave It to Beaver, but Wally and the Beaver are nowhere to be seen. There are no bicycles or baseball mitts littering the yards; no school buses; no swing sets; no children playing street hockey. For that matter, there are no children. There aren’t even any young couples holding hands. Aside from the droning of a distant lawn mower, the neighborhood is ghostly silent. Mr. Wilson would be in heaven.

  Children aren’t the only demographic missing. Despite its Spanish-theme architecture, the community is about ninety-seven percent white. The lack of diversity has led to embarrassing mistakes: the Village of Santo Domingo was originally spelled “Santa Domingo.” It wasn’t until a Hispanic couple moved into the community, I’m told, that anybody noticed the error.

  I noisily pull up to the Andersons’ home and cringe at the thought of my car leaking oil on Dave’s spotless driveway. I hesitantly park on the street, well aware that parking there overnight is against the rules. It’s a quandary: do I stain Dave’s driveway, or do I flout the rules that I suspect he conscientiously and happily obeys? I choose the latter, figuring that if I arrive home late at night and leave early in the morning, nobody will be the wiser.

  Betsy greets me at the door with another big smile and a peck on the cheek. I’m surprised at how much bigger the Andersons’ new home is. The ceilings are high, and the space is airy. The house is so clean it’s as if the air itself has been sanitized. I feel like Oscar Madison landing in Zurich, and worry that I might somehow scuff a surface or otherwise make a mess. But after a long, sweaty day of travel, it’s a relief to be in such tidy surroundings.

  Betsy shows me to the guest room, where I notice shiny plastic beads hanging from a corner of a mirror. “Did you go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras?” I ask.

  “No need,” Betsy says. “They do Mardi Gras here. And it’s wonderful. So much fun.”

  Betsy tells me to make myself right at home and to please feel free to rummage through the refrigerator as often as I like. Between my bedroom, the kitchen, and a pleasant screened-in porch, or lanai, there is a danger zone: an open living room with a plush white carpet and similarly untouched white furniture. There is one rule: I am not to walk across this carpet with my shoes on. Given that I’m wearing sandals and my feet are often dirty as well, I spend the next few weeks avoiding the room altogether. I notice that Dave does too, except when he dims the light up and down for me above a prized possession hanging on the wall—a print by Thomas Kinkade, an evangelical oil painter with an unusually devoted following, whose trademark is Painter of Light. The iridescent streetscape changes with each motion of the dimmer switch.

  There are many framed photos around the house as well, but they are mainly of themselves, or of younger couples from back home—friends they like to refer to as “adopted family.” Dave has two adult children with his first wife, but he has an uneasy relationship with them, and it clearly saddens him to talk about it. Betsy doesn’t have children. There’s just one photo that I can find of Dave’s kids, but it’s dated, possibly taken before the divorce.

  Dave comes home and greets me with an easy smile. Dressed in khaki shorts, a yellow polo shirt, and loafers, he’s the picture of leisure. “The only thing I worry about these days is my daily golf game,” he says. “It’s a totally different way of life.”

  “It’s fun,” Betsy says. “Just plain fun. And why not have a good time? We’re retired and we have enough money to live here. We’ve worked hard for this.”

  “Some folks say we’re insulated from everything on the outside,” Dave continues. “That bothers some people, but it doesn’t bother me. With the Internet, we have access to what’s going on in the world. We can choose to be impacted by the news and get involved, or not.”

  Dave pours me a glass of chilled white zinfandel. “People are happy here,” he continues. “Can’t say we’ve run into too many sad people. Have you seen anybody moping around? And not all of them even live in The Villages. That seems to be the whole concept of The Villages—they’ve created a secure and comfortable zone that other people can share even though they can’t afford to live here or if they’re the wrong age to participate. They allow the melting pot to occur. You can visit it downtown and then play golf or go home. That’s The Villages’ way.”

  “Even the supermarket employees are pleasant to deal with,” Betsy says. “There’s never any rush at the checkout like back home. They ask you how you are, what you’re making for dinner. People are polite. The employees can’t do enough for you—and they have a rule against tipping. It’s a whole different world down here. We’re not used to this sort of kindness.”

  I ask about the house’s previous owners, who put a lot of energy into the place by upgrading the cabinetry and tile. According to Dave, the husband was driven crazy by The Villages’ policies and business practices.

  “He felt controlled, and nickeled and dimed,” Dave tells me. “That’s why he installed a satellite dish even though The Villages offers cable. He wanted control over what channels he could select. He rented a post office box outside The Villages so he wouldn’t have to buy a key to use the same mailboxes the rest of us use. It seems everything about The Villages started to rub him the wrong way. For instance, the walls come white. He wanted dark beige. He thought beige and white paint should cost the same. But they charged him extra for the tinted paint and didn’t refund him for the original white paint. I think that finally drove him out.”

  “Thank God,” Betsy exclaims. “Some people wouldn’t be happy if you handed them the world on a platter. I mean, c’mon, look at all this place has to offer.”

  “So I guess there are some unhappy people here, but they move out,”
Dave says with a shrug. “Some people are just naturally unhappy. They get so wrapped up in local politics; they feel the need to delve into the negatives. Sure, their intention is to improve things, but still: who cares if the monthly amenities fee is $129 or $134?”

  I hear the gentle musical blend of WVLG in the background. “None of that acid rock or heavy metal,” Betsy says. “They play nice music; just plain nice music. I leave it on all day. Apparently the previous owner didn’t like the radio station either.” Although more than two decades younger than Betsy, I find myself enjoying the easy listening as well, marveling at how it reduces my stress by a notch or two.

  Dave pours me a second glass of wine. We sit in the lanai and enjoy the slight breeze. I see similar homes packed tightly together all around us.

  “Nobody on the block even knew who they were,” Dave continues. “Our neighbor Phil across the street—everybody knows Phil —he says they never even invited him inside.”

  “They didn’t play golf,” Betsy adds with finality.

  “Clearly these people were unhappy for a long time,” Dave says, packing his pipe with apple-spiced tobacco. “And much to our benefit. Much to our benefit.”

  I ask what happened to the couple. “Who knows,” Dave says, puffing on his pipe. “Maybe they bought a house in a regular neighborhood where they can do anything they want.”

  Dave and Betsy take me out to dinner at one of the dozen or so country clubs to which all Villagers automatically belong. Dave offers to take me in the golf cart; Betsy will drive her Miata and meet us there.

  Dave unplugs the golf cart and backs it out of the garage. He points out their new address shingle hanging from an old-fashioned driveway light pole. It gives their first names in a cheery script and the house number. I’m surprised when the light suddenly turns on. Dave tells me that all the driveway lights in the neighborhood turn on and off at the same time. I feel a slight chill as I look up and down the street and notice that all the driveway lights have switched on. I find it somehow creepy, and wonder if the couple who moved away felt similarly.