Fall is here in Cincinnati. The air is growing chill and the leaves at the tips on my front yard trees are losing their greenness. Darkness is setting in earlier each night and the fireflies have disappeared. I'm realizing that summer has quickly slipped through my fingers without much appreciation at all. It never really feels like summer here. Not to me. But, then again, as I grew up in Palm Beach, Florida, I always said that it never felt much like Fall down south. Just like the lack of orange leaves kept South Florida from feeling Autumnal, the lack of a beach in Ohio leaves me forever aching for a real summer.
Last night, the breeze was the kind of chilly that would have kept us out of the water in Palm Beach, but I knew that if I were "home," my friends and I would still be at the beach. In my circle, Fall was when you stopped grilling out on the beach and diving into the ocean, and started picking up Bud's Chicken and eating in the car while you took "the drive." As I pulled on my old sweatshirt over my tank top and cut-off shorts, I could feel a slight ache in the pit of my stomach to be back in Palm Beach, piling into my mom's blue van or my best friend's red Grand Prix, and heading down Lake Worth Ave. with a box of chicken in everyone's lap. The route that we followed is one of my most favorite in the entire world.
Lake Worth Avenue comes to a somewhat abrupt and absolutely beautiful dead-end at Lake Worth Beach. Even on a day when a storm seems to be always on the approach but never quite arrives, the grey sky makes the bright green palm fronds glow against it. The water at Lake Worth is some of the clearest turquoise I've seen, but on a cold Autumn day, it can look navy blue and ominous. Most of the tourists have long since headed back home by now, making it easy to find a parking spot right up front where you can overlook the ocean. When the water is at it's darkest, most of the action won't be on the sand. Dozens of locals will be pounding back beer and fresh shrimp at the restaurant on the long pier that juts out from the middle of the beach. Out on the water, only the most dedicated of surfers will be flying over and under the cold, white-capped waves. By the time September or October rolled around, my friends and I had retired our boards to our garages. But it was still fun to go down and watch the band of crazy guys from down the street tackle the chilled water in their wetsuits.
Fingers greasy from fried chicken and hush puppies, we'd eventually get bored with watching the kid with the wild blonde 'fro crash into the shore and begin to head north up Ocean Blvd. If you take the road south, you'll roll in and out of one sleepy beach town after another until you hit South Beach or Miami. We liked going north, instead. At first, sandwiched between tall white and pink buildings filled with condos, Ocean Blvd. doesn't seem all that interesting. It's the expectation of what's up ahead, just a few miles, that keeps the condos and hotels filled with snowbirds from getting too boring. One slow curve to the right is followed by a quick 90 degree turn to the left. If you miss the turn, you go sailing over a cliff into the cold, dark water below. Every time we made the curve, my active imagination pictured one classic car after another careening off the edge to "certain death."
My twisted daydreams would immediately subside once we made the turn, though. As we continued up Ocean Blvd. we were surrounded by overwhelming beauty and I was given a million new things to daydream about. To our right, just past the narrow private beaches, is the open sea. The Atlantic Ocean, it's underwater community and the vessels that floated atop it were not only gorgeous to look at, but fun to dream about. As if I were some modern day Huck Finn. In the summer, his raft was replaced with one of the dozens of sailboats that would glide along the horizon, and the Atlantic was my Mississippi river. In the fall, though, it was all about the yachts, obscenely humongous, the "yachts" of Palm Beach look more like the cruise-ships that take you to The Caribbean. I still want one.
The only thing I wanted more than a yacht, though, and the only thing capable of distracting me from my Mark Twain-inspired daydreams were the views out the left side of the car. Mansion upon mansion upon castle lines the west side of Ocean Blvd. From Donald Trump's spanish-esque monstrosity to the strangely low, mustard colored house, each one held a different millionaire, a different life to dream up and a different party for us to imagine, from decorations to guest list.
A few miles more and the road would open up to another beach and a small section of cross-streets began. Our favorite was the famous Worth Avenue. It takes two swipes to see everything on Worth Avenue. The first time you turn left and head west down the small street, you're usually too caught up in checking out all the parked cars to look past them. I spent many of my Sunday afternoons cruising down Worth Avenue, swooning with the boys over yellow Lamborghinis (any other color is a sin) and blue and brown Rolls Royces and dodging silver Beemers driven by valet boys. At the end of the street (not much longer than a quarter of a mile), we would cut over to the next block, zip back up toward the beach and then turn back down Worth Avenue, yet again. This time, though, it was all about window shopping. In the spring, Chanel would always have the prettiest, most retro bathing suits and in the fall, they were replaced with warm-colored skirts and jackets. Even as a teenager, I was well aware that the old Kennedy Compound was nearby and that the one and only Jackie O. had no doubt graced those metal doors of Chanel with her gloved hand about a million times. I was also certain that she no doubt dropped in at Tiffany & Co. afterwards. We'd peer in at the insanely priced Armani suits and I'd tell my best friend which one he was expected to wear when he took my to prom. My girl friends and I would swoon over the baby clothes in "Cloud Nine" and blink, aghast, at the hideous antique furniture up the street.
When we weren't in a hurry to beat curfew or make a movie, we'd park the car and get out and wander Worth Avenue. The only thing better than window shopping from the car was window shopping from the sidewalks. Even better than window shopping, though, was ducking between the white stucco buildings into the courtyards behind them. Above and behind each of the storefronts were more stores, a cafe or two, a couple fancy restaurants, a million doorways to tiny, overly priced beach condos and a few massive courtyard gardens. Our favorite courtyard was on the north side of the street. Stuck back behind a kids' clothing store and under someone's pristine patio was an iron-worker's shop. The iron pieces that came out the door were horse-shoes or coat-racks. They were amazing life-sized statues of people doing gloriously normal things and he had them scattered throughout the courtyard. There was a child licking an ice cream cone sitting on the edge of one of the benches and another one grinning wildly as her patina swing swung her from under one of the trees. An older couple sat on another bench, a dolphin sprung out of a fountain and a horse reared up in the far corner. Far too many of my prom pictures are of me, in my dark blue sparkly dress, licking metal ice cream and sitting in motionless old men's laps. That courtyard was like a magical world full of friends just waiting to come back to life once we were out of sight. I grew up weaving in and out of those courtyards and sneaking up terracotta stairwells to people's doorways, just to get a better glimpse of the moon. Worth Avenue was full of people I'd never meet and things I'd never own...and it was the best place in the world.
Back in the car and on up Ocean Blvd are more mansions and ocean views. Sometimes the road was empty and other times it was littered with cars from a party by some politician or vacationing micro-celebrity. On up even more is a world famous golf course (supposedly. I know nothing of golf.) and a massive, castle-like hotel called "The Breakers." It's worth driving up it's long, landscaped driveway just to see the gorgeous front doors and laugh at the Gatsby-esque valets all dressed in white. Every year we promised we were all going to take our mothers to the Mother's Day Sunday brunch for mimosas, but as far as I know, we never made it.
Ocean Blvd. carries on for a few more miles, weaving it's way past more stores, more mansions and an insanely expensive country club, but after The Breakers, we usually cut west, took the bridge across the inter-coastal and headed back toward the mainland. I'm not sure anyone else would enjoy planning the parties, making up life stories and playing with fake people as much as my friends or my mother and I, but I think everyone can appreciate the drive. It's on a road and through a place that I was anxious to leave behind when I was in middle and high school and now I long to visit from time to time. I'm certain that most people who have been to Palm Beach and driven up or down Ocean Blvd. feel exactly the same way.
