Love the Place You’re At: Appreciating Where You Are and What You Have

I’m Not a Snowbird, I Swear it!

My parents were snowbirds. For those not familiar with the term, snowbirds are people who are usually mature (and perhaps retired) and who escape the cold climes of the North for months in the sun, usually in Florida.

Snowbird is kind of a pejorative term, painting an image of cadres of elderly folks who swoop in, eat earlybird dinners (starting at 5:00 pm), take slow and circular walks in gated communities or on beach boulevards, perhaps visit relatives or friends, and take great joy in watching reports of blizzards up north on television. They then fly back from whence they came.

 My memories of visiting Snowbirds were filled with frustrations about my place in my family and my dissatisfaction with my life. For decades I visited my folks in Florida, was trapped with their friends and entire armies of aunts and uncles—all of whom we met for early dinners or at their senior housing.  We were often stuck on traffic-filled highways surrounded by cars driven by older drivers inching ahead—often in the left lane—and as Jerry Seinfeld noted, often with their directional signals constantly blinking. We took unhappy drives in a perennial search for earlybird food deals or “authentic” delis. We waited unhappily for bridges on A1A to lower.

Although I’m Still Flying South

After my parents passed away I found myself continuing my pilgrimage to South Florida every winter, like a bird flying south.  The east coast of South Florida (and sometimes the west coast) was relatively easy to reach and familiar to me. My husband, daughter, and I would usually stay in South Beach in Miami Beach, a scene populated by many European tourists who were sometimes drinking very large alcoholic drinks in giant glasses with overturned beer cans poured in.  But I still have affection for Miami Beach; it is a wonderful hodgepodge of art deco buildings, beautiful beaches, walkable streets, along with less than pleasant Miami Beach clothing stores, crowds, empty storefronts, and drunken celebrations.

But We are Hip

We didn’t feel as if we were real snowbirds, because our trips were very short and we stayed in Airbnbs in disparate places, from Lake Worth south to the Keys. Two years ago we stayed in five different places in three weeks: Miami Beach, Hollywood Beach, Lake Worth, Coconut Grove, and Fort Lauderdale. We sought out hip art neighborhoods, museums, and restaurants, as well as nature preserves, with flamingo, monkey, and manatee sightings.

I should explain that I see myself as a world traveler; in fact, after I was laid off from my job this past year, I began to write a blog about solo travel for women over 60. So destinations in South Florida were not listed in my description on my blog, for sure.

Maybe Snowbirds Weren’t Crazy

We decided to return to South Florida again this year, to a bungalow in Fort Lauderdale. For the first time, we would stay for an entire month.  My husband hates snow and shoveling and would be thrilled to live near a beach with 80-degree temperatures in January. He did not complain. None of my relatives are left here, so we drove by places they used to live, reminiscing about family dinners and visits. My grandmother’s Miami Beach was a different planet from the current one, but it was one in which I grew up, and I made the promenade on Lincoln Road my favorite pilgrimage.

Strangely Fitting In

The folks in the over 55-communities are now mostly younger than me, and even though I continue to dress in a style that one old boyfriend called “United Nation gift shop,” I fit in pretty well when we eat dinner early.

Anyway, as I age I find that I am able to appreciate some things more than I did when I was younger, perhaps because I no longer compare what I see and do to what I would be seeing and doing in the Greek isles or in Southeast Asia. 

I appreciate what is actually in front of me, starting with the wonderful diversity of the style of small houses in my residential Fort Lauderdale neighborhood. Some houses are hidden behind dense foliage—palms, palmetto, cacti, and flowers. Others have distinctive door numbers and designs on fences. The homes are a rainbow of colors: sea blue, pink, mint green, white. They were built in different decades but all scream 1950s.

The only people I see as I wander the streets are teenagers on their way to the nearby school, hiding deep within their hoodies and sweats, and dog-walkers smiling and greeting other walkers. 

And Strangely Content

I also like sitting on the beach in the late afternoon and watching the cruise ships pass. I think about seeing heaven in a grain of sand, as if I was on a pristine beach in Greece. In a pinch, this will do nicely. I don’t gloat when I watch the weather but am grateful to be basking in the sun and warmth. When I read about what my cohort is doing on Facebook, some are in southeast Asia, some hiking the trail to Macchu Picchu, some in Morocco, some in Europe, alone or in small groups. But I don’t seem to feel the need to travel so far, at least not for now.

As I peruse the travel for 60+ groups online I understand why so many women (and men, I’m sure) love the idea of striking out for the hinterlands. Visiting new places with diverse cultures is an adventure and getting through a trip on one’s own is satisfying. 

But, while I am planning a trip to Portugal last next month, I do have to say that I’ve been noticing that the older I get, the more I seem to enjoy staycations or just doing nothing someplace comfortable and not necessarily on a different continent. I’m also thinking more about wandering around the United States.

Seeing Heaven in a Grain of Sand on a Beach in South Florida

I am wondering if this is my own part of the slow travel movement or perhaps it is the aging quickly here experience. I remember my mom sitting in a chair in her small garden apartment, staring out at a tree in the common yard. She loved watching that tree every day, drinking tea and rocking. Perhaps I am becoming my mother. I’ve written a blog about a staycation on the Morris Canal in Jersey City, a place just a few blocks from me in Jersey City that I walk day after day, noticing the changes in light, in clouds, in bird population, in the sun reflecting on the buildings in lower Manhattan. It ain’t the Himalayas, but it will do. As Steve Stills sang back in 1970, “Love the One You’re With.” Good idea, but I’m thinking more “Love the Place You Are.”  And stop and look closely, and breathe.