The 10:42 To West Palm (Part 1)  

Saturday was C's birthday so we decided to take the train up to West Palm Beach and go to the Norton Museum of Art, which reopened last winter after a major expansion and renovation. Conveniently, a fast rail service from Miami to West Palm began a couple of years ago as Brightline and we'd been meaning to check it out to see how it compared with the fast rail service in Europe. Recently, mega-billionaire Richard Branson partnered with Brightline and now it's called Virgin Railways or Virgin Trains—something virginal, at any rate. A month or so ago, they announced that on this specific day, May 18—coincidentally, C's birthday--there would be $5 one-way tickets to the three South Florida Virgin destinations (Miami, Ft. Lauderdale and West Palm Beach) and we realized that it was our absolute duty to check it out. It also didn't hurt that the Norton Museum is free on Saturdays.

C and I are big museum-goers but it was actually our good friend, Kevin, who came up with the idea of going to the Norton. “I'll take the train from Miami, meet you guys in Ft. Lauderdale, and we'll proceed from there to West Palm,” he said. Kevin is an attorney in Miami and often comes up with fun places for the three of us to go. Unfortunately, Kevin is one of those people who makes plans, gets you all excited about doing something and then cancels at the last minute when someone unexpectedly shows up to take him plant shopping at Home Depot. Or an ex-lover casually drops by with paperwork pertaining to an ongoing divorce. Or a friend asks him to try some fantastic new Vietnamese restaurant in a strip mall in Hialeah. Kevin is, in many ways, a really great guy but he does this kind of shit all the time. So, it came as no surprise when, the night before we were scheduled to embark on the Palm Beach adventure, Kevin texted C to cancel. One of the dogs, the most elderly of a trio, had, allegedly, gotten into a fight with one of the others, and now had some kind of nasty looking something on his neck and needed to go to the dog emergency room. But, instead of taking him to the vet then and there, Kevin planned to wait until Saturday morning. Huh? Now, maybe this dogfight business is the true story and maybe it isn't, but Kevin's past record of telling us one thing and then slipping up later and accidentally confessing that he'd done something else, promotes a certain degree of skepticism. That dog is so old and feeble it's hard to imagine him getting into a fight with one of the geckos in the backyard, much less one of his housemates. Whatever the case, C laid out a finely tuned guilt trip persuading Kevin that it would be a good idea to continue with the next day's plans. If the dog needs to go to the vet, he needs to go NOW! And so it was.

On Saturday morning I got up early in order to have my coffee and morning sabbatical, thinking that I'd just run some gel through my hair, throw on jeans and a tee shirt, and be out the door. C is very good at doing that sort of thing. I am not. Especially after I made the unholy discovery that there are twin car wash brushes growing in both nostrils. Where did all this fucking hair in my nose come from, anyway? And, my God, the itch! Granted, there had been signs that something was afoot in my nasal passages, and I had occasionally noticed one or two silky strands here and there over the years, but this sudden hirsute eruption caught me offguard. Confronted with this on Saturday morning, I began to dig through the medicine cabinet in our bathroom. Tweezers—the usual standby—were out of the question, and obviously, I wouldn't be able to trim my nose hairs with toenail clippers. When I came across some tiny little scissors that C uses to trim the hairs in his nose, I thought (briefly) of giving it a try. But, really, I am a hazard around sharp objects so rejected that idea and moved on to the electric shaver. That, at least, had trimmers that didn't appear capable of inflicting too much damage, and if I pushed my nose sideways against my face, I realized I could cut away the most egregious offenders while mitigating the presence of the others.

Then there was the matter of the Frankenstein boot. The Frankenstein boot is something I have to wear because I fucked up my foot way back in November and then decided I was good to go before the date the doctor recommended. So, to make a long story short, here I am wearing this plug-ugly boot that weighs as much as a watermelon. Not only is it heavy, it takes forever to arrange the padding and fasten all the velcro gee gaws, and then pump air into the damn thing (consider yourself lucky if you don't know what I'm talking about). Then, of course, there's the fashion statement. Boris and Bela would be green(er) with envy.

With all that done, we proceeded to the car and made it to the train station in downtown Ft. Lauderdale without incident. As it happens, the only way you can park your car in the train station parking garage is to download their app into your smart phone and then pay through the app. That, or call the toll-free number and pay by phone, but again, that requires you to have some kind of cellular device in order to complete the transaction. And, of course, a credit card. Luckily, we were in possession of both credit cards and cell phones, although things still didn't go off without a hitch. Once we were inside the station and C was attempting to download the app, he saw that it required the number on his car tag. Normally, this wouldn't have been a problem because we frequently go to the beach and have memorized our tag numbers from years of parking there. But, on this day--his birthday--for whatever reason decreed by the DMV, he was in possession of a brand new license plate with a brand new number, which we had yet to commit to memory. So we schlepped out of the train station with me hobbling on the Frankenstein boot (which, incidentally, is about an inch higher than the shoe on the other foot), and back to the third floor of the parking garage, where there was now an apparently active skunk lurking somewhere in the dusty shadows. The overwhelming stench was of sufficient intensity to warn us that the skunk was almost certainly hiding beneath one of the cars parked in our immediate vicinity. Standing behind C's car, we both spoke the new tag number aloud, as if reciting some magical incantation to ward off this evil smelling emissary of the netherworld. Then, with nary a backward glance, we fled the scene, beating a swift retreat to the parking garage elevator with C jogging and me hopping, skipping and jumping behind with that goddamn boot impeding my haste.

The train station in Ft. Lauderdale is nice, but it should be since it's less than three years old. It looks a little bit like the airport in Wichita did back in the days when there was just one terminal and the only way to board your flight was to go outside and walk up a set of portable steps. This train station is small, sleek and modern looking but, as with everything else in South Florida, the signage can be confusing (just try following the signs along I-95 between Ft. Lauderdale and Miami sometime). Since I'd had two giant mugs of coffee (the equivalent of four cups) before even leaving the house that morning, it was time for me to pay a visit to the water closet—which is, literally, what the little room on the first floor of the Ft. Lauderdale train station is. In most buildings designated as public transport hubs, there are normally adequate sized bathrooms that will accommodate at least three or more users. Nope, not here. If you want to do your business and someone has set up camp in the first floor facility, you will have to adjourn to the second floor to the larger (paid) passenger facilities and only then after passing through a security checkpoint. I was in a hurry, though, and after finally gaining access to the first floor bathroom, I went to wash my hands in the glistening, sparkling sink, ignorant of the fact that a hurricane-force blast of warm air was about to be emitted from what I thought was the water faucet. Unfortunately, I had just lathered up my hands from the hands-free soap dispenser and the ensuing blast of air only succeeded in dowsing my Ray-Bans (which I'd neglected to remove) with wet, foamy suds. What the fuck was this? Truthfully, I've never even heard of a water faucet that shoots out warm air just a few millimeters in front of where the water comes out. What the actual fuck will they think of next?

The train was scheduled to leave the station at 10:42 a.m. and it was on time, a relatively anomalous occurrence by South Florida standards, where no one and nothing ever starts, ends, comes or goes on time.

The Virgin/Brightline train is okay, much nicer than the old warhorse Tri-Rail, that's been chugging steadily along the tri-counties more westerly tracks since 1989, and it has comfortable enough seats, although I was reminded more of Spirit Airlines than, say, JetBlue, if you get my drift. The a/c on this train functions marginally better than that on Tri-Rail, which is to say, if you're warm-blooded you may feel some slight degree of discomfort or, if you tend to be hot-natured like me, there may be no small amount of abject misery involved. The interior of the train is nothing fancy, or even as sleek looking as the station. It was clean, at least it was on our trip up to West Palm, and people seemed excited and happy, moving about the car and chatting with friends, pretending to be childless as they ignored the shrieks, squeals and hysterics of itinerant brats wandering hither and yon throughout the train. Since it was a $5 day, it seemed that everyone in South Florida was riding the Virgin. Now that I re-read that last sentence, I must say it does give me pause, though not enough to change it. As far as speed goes, I think our expectations far exceeded the train's capabilities. I know I read that the train goes up to 79 mph but I'm pretty sure we didn't do more than 70, if that. Add to that the significant slow-down somewhere around Delray Beach on the way up and it took us a good hour to reach a destination I can usually get to in 45 minutes when I drive (barring heavy traffic, of course). I heard someone on the train speculating that the slow-down may have been due to the train hitting someone, not a far-fetched idea, all things considered. Since the inauguration of the Brightline, an increasing number of people have met unfortunate endings by, either willingly or accidentally, stepping into the path of the oncoming trains. Happily, this was not the case on this fine May morning. At least, not yet.

The train station in West Palm Beach looks much like the one in Ft. Lauderdale and is only a couple of blocks away from City Place, a large upscale complex of shops, restaurants and condos, where we decided to have lunch. After collecting Kevin—since we'd made our train reservations separately, we hadn't been seated together—we began our short hike to whatever food establishment struck our collective fancy. People keep telling me that City Place is a bustling, lively area but on the several Saturdays that I have been there....crickets. And it was a veritable ghost town that we found once again. My favorite store there, Barnes and Noble, closed several years ago, and when an area bookstore closes (whether it's locally owned or a chain) it's usually a sign of things to come.

It was scarcely noon and already the temperature was pushing 90; the humidity was off the charts. Kevin had, incongruously, chosen to wear a suit, although I later deduced what prompted this madness. Inside the uncrowded Cheesecake Factory, we were ushered to a large booth near the kitchen and regaled by a perfectly lovely, very funny waitress who reminded me of C's cousin's daughter (C basically functions as her uncle). [Note: if you are vegetarian or, like me, trying to limit your beef intake, the Impossible Burger is an excellent food choice at Cheesecake Factory. It's juicy, big and has the flavor and texture of an actual hamburger. Well worth the $15 price tag.] Before our departure, a trio of waitstaff (including our own) presented C with a scoop of ice cream, hot fudge and whipped cream with a candle on top. By this time, we were much too stuffed for cheesecake so that worked out well.

Afterwards, Kevin wanted to go to the enormous Restoration Hardware across from City Place on Okeechobee Blvd. Even on the outside, Restoration Hardware is impressive: at four storys tall and 80,000 square feet, it's an upscale home furnishings showplace featuring artistic installations of the bland and costly kind. Kevin loved it. “So L.A.!” he enthused. The Rolls Royces, Bentleys, and Lamborghini's parked in the valet breezeway just outside the front door gave testimony to the buying power of the clientele. Inside, Kevin moved from one city-block-long sofa to another, sprawling his long legs and posing languidly, in the hopes of being mistaken for the owner of one of the Rolls Royces parked outside. From floor to floor we went, me dragging my Frankenstein shoe up one level to the next, while C and Kevin chatted on elegant chairs and couches that cost more than my parents' first three houses combined. Truthfully, all three of us had already been in this store at one time or another, C and I more than a year earlier. Not one thing had changed since our last visit. Not a single thing. The carefully arranged faux-bedroom suites looked exactly the same, right down to the titles of the books stacked artfully on bedside tables and the high-priced sheets tucked into higher-priced beds. Everything was identical to how it had been. It would have been eerie, or a little gross even, had it not been so mind-numbingly boring. To me, anyway. Everything in white and cream and shades of brown just cries out for an Almodovarian Technicolor makeover.

Kevin, on the other hand, was in his element. He adores the hob-knob and the lavish foo-foo: by adopting the manners and appearance of the grand, expensive and princely, he does affect a compelling presentation. In reality, I'm not sure he envies the lifestyle of the rich and famous so much. Keeping up with the Rothschild's can be such a demanding business and, besides, Kevin's full-time attorney job seems to command most of his attention these days. If you don't know him, Kevin can come across as being something of a snob, but he's easily the sweetest of C's friends: if you need it, he will—literally--give you the shirt off his back. In addition to being nice and smart, he's also tall, blonde and highly—HIGHLY—eccentric. Personally, I am used to Kevin's eccentricities, and even find most of them endearing. This doesn't hold true for everybody, which may explain why his last relationship ended more than ten years ago. Back when Kevin was still “on the market”, so to speak, C and I tried to assist him by taking a photo he wanted to put on a dating website—possibly Grindr, but that seems a little downscale for Kevin's tastes. One evening, he came over to the house wearing an exquisite shirt, his hair looking flawless, but for some odd reason, Kevin just does not photograph well. For someone who looks as good as he does, it seems inconceivable that he would take such unerringly awful pictures. He quickly declared the biggest problem was his “turtle-neck”, which I know something about since my own neck looks like the foreskin of a Portuguese fisherman (FYI: foreskin, I suppose, can be quite fetching when it's where it's supposed to be, not so much when repositioned to one's neck). Determined to remedy the situation, C and I dug out a roll of clear, heavy-duty packing tape and went to work. Stretching Kevin's neck from the back, we taped him up so his throat looked tight and smooth. Yet, despite our brilliant handiwork, the pictures weren't quite working. Okay, maybe just a little more tape over here.... The resultant picture—the only one to pass the test—snagged Kevin a Quebecois restaurateur (well, someone along those lines, anyway) but by the time they finally met up, Kevin had already convinced himself that it was an exercise in futility. From Kevin's description, the guy sounded perfect, but then again, Kevin has a tendency towards self-sabotage. I think it's partly because of those ex-lovers who never really leave his orbit; they circle like planets around the sun (or maybe like vultures) and do their little dances of give-and-take (Kevin mostly giving, them mostly taking).

Meanwhile, at Restoration Hardware....

By the time 2:00 rolled around, Kevin had arranged himself for maximum exposure on pretty much every piece of furniture on the first three levels of Restoration Hardware (the fourth floor features a highly recommended restaurant). I am uncertain whether or not any of the Palm Beach crowd took him for the Queen's second cousin twice removed or a wealthy Norwegian industrialist but I hope they did, I really do. It would make him so happy to think so. But, the thing was, we still had to get to the art museum, which closes at 5 p.m. on Saturdays.

  “This way,” Kevin commanded, leading the way across Okeechobee Blvd., past the new Hilton and down a street I wasn't familiar with. C suggested calling Uber but Kevin insisted “it's only a half-mile down the road”. On we walked, I in my Frankenstein boot, Kevin in his suit, and C, the only one sensibly dressed, in his shorts and light shirt. Soon, the road came to a halt, dead-ending at an officious looking building that could, itself, have conceivably housed a museum at some point in its existence.

Do we go left? Do we go right?

“We should call Uber,” said C.

We went left. And, soon enough, found ourselves at impossibly impassible railroad tracks, as our road suddenly curved all the way back around to Okeechobee Blvd., just across from Restoration Hardware.

We called Uber. By this time, my good leg, the one that wasn't three-quarters enclosed in a Frankenstein boot, felt like one of Johnny No-Thumbs' henchmen had taken a ratchet to my kneecap. Great! By over-compensating, my right leg was now apparently headed to boot hill, as well. Sweating and cranky, Kevin paced, I danced from one foot to the other (because now, on top of everything else, the three glasses of ice tea I had at lunch kicked in) and C stared wistfully to the west, hoping for the blessed salvation of Uber to materialize on the horizon.