Spring is Sprung

Forget about the Groundhog (sorry, Bill Murray) and don't bother searching the flower beds for early crocus shoots. The only reliable indication of the arrival of Spring is the appearance of the golf carts at your local links. All the pertinent information, known and inferred, is reflected in the appearance of those cute little two-seaters with a couple of bags of sticks hanging off the back end. Yesterday, we had our first sighting as the carts began their determined crawl over the front nine. So don't delay, get out those spring togs and dig those niblicks and mashees  out of the corner of the garage. Give your copy of Caddy Shack (Bill Murray, again) a last pre-season viewing and head for the first tee.

Contrary to popular belief, Yamaha has not introduced a cart with a front plow hitch, ........yet.
Long and straight, gang, long and straight.

Check Out Day

Closing time. Last call, on steroids. The end of a brief stay in ArnoldPalmerville, aka Paradise. The trim Gulf waves are still rolling up on "our" beach, but by noon it will fall to others to bask in this measured spectacle.

It's I-95, northbound, for us. We have stops planned along the way to ease our way back into reality. Planning to arrive in the Bay State by St. Patrick's Day.

There are a lot of factors involved in comparing locations, especially when one is home, the other an interlude. When it comes to February and March weather, however, there's no comparison. Even if every day is more boring than the last, which is clearly not the case, the warmth and sun of south Florida reigns supreme.

So,  with a big collective sigh, we switch out the Jimmy Buffet beach tunes for Willy Nelson, as we get back on the road again.

Haute Culture in ArnoldPalmerville

Tools of the trade

Just so no one gets the idea that Neapolitans are just a bunch of deep-pocketed slugs who spend all their time driving their pricey cars from restaurant meal to restaurant meal, we took advantage of an invitation last night to attend a concert, held at one of the town's leading Christian churches, which looks like it was somehow transported from the village green of a classic New England Town.

The Group had a curious name, but one of their members was reputed to be lead violin at the Naples philharmonic Orchestra, no slouch, he. So given the venue and the bona fides of at least one of the performers, we thought that this might be an opportunity to experience a little Naples culture firsthand and trooped on down to see the Bean Pickers perform at the Tuesdays at Twilight concert.

Admittedly, The name, Bean Pickers, did not evoke a wave of recognition, nor did many of us consider ourselves Blue Grass aficionados, but a night out is a night out.

Guitar Player, Scott Ritter, who owns a local painting company, also chipped in on vocals, as did Linda Kallinger who played mandolin and one mean fiddle. Karen Batten, a registered nurse in her other life played banjo, like ringing a bell - Johnny B Goode, style (assuming Johnny B could play a banjo in addition to guitar). Leslie Weidenhammer, a Deputy Sheriff in real life, played a mean standup bass, sang vocals with the voice of an angel and generally stole most of the show.

It's hard having lived through the folk music era of the 1960's without having a passing familiarity with Blue Grass, but this gang, through their eclectic music selections and mind-blurring execution, brought this genre to a new high. Not to mix metaphors, but they played above the rim the whole night. What a show!

And if you are wondering how a classical violinist blended in with this material, you would not have believed the rendition of the Orange Blossom Special which must have darn near melted those fiddle strings. Glenn Basham demonstrated clearly that his talent is as broad as it is deep.

As in all endeavors, we try and glean some wisdom as take-home value. For whatever reason, the following lyric stuck in our minds and may just be trotted out at many an upcoming cocktail party.

There's too many cooks in the kitchen,
There's too many irons in the fire, (arns in the fahr)
There's not enough loving in the front porch swing,
And there is always a drunk at the Bar.

Catch the Bean Pickers at Fred's on the fourth Friday of each month. Call for details

ArnoldPalmerville II

That was close. We almost missed the Early Bird. Fortunately, we were able to out-maneuver another couple. Those walkers can be tricky on high curbs.

When people ask the great Jimmy Buffet, "exactly where is Margaritaville?", he is quick to tell them that it is anywhere they want it to be. This leaves those of us with limited itineraries to dream big and hang that handle on any place that suits us. On hearing that, we took immediate license to consider Naples to be our version of this Valhalla of song. Of course this is a bit of a stretch, which is why we had to come up with ArnoldPalmerville. Sort of an age-appropriate rendition. And age is a key variable here in APV, which has been called by some  cheeky wags, God's waiting Room. And while this may well apply to some parts of the Sunshine State, Naples has a number of attributes that tend to set it apart.

To say that Naples is upscale is no misnomer. The Bentley dealership tends to set the bar. Then there are the merchants, who collectively offer the best of everything. Who goes to the beach to buy expensive jewelry? Apparently plenty of Neopolitans. And then there are the restaurants. While you might see a few fast-food outlets (the help has to eat somewhere), the number of toney eateries, like the stars in the heavens, defies counting. We suspect that the top grade kitchens in the thousands and thousands of condos are among the most pristine and un-used on the planet.

Gotta run. Today is Donut day and they have just arrived.

Wasting Away in ArnoldPalmerville

We scurried out of Dodge on President's Day, attempting to split the seam between snowstorms. Our first stop was about an hour south of Harrisburg, PA. While we caught some new snow overnight, I- 81 was clear and we had avoided the dreaded Harrisburg rush hour through the new snow. Somewhere around Spartanburg SC, we out ran the snow and by the time we hit Atlanta, it was 70 degrees, which was pronounced balmy, and most of the traffic jam from the previous week's ice storm had cleared up. Then, after a long-days drive down I-75, we entered the Sunshine State and it was straight on to morning.

Naples is, in effect, the southernmost outpost of civilization on the Gulf Coast of Florida. While Key West is due south of Naples, they are separated by some serious open water. Key West has never been confused with Naples and is,I am sure, willing to concede to Naples whatever laurels it may claim. Believe me, no one in Key West cares about the rest of the state.

When Jimmy Buffet sings of Margaritaville, it brings to mind long sleepy days and star studded nights, all observed from the comfort of a Pawley's Island hammock, strung between two palm trees,, where life's biggest problem is limited to locating the salt shaker, needed to finish off the prep of the drink after which the place is named. The basis for the whole Margaritaville experience, starts with  a mid-level tequila buzz..

One of the countless ways in which Naples differs from Key West is in the average daily alcohol ingestion of the respective citizenry. Suffice it to say, it's a lot lower in Naples, where the most popular drink is an Arnold Palmer, which is made up of half iced tea, half lemonade and zero alcohol. Do not, we repeat, do not, order this drink in any establishment located on Duvall Street.