Notwithstanding the allowances afforded people of my advanced age and decrepit condition, one cannot but feel inexcusably languid when bemoaning the effort required to manoeuvre oneself from under the duvet onto the edge of the bed after a prolonged though at times disturbed sleep. Indeed I considered myself entitled to a laurel for having attacked the procedure as early as I did at 8:20 am this morning. Once again last night the overhead Hunter fan had made an almost imperceptible clicking sound on repeated revolutions. In my midnight distress and darkness I had attempted to rationalize the minor annoyance by thinking of what Hemingway might have endured in Cuba on occasion;  or what Oscar Wilde must have felt when complaining, “One of us has to go, me or the wallpaper”.

Il vivait dans une misérable chambre meublée, à l’hôtel d’Alsace, rue des Beaux-Arts. Et lui qui avait été l’esthète de la gentry londonienne, souffrait horriblement de cette misère symbolisée pour lui dans l’épouvantable papier « modern-style » à fleurs chocolat sur fond bleu.

« — Voyez-vous, ma chère enfant, me disait-il, il y a un duel à mort entre moi et mon papier de tenture. L’un de nous deux doit y rester. Ce sera lui ou ce sera moi. »

It was only as late as 11:30 am today, after my ablutions, dressing myself in fresh clothing and performing my regular breakfast routine including addressing the overnight email, that I was thankful for having aroused myself so early. The greater punishment would have been to lose part of the day, especially a superb day such as this has been. The sky was azure; the temperature high towards 80°F or more no doubt with a slight wind. It buoyed my unremarkable start to the day that by fussing with the fan I unwittingly discovered a switch which reverses the direction of the blades. This appears to have eliminated the annoying sound while at the same time pushing the warm air upwards to the ceiling and relieving me of the direct gusts. I had previously toyed unsuccessfully with the possibility that the fan was pushing part of the window blinds or the cord against the wall.

In keeping with my custom I began my day by mounting my tricycle and leisurely completing about 4 Km throughout the compound. I didn’t wear my raffia hat this morning but having tried it yesterday I am warming to the habit especially as my hair elongates and gets into my eyes. As I rode about the place I was again consumed by anxiety to broaden my athletic movement onto the sidewalk parallel to the Overseas Highway but I haven’t yet the conviction that I either can or should. It’s predominantly a question of traffic and elevation (there appears to be a dip from the highway over the adjoining grass to the sidewalk; which of course will be a hill upon return and my single-gear tricycle is no match). By contrast I am as often compelled by the improving argument that one such as I should learn when to throw in the towel. It is after all a small concession given the alternative; which is to say, a neatly trimmed environment, a beach by the sea and three pools from which to choose.  Nonetheless the impulse persists. Movement is an addictive preoccupation. I have partly extinguished the allure by having booked a mani/pedi for Wednesday morning next.  That will at a minimum enable me to drive my car somewhere as I am accustomed to do back home though I haven’t the same attraction here because the Overseas Highway isn’t as remote and tranquil as I am used to in the country. And with the volatile weather and salt sea air here car washes are of limited reward. Normally when we’re on our winter sojourns I virtually abandon the automobile in favour of cycling (though that attraction too was greater on Hilton Head Island or Daytona Beach Shores where cycling on the limitless beaches was possible; even Longboat Key with its easily accessible sidewalks was preferable). Yet I linger in my commitment to resolve the obstacle one way or another without compromising my strength or safety.  As Trump would say (when he doesn’t know what he’s talking about), “We’ll see what happens.”

When I went to the pool today there was only one woman there already.  She was a full figured woman with a considerable tan.  It was obvious that she like I was devoted to browning the flesh. I made certain to position myself far from her so as not to interrupt her former solitude. Later her husband (presumably) arrived.  He too was deeply tanned. He swam in the pool, employing a snorkel which I found strange. Key Largo is famous for its deep sea diving but I hardly think a pool meets that standard.  However…

As I was leaving the pool after having lounged and swum for close to 2 hours (and beginning to feel the sting of the sun), the gentleman approached me to enquire about my tricycle which I had parked at the gate entrance.  Upon my asking him, he acknowledged he was familiar with tricycles.  In particular he said he was aware of the possible danger of turning too quickly and leaning from side to side.  His accent was peculiar. I could not tell if it were American or German. I expect to see both him and his wife again and I shall pay closer attention to the sound of his voice. We both avoided the stock questions, “Where are you from?, How long are you here?, Do you rent or own?”

I mention these paltry reflections because it discloses that the effervescence I expect to derive from this community turns not upon bicycling, manicures or even Edward Gibbons but rather upon social convention and the evolution of all that that entails.  We’ve only been here since November 6th, so a week. The gentility of most whom I’ve fleetingly encountered, including the staff (who are a mixture of Mexican and Caucasian), is reassuring.

Sir Noël Peirce Coward (16 December 1899 – 26 March 1973) was an English playwright, composer, director, actor, and singer, known for his wit, flamboyance, and what Time magazine called “a sense of personal style, a combination of cheek and chic, pose and poise”

“I Went to a Marvellous Party”
by Nöel Coward

… I had the most extraordinary experience… something to do with sun…couldn’t understand myself, really

You know, quite for no reason
I’m here for the season
And high as a kite
Living in error
With Maud at Cap Ferrat
Which couldn’t be right
Everyone’s here, and frightfully gay
Nobody cares what people say
Now though the Riviera Is really much queerer
Than Rome at its height

On Wednesday night I went to a marvellous party
With Nunu and Nada and Nell
It was in the fresh air
And we went as we were,
And we stayed as we were
Which was hell
Poor Grace started singing at midnight,
And she didn’t stop singing ’til four
We knew the excitement was bound to begin
When Laura got blind on Dubonnet and gin
And scratched her veneer with a Cartier pin
I couldn’t have liked it more, honestly

I’ve been to a marvelous party
We played the most wonderful game
Maureen disappeared
And came back in a beard
And we all had to guess at her name – imagine!
Old Cecil good old Cecil arrived wearing armour
Some shells and a black feather boa
Poor Millicent wore a surrealist comb
Made of bits of mosaic from St. Peter’s in Rome
But the weight was so great that she had to go home

And I couldn’t have liked it more, honestly
It was the most fabulous sight… I’ve never seen such carrying-on… obviously it couldn’t happen anywhere else but on the Riviera… it was most peculiar

You know, people’s behaviour
Away from Belgravia
Would make you aghast
So much variety
Watching society
Scampering past
You know, if you have any mind at all,
Gibbon’s divine “Decline And Fall”
Sounds pretty flimsy
No more than a whimsy

By way of contrast
On Wednesday last I went to a marvelous party
I must say, I must say, the fun was intense;
We all had to do
What the people we knew
Might be doing a hundred years hence
Can you beat it?
We talked about growing old gracefully,
And Elsie who’s seventy-four
Said, “A) it’s a question of being sincere,
And B) If you’re supple You’ve got nothing to fear”
Then she swung upside-down from a glass chandelier
I couldn’t have liked it more

I’ve been to a marvellous party
We didn’t sit down to dinner til ten
You know, young Bobby Carr
Did a stunt at the bar
With a lot of extraordinary men
Poor Frieda arrived with a turtle
Which shattered us all to the core
And then the duchess passed out at a quarter to three
And suddenly Cyril cried “Fiddle-de-dee!”,
Then he ripped off his trousers
And jumped in the sea
I couldn’t have liked it more

I’ve been to a marvelous party
Elise made an entrance with May
You’d never have guessed
From her fisherman’s vest
That her bust had been whittled away
Poor Lulu got fried on Chianti
And talked about esprit de corps
Louise made a couple of passes at Gus
And Freddie, who hates any kind of a fuss,
Did half the Big Apple and twisted his truss
Ha ha
I couldn’t have liked it more