Escaping the Cold: Ft. Lauderdale, FL

         A few years ago, we were recruiting at Vanderbilt for a new member of the small faculty group in my department. A sort of dating game was scheduled in Miami to match prospective employers with new faculty hires. I agreed to go, and discovered to my delight that Miami was warm enough for swimming in January.
     “Can you believe this?” I asked my husband.
     Norm shrugged, knowing he’d always insisted the Gulf waters were warmer than the ocean. I typically swam in the Gulf—Orange Beach or Gulf Shores—up into November, but January was too chilly even for me.
    Since then, we’ve stayed in Ft. Lauderdale a few times. The hotel I typically choose, Sun Tower, boasts a limited number of room and a superior location right on the beach rather than across the street. The first time we booked a vacation there I’d chosen the cheapest rental car I could find. Our flight arrived after 5 pm, and we waited for a shuttle to the rental car establishment for over an hour. We called more than once, and the last time no one answered.
     “Let’s just get a taxi,” I said.
     “Or an Uber.”
     We did, and soon realized Sun Tower was a short, inexpensive Uber trip to a host of excellent restaurants.
    Over the years we’ve visited historical gardens and houses and booked a terrific trip to the Everglades (Wild Lime Adventures) led by a National Park naturalist. Not long after returning to our hotel from the Everglades tour, I realized I’d left my prescription sunglasses on the bus. “Dang!” I said. “I loved those glasses. They were my favorite.” Convinced I’d never see them again, I called the company anyway.
     They agreed to ship them to me. They further endeared themselves to me when the sunglasses arrived, as promised, a few days later. (The tour itself was fun and educational, and we saw a ton of birds and alligators.)
    A few months ago, I stumbled upon a website listing the best beaches (by someone’s ranking) in the U.S. Beach lover that I am, I’d been to quite a few…but not number one. The top-ranking beach was Siesta Key. We booked a week for November.
     The hotel contacted us a few weeks before our stay. “We have to cancel due to the damage from the hurricane. We will issue a full refund,” the message read.
  “I was afraid of that,” I said, disappointed, and sad for the hotel, but not surprised.  “Let’s check Sun Towers.”
     We did. Unavailable on our dates.
    And that’s how we ended up here. At B Ocean Resort. Much larger than Sun Tower, this resort shares the advantage of being right on the beach rather than across the street.
   Before I share the unfortunate first few hours spent here, let me hasten to acknowledge that the rest of the week more than compensated for our initial poor impressions, and I’d gladly stay here again.
     We’d paid extra to get an ocean view, and I point this out as we check in.
     “Ocean view. Right?”
     “Right.”
     “We also have breakfast included,” I add.
     “Do you?” The receptionist sounds surprised.
     Norm shows him the reservation on his phone.
     “You’ll need coupons for that,” he says. “I’ll get them for you.”
     We make our way to the room, which is larger than I expected—on the top floor of the South Tower. No bathtub (my preference) but a nice shower (my husband’s). Large corner floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked another shorter building, with an ocean view in the distance. I busy myself for some time unpacking my suitcase, positioning my toiletries, cream, pills, etc. for my bedtime regimen, hanging the clothes most likely to wrinkle, and arranging my shoes. I always travel with multiple pairs; otherwise, I find myself shopping for shoes on trips.
     “What’s that odor?” I ask abruptly.
     “I don’t know. Smells like sewage.”
     “I feel a migraine coming on.” Odors often trigger a migraine for me.
    I locate some matches in my suitcase and light several. No help. “I think we’re going to have to move. I can’t handle this.”
     I pick up the phone. No dial tone. “Phone’s dead,” I say.
     I push the talk button and try again. I check to see if it was plugged in. I try a third time.
     “We’re going to have to go back to reception.”
     “Call on your cell,” my husband suggests.
    I do. The woman who answers, Marie, is very nice. “We’ll call you when the new room is ready,” she says after a long hold.
    “The phone in the room doesn’t work,” I tell her. I give her my cell number.
    “Do you need someone to help you move?”
     “No, but a luggage cart would be nice.”
     “I’ll send someone up when the room is ready.”
     Quickly I repack everything I’ve unpacked. There is a surprising amount to do, but I’m fast when motivated.
     I drop into a chair to wait. And wait.
   After an hour, I call again. “They are having to change the lock on the sliding door,” Marie says. “We’ll call you when it’s done. It will be the exact same room you’re in. Only one floor lower.”
    Hmm, this room doesn’t have a sliding door, but … oh, well.
     Another hour passes. I call again.
     “Marie has left for the day,” I’m told. “She’ll be back tomorrow.”
     I explain the situation.
    Again we wait. “I’m going to that room on the 7th floor to see if anyone’s there,” I say. The elevator doesn’t seem to be working properly, but finally I’m able to descend one floor.
    I tap on the door. No response. I return to the 8th floor. “I think we’re going to have to go to reception,” I say again.
     When we get there, the new receptionist asks how I am.
    “Not well. We’ve been waiting over two hours.” I explain the situation again, and she disappears for a bit.
     “They tried to call you,” she tells me when she returns.
     “The phone in that room doesn’t work,” I say. “I left a cell number.”
     She apologizes, and finally produces a key.
     The new room is not directly below the other one, nor does it have a sliding door. It’s dark now, and I cannot tell whether we have an ocean view or not. At this point I don’t really care, and the following day we’ll realize it has an even better view than the first one.
           We unpack again.
            When I use the toilet, I notice the same smell. “I can’t believe this,” I say.
            “At least the room doesn’t smell,” my husband says. “Only the bathroom.”
            We decide to stay.
        The smell comes and goes. One day Norm suggests to maintenance that someone clean out the drain in the sink. This seems to help, and a day later the odor vanishes.
      The rest of the stay is spectacular—for the most part. I’m happy with the breakfast buffet, which includes fresh fruit and Irish oatmeal, along with eggs, bacon, country potatoes, pancakes, and pastries.
            There are two pools. One has an ocean view and a bar, and the other is heated to the point of feeling cozy. The attendants are generous with the blue striped towels.
            Three comfy sofas with equally comfortable chairs line one wall of the heated pool area, and there are always plenty of loungers too. The other pool, nearer the beach and more popular apparently, runs short on loungers from time to time.
            When it’s full, we make our way to the ocean. Another towel guy offers us chairs for free, and umbrellas for a fee. “Do you know where I can buy a boogie board?” I ask.
            “I’ve got them here.” He points to a shed. “Do you want one or two?”
            “None right now. But I’ll be back. How much do they cost?”
            “No charge.”
            I’m delighted, and ever more so when I discover how fast the waves here are. Every day the waves are a bit different, but every day they yield lovely rides. I’m accustomed to waiting for a good wave at the Gulf, but here—on most days—every wave delivers. As my knees and hips age, I cannot catch as many as I want to. But I’m deliriously happy nonetheless. The hardest part on the knees is standing up after you ride a wave all the way up onto the shore.
            I learn to spare my knees and my back a bit by pushing up with both hands, distributing my weight equally across the board before heading back to catch the next wave.
         “Just one more,” I tell myself, knowing I’ll pay later with knee pain but longing to live in the moment. I have a poem on my wall at home, “I’d pick more daisies.” I chose this because I sometimes need the reminder. If you aren’t familiar with the poem, the gist is that if you had your life to live over, you’d be sillier and crazier, less hygienic…climb more mountains, swim more rivers, and watch more sunsets…eat more ice cream and less beans…have more active troubles and fewer imaginary ones.
       After a long, sweet ride, I think, “A good one to end on.” But I suspect that a wave like that one will be followed by another, just as good or almost as good. “Maybe one more.”
      The restaurants we select include one Mexican, one American, one Italian, one Chinese, a boathouse, and a sports bar. On Sunday night, we return to an old favorite, Cocina Tequileria. Always delicious, this meal seems even better than I remember I order the lobster quesadilla; Norm goes for the shrimp and crab enchiladas. Both are excellent, but I almost taste that quesadilla in my mind’s memory buds and it’s the best. The chips are crisp, the salsa tangy, and the ambience fun. It’s a big place, and we choose to eat outside this time. I can remember cozy nooks inside from prior visits.
       On Monday night, we select Doc B’s, classified as American and one we’ve not tried before. I order the kale salad, and my husband has a filet mignon. Both are delicious. He offers me a generous portion of his steak, rare and very tender.
        “Not quite as blue as it could be,” he says. “But pretty good.”
       My salad is huge, but I’m hungry and I eat every bite. I eat much more slowly than he does, but we’re accustomed to that and he doesn’t rush me.
      “Dessert?” the waiter asks. He’s the one I stumped with questions about tart cocktails and fish of the day (see previous blog on “too many questions” and Yellowstone).
       “No way,” I say, patting my full belly. “But you go ahead.”
      Norm orders Oreo ice cream, with chocolate sauce and two spoons. I can’t resist.           Later I will wish I had.
      Stomach cramps and severe diarrhea set in as soon as we return to the resort. I’ve been plagued much of my life with IBS, but seemed to get it under control for a time. Unfortunately, I’m reminded of a disastrous trip to California to visit our son and his family, where I indulged in a delicious take-out meal with unfamiliar spices on the first night and spent the rest of the trip running between the bedroom and the bathroom. On that occasion, I could not keep a thing on my stomach, not even water.
       I fear a repeat. But, after one uncomfortable night, I feel better the next morning. I eat cautiously at the breakfast buffet—toast and oatmeal. Delighted, I’m able to put the incident behind me and enjoy the amenities. For at least a couple of days.
      By evening, I’m hungry, but determined to eat light. The Boathouse at Riverside proves perfect. We share a feta dip and a grilled fish sandwich. Mahi and so good, enhanced perhaps by my intense hunger. The waiter is great, not the sort to act offended by our inexpensive choices or wish to share. We’re amazed by how much wealth must be invested in huge, fancy boats in this community. We watch as one couple pulls their yacht up to the dock and climbs out for a snack.
      Perhaps our favorite meal of all takes place on Wednesday evening at Del Cantino. We have dinner reservations; but, as we read reviews about the fantastic happy hour deals and prices, we inform the host on arrival. “We have reservations, but thought we’d just sit at the bar for Happy Hour is that’s okay.”
       He is totally agreeable, and the servers are all friendly and chatty. It is a slow time before the evening rush, and one server asks, “Have you ever had mushroom coffee?”
      I watch her take a slurp, and shake my head. “No, but I love mushrooms. Is it good?”
      “Not really.” She makes a face and laughs.
      We order bruschetta, meat balls, grilled calamari, roasted artichokes, and ciabatta with olive oil, balsamic, and fresh parmesan. Every flavor is exquisite. I long to try the pasta with pear and gorgonzola sauce, which I’ve had twice before, and which happens to be on the Happy Hour menu. “Should I?”
            Norm shakes his head, and I know he’s right. I’m comfortably full, and the dish is very rich. We leave for a movie at a nearby theater.
       I should qualify my food reviews with a confession. We learned to look for the less expensive but still delicious options when we were younger and poorer. Old habits are hard to break. So, I have no doubt there are plenty of amazing restaurants in the Ft. Lauderdale area that we do not frequent. Perhaps our tastes aren’t sophisticated enough to appreciate the difference, but the ones I’m telling you about are among the more affordable options. Still, it’s hard for me to imagine we’d enjoy the fancier stuff more than these.
       Another restaurant we’ve enjoyed on multiple occasions comes next, followed by the next misfortune. The Rainbow Palace shares the strip mall with Del Cantino. In fact, a few years ago, we were exiting Del Cantino when we encountered a middle-aged couple coming out of the Rainbow Palace. “Best Chinese food in Ft. Lauderdale,” the woman said.
       “Really?” My ears perked up. “We’ll have to try it.” And we did, more than once.
     As usual, I order the roast duck, this time with portabella mushrooms and an amazing sauce. Norm and I always share our dishes, but he instructs the server, “Give her the larger portion of the duck.”
       Although I intend to save some of my duck for him, I scarf it down, along with a fair amount of spicy Chef’s Choice fried rice. By the time we return to the resort, my stomach churns so noisily I suspect what lies ahead.
       Armed with anti-diarrhea pills and Pepto Bismol, I manage a decent night’s sleep. Once again, I feel much better the following morning, optimistic that the day might not be a complete loss. I am right.
    Friday is our last full day at the resort. I’d noticed a restaurant called the Quarterdeck from our Uber the day before, so I looked it up. Quarterdeck is a local chain, with one location less than a mile from our resort. We decide to try it.
      Traffic has exacerbated significantly from the prior week-day trips. As we sit stock still, the driver suggests, “You might walk the rest of the way. It’s just ahead.”
​      We could have walked the entire way, had I worn more comfortable shoes. The restaurant boasts only a few diners at this hour, as we are late for lunch and early for dinner. I had arrived prepared to order the Mahi Francais, as I’d read excellent reviews of the dish. “It’s battered, isn’t it?” I ask the waitress.
       “It is.”
      “Better not then.” I ask her about a few other dishes, and she proves helpful.
      “The lobster roll is good, but it’s a lot of bread,” she says.
I nod, appreciating the detail. “How about the shrimp and scallop linguini?”
      “Really good.”
     So, I order that, and Norm the blackened shrimp tacos. Both are good, and I wisely refrain from finishing my plate. The portions are more than generous. I ask for a carry-out box and nibble a bit more on the dish that evening.
      “Strong smell,” Norm comments.
      “I don’t suppose I should take it on the Southwest flight.”
      “Definitely not.”
     I take one last dip in the heated pool the morning of our departure before heading to check out. The hotel buzzes with weekenders plus a conference of some sort.
     All in all, I’d stay here again. But keep in mind, I’m all about the amenities—the pools and the nearness of the beach, and I’m fairly tolerant of rude or even incompetent staff. At least in hindsight.
     Plus, the servers in the buffet restaurant were great, as were the housekeeping staff.