Another day in paradise

Things I did yesterday that made me think again that this place is different:

-- I checked out the Pride Festival booths in Duval Street (it was closed from Olivia to Angela) but didn't find much interesting, beyond the big bandstand/float Ferron had helped paint.

-- Dodged a few raindrops, and thought again that this place resembles a sauna with an angry old codger in the corner, splashing water on the hot rocks every time you think you can't stand anything hotter.

-- Thought about taking in a movie at the Tropic, but didn't feel like reading subtitles, and the features were in Danish, French and Hebrew.

-- Picked up a tree saw at Home Depot and spent a while trimming blossom spikes from our new Christmas palms in front, and some browning fronds from our foxtails (in the picture). Learned that botanists discovered foxtails (Wodyetia bifurcata) only in 1983, and named them after Wodyeti, an aboriginal Bushman who led them to the groves.

-- Offered a chair and a glass of wine to a locked-out tourist at the guest cottage across the street. She spied the highboy and studied it closely while I poured the wine. She knew a lot about furniture.

-- Met her traveling buds -- all are friends since college -- and found out that one of them was an architecture writer for the Herald in Miami. We had friends in common, and swapped war stories until we heard the parade starting to pass by.

-- Got my ancient Pride t-shirt out and wandered over to watch the party pass.

-- Came home and sizzled up a duck leg confit, with salad, before falling asleep on the sofa, watching a digital stream of Gandhi.

Not a bad day.