The Overlooked Option For The Pier

In candor, I have not closely followed the controversy surrounding The Pier in downtown St. Petersburg. As a taxpaying, Pinellas County resident, I could claim some small standing, but I don’t live within the city limits and cannot vote in what is sure to be a heated referendum election. I largely trust our representative form of government to make these kinds of decisions. At the same time, I respect that there are many who feel differently.

I left here for college in August, 1972 and, as you might expect of a young man anxious to enjoy his first taste of freedom, paid little attention to the construction of The Pier. Upon returning home shortly after it opened, I was impressed with it’s design and that Marriott was operating the facility. My earliest memory was a short trip by boat from the municipal marina, tying up beneath the massive structure, and enjoying a prime rib dinner while looking south toward the airport. Alas, it would be many years before I visited again.

I have observed downtown St. Petersburg for all of The Pier’s life. In the summer of 1975, I spent time on that same boat while taking classes at USF St. Petersburg. It would be a gross understatement to say the campus has come a long way from when classrooms were housed in old military barracks. Downtown was a particularly sleepy place I have little recollection of. I don’t remember returning to The Pier either.

In the mid-eighties, I volunteered for two years with the GTE St. Petersburg Grand Prix and then, for an additional two years, served as the event’s Director of Communications. It was a time at the dawn of the city’s recent renaissance, just before The Vinoy Resort would reopen or ground was broken for The Florida Suncoast Dome. Those early years the race course ran down the pier’s approach, through a hairpin turn, and then back to Bayshore Drive. The drivers didn’t like it, but it made an extraordinary camera angle for the race. 

On the other hand, the ambitious Pier Park referendum had just failed and a new idea called Bay Plaza wasn’t going anywhere. Once the race was over, downtown was not a very exciting place to be. There were few restaurant choices at the time. I used to frequent what I affectionately called The Three Os: Ollie-O’s, Tangelos and Appropos. My office was at the corner of 2nd Avenue NE and Bayshore Drive NE. You really couldn’t work any closer to The Pier, but I rarely patronized the restaurants there. When I opened my own business in northern St. Petersburg, my awareness of The Pier faded.

Sure, I would see The Pier in the distance when I attended concerts at Straub or Vinoy Park, or from the windows of offices overlooking Tampa Bay. There was certainly something comforting about its presence, but nothing that actually lured me out there. That remained true as I grew active with organizations that met downtown. When I was president of Suncoast Tiger Bay Club in 1999, I purposely utilized several different venues for the club’s twice-monthly meetings to keep things fresh. It never occurred to me to try The Pier. I regret that now.

As I think about it, my history living in Pinellas County coincides closely with the life of The Pier. In that span of 40 years, I can’t say with certainty that I visited the Pier much more than a couple dozen times. Until this past week, I really can’t remember when I was last there.

That’s the question I want to ask you: Just how often do you visit The Pier?

Thinking that we should visit one more time, my wife and I dined at Cha Cha Coconuts last week. We wandered the largely empty building for a while and were surprised by how few people we found on the roof to watch an outstanding sunset. Living on the beach as we do, I know the look and sound of tourists. I’m confident that most of the people up there with us were not from St. Petersburg.

Do you know where I found throngs of locals? Beach Drive. It’s no secret that the bar and restaurant scene there has exploded in recent years. I suspect they even threaten the viability of food service at the venerable St. Petersburg Yacht Club! The old Lantern Lane apartment building was recently renovated and just reopened to rave reviews as The Birchwood, a trendy hotel, bar and restaurant. And there were even more people to be found watching an old movie at the north end of Straub Park. I dare say that on that single weeknight in mid-May, there were more people on Beach Drive than The Pier had seen all week!


To say The Pier had a head start to establish itself as an iconic location frequented by locals would be more than generous. And after 40 years, it would be nice if they had weaned themselves off taxpayer subsidies for operating expenses. Maybe smarter management and marketing could have saved The Pier if they had started a decade ago. In addition to all the technical reasons the city has identified, and in light of the intense competition that is thriving along the city’s waterfront, I simply don’t see a business model for The Pier that warrants keeping it open.

I recently read an article in the Tampa Bay Times sharing the personal disappointment of the family behind the architecture of The Pier. I think their feelings are understandable and justified. It was an ingenious design that answered a number of unique needs. I really do wish the current structure could be saved, but I don’t see throwing more good money after bad.

Though I believe I will miss the higher vantage point from which to see the sun set over downtown St. Petersburg, I have no real objection to the proposed and chosen design known as The Lens, nor the process that is bringing it to fruition. I won’t fight it, nor will I go out of my way to support it (unless I’m hired to, of course). I am certain The Lens will be a stunning, iconic structure to symbolize a bright future for this city. 

There will always be people who resist and bitterly oppose change. They may win a small battle this August when the referendum is held, holding back this city from its destiny, but they cannot prevail. Change will eventually happen, whether they like it or not.

Since the city’s founding, there was always a pier on St. Petersburg’s waterfront that, in some way large or small, served as a tourist attraction. But no one can argue that tastes and preferences have evolved over the past century, just as the various pier designs evolved. Given how people have changed, have we overlooked one choice in this whole, complicated matter? I really don’t mean to be provocative, but is it so unfair to ask if any pier, whether repaired or new, is still warranted? 

$50-million (or more) is a lot of money that could be used in other ways to improve the quality of life we enjoy here. The waterfront and its beautiful parks we treasure could certainly be well-maintained. Maybe additional land could be purchased to add to the city’s admirable park system. How about a new park on the current site of Tropicana Field, for example (oh yeah, I was trying not to be provocative)? Perhaps a modest, shorter pier and an iconic observation tower might serve our needs just fine.

That’s why I asked how often do you visit The Pier? 

Will either pier, whether old or new, really improve your quality of life? Will it improve your experience when visiting downtown or our waterfront? If it wasn’t there, would future tourists miss it, given how much more downtown St. Petersburg now has to offer? 

Forget all of the facts and figures for a moment, as well as the vitriol that opponents and proponents will soon hurl as the election draws near. Now ask yourself if you will really walk to the end of a new pier, look back at the city and say, yes, it was right to spend $50-million dollars to build? 

Or will you wait for visiting family from out-of-town and, like so many of us, take them to see what you rarely visit and so easily take for granted?

It could be that neither side in this battle has it right.

Landing in Kona

I've been writing blog posts I never bothered to post for years. Now that I'm trying to clean out my computer (it actually notified me that I was out of space, if you can believe that!), some of them will find their way here. I wrote this one on November 10, 2008. If you're planning a trip to the "dry side" of the Big Island, it might be helpful.

There are a lot of obvious signs that you have arrived in Hawaii. Seeing the peak of Mauna Kea or the green slopes of the Kohala Range are the first. As the plane descends and you look down on endless miles of dark, foreboding lava, lined here and there by deserted beaches, a thin line of palm tress, and the brilliant Pacific Ocean, the contrast is so striking that no one would be surprised if you asked, is this really Hawaii?

The Kailua-Kona airport at Keahole is also a contrast with the expected. Like something out of an old, black and white movie from the 40s, They roll steps up to the plane, you step out into the bright sun, then look up to behold the mammoth volcano known as Mauna Loa. It is immediately clear why they call this the Big Island.

For me, the real confirmation that I have returned to Hawaii follows less than a minute and twenty yards later. The distinctive and soothing sound of Hawaiian doves greet me as I enter the open air terminal. Aloha. Everything that might concern me back home seems less significant. It is nearly impossible to begin thinking that I might like to live  here.

This being our eighth visit, we know the routing well. Our bags will take some time to reach the crowded little baggage claim area, also an open air facility, so Elena stays behind to collect the bags and I run ahead to rent a car. Rates here are moderate, but the taxes and concession fees outrageous. This is the year I commit to rent from a local agency in town. As this will be our longest stay yet, over three weeks, we’ll have the time to try things differently.

Being this close to Kailua-Kona, known locally as just “Kona,” we head south first to see the town and retrace the steps from our first trip twelve years ago. We arrived at night in 1996, so we missed the newcomers’ initiation of driving miles through ominous fields of  lava, but could not escape the test of the Hawaiian language. Most people are familiar with simple, four-letter names like Kona, Hilo, and Maui, and they have probably mastered Honolulu. After that, they are oblivious to the tongue-twisting challenge of how Hawaiians combine the 13 letters in their alphabet to create a unique language that still lives in the islands.

While nothing remains the same, more seems the same here than has changed since we last visited in 2006. Two obvious changes are the new and wider roads in Kona, together with a new shopping center just north of town. Less obvious, at first, but then alarming, are the many restaurants and stores that have closed. The weakening economy has hit tourism hard here. Even the Chart House and Hard Rock are gone. And if they’re serving breakfast at Bubba Gump Shrimp Company, you know times are tough (actually, I’m glad they are. This used to be the Jolly Roger, and there was no more beautiful view in Kona to enjoy your breakfast by).

We drive along the nine-mile stretch of Alii Drive and pass Kona By The Sea, the first condo we ever rented. We still hold pleasant memories of the place. The two public beach parks, nick named Magic Sands and Turtle Beach, are not nearly as crowded, but still clearly popular.

Creatures of habit that we are, we are drawn south through the small Hawaiian towns of Kainallu, Kealakekua and Captain Cook (OK, there’s one of the few easy ones to say), on our way to one of our favorite “cheap thrills” on the island, the Mac Nut Factory. We learned of this place back in 1996 from one of locals that was hawking timeshare sales, and have never failed to return. The trick, we learned, was to buy their “over-roasted” macadamia nuts for half the price. Over the years, we actually grew to prefer them that way (and could never complain about the price). The secret, though, is to arrive on Tuesday. Alas, we arrived a day early and left empty-handed, except for a bag of chocolate-covered mac nuts. Ono! That’s what they say here when it’s a good thing.

Groceries and Dining on the Big Island

Our first, real work here was to “stock up” for our 25-day stay. Food is a little different here, even at the Safeway in Kona, which is a national chain. The two local grocery stores are KTA and Foodland. They’re in Kona, Hilo and Waimea. Just blocks from our condo there’s the Waikoloa Village Market. Because it captures so much of the tastes of Hawaii, this is really one of my favorite grocery stores anywhere. It’s not the cheapest, by any means, and sticker shock is something to prepare yourself for when you arrive, but we can walk there, still watch for bargains, and always find fresh, locally-caught fish.

The new trend in groceries on the island are at the big, Kohala coast resorts. With so many new vacation homes and condos, as well as vacation ownership resorts (a.k.a. timeshares), the 6-mile, or more, drive up to our village just wouldn’t do any longer. KTA and ABC Stores, the local chain of souvenir shops, both owned by the same three brothers, opened Island Gourmet in the new Queen’s Shops, a fancy shopping center just across the street from the long-established King’s Shops. Further down the road, Foodland opened The Farms at a similar shopping center built near the Mauna Lani and Fairmont Orchid. Both are impressive little operations, stocked with an eye for international tastes, but the Island Gourmet is architecturally stunning.

As you would imagine, these shopping centers are filled with the island’s high-end stores and restaurants, giving guests the impression that they aren’t trapped in their very high-end resorts. With all their amenities, it would be easy to imagine that many guests would feel little reason to wander far from their rooms (that, of course, would be tragic). Tommy Bahama and Ruth’s Chris have restaurants at the Mauna Lani Resorts. Roy’s and Merriman’s are at the King’s Shops (in fairness, these are truly the best “local restaurants,” even though Outback introduced Roy’s to the mainland). 

The big news is the new sushi and seafood restaurant at the Queen’s Shops called Sansei. It’s getting rave reviews and I’m thinking it might become one of my new favorites. The really big news is that they’re opening a Romano’s Macaroni Grill at Queen’s. Yes, you heard correctly, mediocrity is arriving soon. Still, I kind of like the place and plan to be present for their grand opening on Monday.

It’s clear that the big names are struggling in the faltering economy too. While entrée prices start in the high $30 range, each of these big-ticket restaurants are advertising prix-fix or sunset (a.k.a. Early Bird) specials to entice patrons. They’re also offering discounts to the locals a couple of nights a week. I’m hard-pressed not to consider these opportunities for a big night out. I’m thinking I’d like to try that Tommy Bahama’s restaurant.

Thankfully, there are other, cheaper ways to grocery shop or eat. The farmers’ markets here are legendary, and there are plenty of colorful, local joints that offer plenty of filling food at reasonable prices. The big markets are on Wednesday and Saturday mornings in Kona and Hilo, though there are smaller markets throughout the island and on different days. I think the most famous market is in Hilo. It certainly attracts the largest number of vendors, locals and visitors and is legitimately a tourist attraction. To be sure, it is something of a third-world experience. English is definitely a second language among most of the vendors, but they have mastered calling out, “one dollar!” Here you will find both familiar fruits and vegetables, as well as alien-looking species at prices too cheap not to go ahead and give them a try. The rambatan is a fruit of science fiction, red  and hairy on the outside, squishy opaque white on the inside. It tastes fine, but the whole experience is a little unsettling. I still don’t see what the locals see in the wing beans though. Bottom line is that for about $10, you can fill a large shopping bag with enough fresh fruit and vegetable to last a week

A Eulogy For My Friend, Bill Sharpe

Bill Sharpe was my friend. That doesn’t distinguish me from any of you here today. We share this loss together. There are no words that can be spoken in a few minutes to do justice to Bill’s memory. I’m here today to tell you about the Bill Sharpe I knew...about thirty years ago. That’s how long I’ve called Bill one of my closest friends.

From the time I first met Bill, it was clear he was driven by the desire to make a bigger difference in life. You would always sense his presence in the room, even in 1978. If there was an opportunity for him to lead, rather than follow, he would seize it. His confidence hurtled him through life like a rocket without a rudder. He was always climbing, or trying to. And he always believed he was right...even when he wasn’t.

I was very fond of hearing him laugh “Well, there’s truth to what you’re saying.” That was the best you were going to get when you disputed his “rightness,” but he still wanted to give you credit.

For me, Bill was more than a friend, he was a tremendous influence.

I credit Bill with nudging me into politics, putting the first canoe paddle in my hand, for making foreign travel seem easy, for introducing me to pickled okra, for illustrating the infinite value of a friend’s loyalty, and most of all, for showing me what it means to never give up, no matter how many times you fail.

And that, my friends, is what makes Bill’s death so difficult to fathom. While his successes were many, so were his losses. He was no saint. He made mistakes. He would never discuss them. He would just carry on. I’ve never believed him to be someone who would willingly hurt anyone. Quite the contrary, Bill was usually the first to lend a helping hand to anyone in need.

Political figures, as you might imagine, are always in need. Whether they were from Pinellas County, or just passing through, there was a good chance that Bill would be there to meet them, to counsel them, or to support them. Oh, and that little nudge I mentioned earlier? I was mighty impressed when Bill personally introduced me to John Glenn, somehow prompting him to say that I should get involved with politics full time.

Then there was the night Bill showed up at my door with a six pack and said, let’s go for a ride, I need to talk with you. It was weeks before my first marriage. At the end of a dark road, Bill put our friendship on the line and tried to convince me not to do it. Somehow he knew I was making a mistake. Damned if he wasn’t right. But our friendship grew even stronger.

Of the thousands of memories I have of Bill, my favorites are sure to be found somewhere among the hundreds of miles of canoe trips we took together. Our first trip was the Alafia River in the spring of 1981. There were just three of us, a bit crowded for a single canoe, and though we were in our late 20s, we acted like young school boys, tipping the canoe and splashing each other. It opened a door to years of adventures that included climbing a pyramid in Mexico and hiking the Inca Trail in Peru.

Our canoe group grew to more than two dozen, traveling all over Florida to paddle for days on a long river. Bill was always our leader. For those unfamiliar with the challenges of canoeing for several days, finding an overnight camp site is the hardest thing to do.

In charge, and true to form, Bill always thought he was right. “It’s just around the next bend in the river,” he would declare. “That’s what you said about ten bends ago, Bill,” I would point out.

He’d just laugh. “Well, there’s truth to what you’re saying.”

Our group took one last canoe trip, notably and intentionally without Bill. I don’t quite remember the reason, but we were mighty proud of ourselves doing without “always right” Bill. The thing about it? While the trip went  flawlessly, it just wasn’t the same without him. The group never paddled together again.

Bill held a number of interesting jobs in his life that always  demanded self confidence. Always putting his name and his reputation on the line. He was selling condos on the beach when I first met him. He moved on to selling stocks and bonds. Then, in a wholly unexpected twist, Bill turned in his suits and ties for jeans and t-shirts to sell chicken wings and beer, and build something of a legendary blues venue in a setting I’ll generously call rustic. Bill transformed a tiny bar in the country called Mr. Pub into a sizable establishment with an acre of land out back where he promoted concerts that would attract hundreds of people. The locals came to love him, dubbing him Mr. Bill. The name stuck. His success did not.

I recall eleven places that Bill called home. One wasn’t really a home. And it isn’t the most recent one you may be  thinking of.

Bill had suffered another one of his failures. He was living in a pop-up camper in an RV park just outside of Tampa. He was about as close to homeless as any of us would imagine. Years later, when he founded the Tampa Epoch, many charged Bill with being an opportunist seizing on a loophole. Looking back, and knowing what I know, I think that experience was what really drove him. He often said of the homeless, this could be any one of us. The truth is that he knew that better than most.

Bill got the hand he needed to move into an apartment. He adopted Charlie the cat that same week. While holding on to a job selling RVs, he got back on his feet and began his online marketing company, determined as ever. Most of you know the rest of the story as well or better than I do. It was another couple of chapters in Bill’s life that read much like he had always lived it: Trying always to do good, have a good time, and always be right.

I don’t have the credentials to help you deal with the terrible sorrow Bill’s death represents. And while we were still close these past ten years, others certainly grew closer to him. Knowing him for as long as I have, I cannot account for what he determined was so wrong that it came to this. He was no stranger to failure or loss, and there is not one of us here who would not have extended our hand to help him, just as he would have come running if any one of us had called him.

What I have to ask is what do we take away from this experience? It has to be something more lasting than to console each other and celebrate our good fortune for calling Bill our friend.

What comes to my mind is what would Bill have us believe? What would he want us to know. How would he want us to live on without him? I can’t know for sure, but if he came to my door with a six pack in his hand and said, let’s go for a ride, here’s what I think he would tell me:

Always believe in the goodness of others, and do what you can to help them, however you can.

Always believe in yourself, no matter how many times you fail. You can always start over again.

But Bill wouldn’t stop there. He would go out on a limb and risk our friendship to say: Don’t assume you know someone as well as you think you do. You can never really know another person’s pain. You have to listen carefully. You have to ask. You really have to care.

Because, if you do, you won’t let this happen to someone else you love like we all loved Bill.

Well, Bill, there’s truth to what you’re saying.

Fiesta Day in Ybor City

We all have large and small annual events we like to attend. You may already know of my affection for Tampa’s Gasparilla celebration. My other favorite Tampa event is just weeks later in the city’s historic Latin quarter, known as Ybor City. It’s Fiesta Day, a celebration of diverse ethnic cultures that influence and strengthen the area’s character. You can count on Spanish, Central and South American and Caribbean influences all coming together to make for a grand party.

For as many years as I can remember, the event followed Gasparilla Day by a week or two and always marked the last weekend of the the Florida State Fair. For whatever reason, it came later this year, on Saturday, February 28th. Maybe that was a blessing. The weather was perfect. Last year the event was cancelled due to rain.

I can’t quite say what distinguishes this event from so many like it. For me, I suspect it has to do with my youth. Both my parents worked just beyond Ybor City’s border and I attended kindergarten and elementary school there. Every week day, until I graduated from high school in 1972, there was a pretty good chance I drove through or near the area. Years later, I continued to shop there for Cuban bread, wine and Latin-influenced groceries. You can only imagine the changes I have seen through the years.

The event is free, parking is easier than ever with the new parking garages, and you may spend as little or as much as you want on food and drink. I just love walking from one end of La Septima to the other, and then back again, taking detours to visit vendors along the side streets and in Centennial Park. La Septima? No, I never called it that either. It means “the seventh,” referring to East Seventh Avenue. When I was young, we just called it Broadway. One of my father’s closest friends worked at the Broadway National Bank. That’s one way I remember the old name.

I won’t really brag about all there is too eat as you walk the street. Some food vendors are better than others. It was good to see Pipo’s serving roast pork, yellow rice and black beans (the Holy Trinty of Cuban Food), and no Fiesta Day is complete without sampling a cannoli or other Italian treats on the street in front of the magnificent Italian Club. But before you eat anywhere, you must enjoy a free bowl of Spanish Bean Soup, a piece of Cuban bread and a cup of “cafe con leche.” They dish it out at the western end of the street and it is some of the finest you will ever taste. It used to be only for out-of-town visitors. You had to show your driver’s license. My family didn’t move to the beach just to get free soup in Ybor City, but it was some consolation for being so far from somewhere I feel so close to. These days, the free soup is for everyone.

For many years, at the other end of Broadway, the bigger treat was the Columbia Restaurant’s annual spectacle of cooking the world’s largest paella. If I recall correctly, that, too, was free, at first. But even when they began to charge for it, you would be hard-pressed to eat better anywhere in the world. Somehow, I never made it to the other end of Broadway this year, which is a little disappointing, but I am not certain Columbia is making paella out on the street any longer, so it could be worse.

So after the free food, the things I liked best about this Fiesta Day was watching all the people, marveling at all the well maintained or restored architecture, hearing all of the Latin-influenced music, and ending up face down in a bowl of flan.

Say what?

In recent years, Fiesta Day has expanded significantly into Centennial Park, and now features a competition known as Flan Fest, where real people compete to create the most beautiful, and tasty flan, a carmel-crusted, egg custard dessert that is beloved in Spanish cultures. A local Spanish radio station was was holding a flan-eating contest, just as I was passing the stage. They called for volunteers and I didn’t hesitate to respond. With both hands behind my back, I sucked a complete flan from the bowl in just seconds. Alas, others apparently suck more than I do. It was good fun, and the flan was great, too!

Two of my favorite memories of Ybor City were the Silver Ring Cuban Sandwich Shop and Las Novadades Restuarant. Both are closed now, though the Silver Ring made a second go at it a couple of years ago, ironically, in the same building that began as Las Novadades. The building has housed any number of restaurants and night clubs through the years, including the provocative La Goya, if I remember correctly. Today it is home to The Nest, a Mediterranean Tapas and Pasta Bar which Elena and I agreed to try for a late lunch.

To begin with, this place has something of an identity crisis. A sign on the window directs you to a web site called thepastanest.com (the site seems to be under construction). The thing is, there isn’t any pasta on the menu. Speaking with the waiter, he indicated that customers didn’t respond well to the pasta offerings, so the restaurant is retooling. There are currently only five entrées on the menu for either lunch or dinner, but there are a respectable number of tempting tapas and salad offerings that seemed ideal for a late afternoon lunch following a face full of flan.

I ordered an Italian draught beer called 1812 ($5.00) and the Piquillos Rellenos ($7.00), three sweet Spanish peppers stuffed with mushrooms, spinach and goat cheese, all swimming in a pool of yellow pepper coulis. In a word, perfection. The beer was quite smooth and rich. Elena had the Arugula Salad ($7.00) with Manchego cheese, Granny Smith apples and walnut vinaigrette. The salad, too, was perfect. Served with bread and olive oil, the tab came to a mere $19.00, a fact I am certain our waiter found wanting. Still, we liked the place and how they had decorated it. I wouldn’t hesitate to return.

As we walked back to the car in the mid-afternoon sun, the blue sky offered sharp contrast to the aging, but beautiful, red brick buildings that make Ybor City so distinctive. It was a fine day, and if it fits your schedule next year, I recommend you go celebrate.

You are invited to see 36 of my favorite 2009 Fiesta Day photos on the Parsons-Wilson Picasa site.

The Pasta Nest (or maybe just The Nest, by the time you read this) is at 1430 East 7th Avenue, in Ybor City, just a block or two from the Centro Ybor Parking Garage.

Sunset, diapers, my cell phone and the police

I already had taken one walk on the beach and didn’t feel the need for another, but Elena had a rough day and needed to move some. I agreed to accompany her, grabbing the Frisbee on our way out. We found Tara and the kids there, the first time in recent memory, and it was young Aiden’s very first time in the Gulf. He was a handful, returning to the water time after time. Elena and I headed south, tossing the Frisbee between us and catching another great sunset.

And then I realized my cell phone was missing.

I returned south, Elena headed north. I was cursing myself for bringing it. That belt clip never held it very securely. Tara caught up with me and dialed my number from her cell.

A man answered. He was inquiring whether a reward was being offered for the return of the phone.

“But you have the phone in your hand,” Tara exclaimed. “It’s not lost. You have it!”

She handed her phone to me and the man asked what I thought might be a fair reward. I explained that the insurance would replace the phone and it wouldn’t work within minutes of my calling the carrier.

That did not seem to concern him. He was interested in immediate gratification. We tentatively agreed to twenty dollars but, I explained, I needed to walk home to get the money and would then drive to the gas station he was waiting at, just a few blocks away.

You can imagine my mood. I was thinking that maybe this was a message to me to just quit using the damn thing, to cancel my service and not replace the phone.

What really bothered me was that this was happening in my community. I didn’t care about the phone or the twenty dollars, but I was concerned about the personal information on the phone and how it might lead to identity theft. And I knew the direct line to our local police dispatcher.

I called to ask their advice. The dispatcher said to come to the station and that a police officer would accompany me to the “exchange.”

“Do not give this man money,” instructed the police officer. “Get your phone and walk away. We’ll take care of the rest.”

The man in question stood conspicuously at the edge of the gas station, my phone in his hand, just a block away from the police station and only a few blocks from our home. I circled around so that he would be on my side of the car. No sense exposing Elena to any more risk than necessary.

“That’s a nice phone,” he exclaimed, handing it to me. “Hey, I’m just trying to afford some diapers for my child.”

“I don’t think the police would look at it that way,” I replied, looking in the rear view mirror and wondering where they were.

“Well, that’s the way it is.”

“Look, I’m sympathetic to the child and the diapers thing,” I explained, “but these are tough times for everybody. I closed my company and my wife is only working half time.”

“In tough times like these, we all need to be nice to each other. This isn’t the way to do that,” I suggested.

“Oh well,” seemed to be his response.

And then three police cars converged on our little corner of the world.

I pulled my vehicle to the other side of the parking lot. A police woman walked over and asked how I liked my Honda CR-V. She had a Toyota RAV-4. We briefly compared our reasons for choosing our vehicles and then she asked if everything was okay. We said yes, thanked her and drove away. A double Martini was clearly in order.

I don’t know what the police will do with the guy. The officer I spoke with actually used the word extortion. It didn’t seem he would be too sympathetic about diapers. The guy wasn’t threatening or anything. Everyone was amazingly calm and casual. But I can’t help but feel he was telling the truth about why he was standing on that corner with my phone in his hand. These are tough times. Look how it effected one man’s judgement. I’m sure seeing three police cars show up may have raised that very question in his mind.

I meant what I said. If we don’t all look after each other, and be nice, these hard times won’t get any easier. On the other hand, a lot of people are bound to grow more desperate. Nice may not always carry the day. We should probably learn to be more careful, too.

Visiting Aldi, Switzerland

No, it is not some city in Switzerland, but it feels almost as foreign. I've been meaning to stop in and see what this generic-looking store was about. On my way back from the usual round of grocery stops, I gave it a try. I have to admit it was unsettling at first.

Right away, you feel like you're in a foreign country. Don't worry, all of the signs and labels are in English, but you won't recognize any of the brands. I had already explored nearly two aisles before I spotted a display of Pringles potato chips. Small comfort.

It's an upscale warehouse feel, clean and brightly lighted, with more boxes and less shelves. Prices are pretty good, but you simply don't have much to triangulate on to know what you're getting. There is just about everything you would find in a small grocery store, including produce, meats, frozen foods and dairy products.

I really hadn't planned on buying anything, but the low prices began to appeal to me. I hadn't grabbed a cart or basket, nor brought my own bag (it was already filled and in the car), so my arms were full by the time I got to the register where I encountered two more unsettling differences: Cash or Debit only (I'm a big fan of double points for groceries on my VISA Card), and no shopping bags. Like at Sam's Club, there were a few small, empty, cardboard boxes available to carry my goods out, so no worries.

I checked Aldi's web site and learned I might have been in for another unsettling surprise if I had reached for a grocery cart. They require a twenty-five cent deposit! Bring the cart back in, you get your quarter back. They also charge for grocery bags, but my cashier didn't offer to sell me one.

Their web site says that almost 95% of their "premium products are sold under exclusive ALDI select brands," meaning labels you won't recognize, or look suspiciously similar to familiar brands. I did chuckle when I saw soda called Mountain Mist in a familiar green and red can.

Still, I couldn't help sense a European influence, kind of like walking through an Ikea store or something. And then I found the discreetly-placed link to Aldi International. Indeed, they're in 17 European countries, including Switzerland. See? I told you so!

Bottom line: Yeah, give it a try. I really didn't see anything objectionable at all. But be warned that it will be a different, if not unsettling shopping experience at first. The prices are good though, so that may well make it worth the adjustment. Just remember to bring a quarter for the shopping cart, your own grocery bags, and enough cash or a debit card.

There are five Aldi stores in Pinellas County, two in Hillsborough County. I visited the one at 6700 66th Street in Pinellas Park.

Farewell Circuit City

This will be short and sweet: Farewell Circuit City.

Just about every TV, camera, radio, cell phone, and gadget I've purchased in the last ten or more years came from your store in St. Petersburg. You had a great car audio garage, too. I stayed loyal to you when Best Buy moved in across the street. I'm a Mac user, so you didn't get my computer business, but I did get a printer from you. OK, I confess, I did buy my GPS online, but you still got most of my money. Sorry you couldn't cut it in this new, cutthroat business climate.

Bricks and mortar just aren't what they used to be. Throw in a sour economy and the writing was on the wall. You aren't the first to fall. You won't be the last. We all need to get used to this idea: Evolve or become extinct.

Feeling a little guilty, I did stop by to see what last deals you were offering. I think the vultures had already passed through. Shelves were pretty empty. I picked up the last Flip Mino video camera for a decent price (never know when another Macaca Moment will occur), a box of DVDs, too, but I resisted all the flat screen TVs that called my name.

Well, I did say short and sweet. Good luck to all of the employees now, or soon looking for work.

In Praise of Babalu

I first ate lunch at Babalu in the early 1990s, shortly after I moved my firm’s offices to Fourth Street North in St. Petersburg. I’m not certain what exactly persuaded me to try the place. A sign out front exalted their tackiness for years. I’m guessing what drew me into the small, bright yellow building with red trim were the cars that jammed the parking lot every day—a good sign at any restaurant. Upon entering, it was easy to be underwhelmed. Stained wooden walls, uncomfortable plywood booths, an old bar lined with stools that divided two dining rooms, and dim lighting all signaled this place was a dive. There was no window in the back dining room...just an air conditioner installed into the wall and a TV set on a corner shelf. A couple of white boards conveyed the day’s specials.

Make no mistake, Babalu earned my trust and my loyalty the first day I ate there. For many years since (at least even-numbered election years), I was a regular every week for either lunch or dinner. Some time in the last decade I adopted a waitress named Holly. If she was not there (a rarity), or if all of her tables were taken, there was a good chance I might eat elsewhere that day. Of course she would always serve me at the bar, and that was usually an acceptable compromise.

I won’t claim to be an expert about the restaurant businesses, but I’ve always imagined that the smart owner knows when to change, and when to leave things alone. Babalu has done far more of the latter. For years, they featured various All-You-Can-Eat specials at dinner. When they discontinued that practice, I know a customer or two they lost, but only for a couple of years. As the economy headed south in the last year, Babalu was among the first and the few to introduce a robust budget menu to keep patrons loyal and well-fed.

There are a number of “specials” every day that are so predictable, I know when I will eat there, and what I will be ordering. Thursday’s Roast Pork Dinner became something of a weekly, religious observance. Sadly, they changed their recipe about a year ago, and I switched my allegiance for pork to a competitor down the street. I haven’t been back on a Thursday for some time now.

Another notable menu feature is Babalu’s recognition of people on diets. Maybe the Atkins’ Diet isn’t for everyone, but they’ll gladly limit your carbs and load you up with lots of protein (some would say fat), offering different specials each day.

Many a day, and more than a few nights, members of our firm would hold court at one of Holly’s tables in the back room. I knew where the TV’s remote control was kept and could choose the channel of my liking. Sometimes it was baseball, sometimes it was some of our nation’s most important breaking news. No matter how many, or how few other customers were there, it seemed rather like our own private dining room.

On a few occasions, I would risk taking a client to Babalu for lunch or dinner. The look on their face as I led them into the dark and dingy back dining room was predictable. Holly never missed a beat, recognizing that I was accompanied by someone who might be “important,” she won them over with good service and a sense of loyalty that is all to rare in restaurants these days.

The most striking change at Babalu began about a year ago, and it struck fear in my heart: total renovation. They stripped the wood from the walls and replaced them with beige and pastel stucco. New windows were installed at the front of the restaurant and natural light now pours into the room and bounces from the walls. They hung lights, too, and installed flat-screen televisions. The old bar was removed and replaced with a modern, new version that now fills the back room.

Frankly, we watched in horror as more and more each day, Babalu began to take on the appearance of (gasp) a fern bar restaurant.

Holly was not happy. She lost tables (and tips) from the back dining room. She serves at the bar and now has only two tables. She still doesn’t sound happy about the change, but she is still a good part of the reason we return, dutifully waiting our turn for one of her tables.

The good news is that Babalu has left the most important ingredient of their apparent success alone. Their menu remains surprisingly long and rich with comfort food at reasonable prices. Though certainly not gourmet, there really is something for every appetite. If you don’t mind casual, this is as safe a bet for lunch or dinner as any restaurant I know in this part of town. And they deliver, too!

I joined my business partner for lunch at Babalu yesterday. We had not been back since our “election season” ended last November. Holly greeted us like dear friends, lamenting how it had been so long since she had seen us. Tim swears by Babalu’s tuna salad sandwich. Predictably, I had the Wednesday pot roast special, subbing “double-veg” for the mashed potatoes and gravy and passing on the dinner roll. And yes, that’s bacon in those green beans. It doesn’t get much better than this. As dining out becomes more of a luxury with every passing day of this sour economy, Babalu was packed with so many patrons, I had to park a block away on the side street.

Thank God they haven’t hung ferns yet, and I do miss my “private dining room” out back, but the heart and soul of Babalu remains strong, as does my trust and loyalty.

Babalu is located at 9246 4th Street North, St. Petersburg.

Taking The Train To Ft. Lauderdale (Part 2 of 2)

The next morning, with ticket already in hand, I needlessly arrive at the Ft. Lauderdale station 30 minutes early, affording me the opportunity to sit outside and listen to the roar of passing traffic on I-95 and watch the pigeons at my feet. As Tri-Rail and Amtrak share the same tracks, I get a closer look at one of Tri-Rail’s double-decked trains and pick up a copy of their map and schedules. It looks like a system well-integrated with local bus service in each of the three counties served, including stops near the three major airports in the area and Miami’s Metrorail. I wish Pinellas County offered something like this.

The train arrives and departs on time, the same conductor from yesterday instructing Tampa passengers to a single car at the rear of the train. It’s a newer, somewhat more attractive car but, to my slight horror, there are no electrical outlets. Guess I was spoiled by the southbound train. I note the passenger next to me setting up his DVD player and I think, why didn’t I think of that? A movie would be a good idea! Still, I have a book, magazine and laptop to keep me busy. I could, after all, get some work done.

But no, I think lunch is a better idea. I encounter the conductor on the way forward and ask if I can move to another car with electrical outlets. I should have learned yesterday that short answers were not this guy’s strong suit. Bottom line was no, though largely empty, these other cars were going to be used for reserved seats for passengers going the Carolinas, but there are plenty of outlets in the lounge car. That sounded like a fine compromise.

The dining car was only slightly busier today, but there were still empty tables. I chose a table to myself looking forward. I was drinking respectable iced tea before we reached West Palm Beach. I note again that the wait staff are mature adults with a sense of calm that reminds me of eating at the yacht club. One man, two women and a cook make up this dining crew, with another man in a second car that serves snacks and offers a full bar. My particular server, George, is obviously a seasoned Amtrak veteran, willing to answer any questions and address any complaints from any part of the train, though he is quick to add that he is not in charge.

The Chef’s Special was chicken and rice again, only this time with a curry sauce. I opt for the Angus Steak Burger with cheese. It was delivered to me in less than two minutes and was quite good, save for the lettuce chopped, as if for a salad, rather than leaves that might stay longer between the buns. Potato chips and a pickle spear round out the meal. I’m thinking I should have ordered the chicken and rice again for a meal I might have savored longer, so I order a piece of raspberry-lemon cream cheese cake and a cup of coffee. By this time the train is passing by pine forests to my left, and then the massive Pratt and Whitney plant, parallel to the Beeline Highway to my right. We are well on our way to Okeechobee. The cake and coffee are quite tasty. Really, no airplane or car can match this.

The sleeping car is immediately forward of the dining car. Leo is the steward and clearly enjoys his work and is dedicated to the comfort of his passengers. George arranges for me to meet him in order to get a tour of the rooms. They come in three flavors: The Sleepette, The Sleeper, and the Handicap Sleeper. Each includes seats that fold down into a bed, similar to a futon mattress. Additionally, a bunk pulls down from the ceiling for additional sleeping space. The Sleeper offers adequate storage for your luggage and a combination private toilet and shower, similar to what you would find on a yacht. Passengers in the Sleepette must share the bath facility elsewhere in the car. I noted that passenger seats in the Sleepette face each other and offer noticeably less leg room. The Handicap Sleeper is large enough to accommodate an electric wheel chair. The bathroom is huge. Of course this room is the last to go, made available to someone in legitimate need, but it is well worth asking for.

None of the rooms are luxurious, but the privacy, the bathroom, the included meals and, of course, someone as dedicated as Leo, all combine to make this option worth considering for an overnight or distant trip.

I return to the dining car and spend some time talking with George. He explains how the cars are easily forty years old, how they still have trouble maintaining wired connections with the PA speakers, and how pipes still freeze. We both agree it is surprising these challenges haven’t been solved in 200 years of rail travel. The cars on our line are among the oldest in the fleet for a reason though. Apparently the route to New York passes though some Civil War-era tunnels that cannot be enlarged to accommodate taller trains. The tracks belong to CSX, so it seems Amtrak must deal with the hand they’re dealt. George says he believes new and improved cars will come on line in the near future but, like those we’re now driving, they’ll be smaller.

One important tip George shared with me was about power surges. He said he wouldn’t worry about plugging a cheap DVD player into their power grid, but he uses a surge protector when he plugs in his own computer. That seemed like the best advice I had heard all day.

I inquire if he believes the construction we encountered yesterday will cause the train to arrive late in Tampa. No one was certain, but it turns out that the construction will soon represent a greater problem than you would immediately realize. There was a reason for all of those railroad ties and the construction equipment I saw lining up along the route. CSX will be closing and rebuilding a whole stretch of track for about six weeks that will necessitate routing trains on alternative tracks and using busses to transport passengers and their luggage between effected stations. This is all part of track maintenance that understandably happens throughout the rail system. If I recall correctly, a trip from Tampa to Ft. Lauderdale next month will involve a bus ride from Tampa to Winter Haven. As we pass through Avon Park, I see more signs of pending construction as the train slows to a crawl. I’m thinking we’re going to be late.

Amtrak’s use of busses aren’t limited to routing around regular maintenance. I overheard the station master in Ft. Lauderdale advising a young passenger that she would need to get off the train at Lakeland and take a bus to Gainesville for the remainder of her trip. I’m thinking Amtrak has a larger fleet of busses than most people realize.

Nature finally called in time for me to add sensitive detail to this journal. I can report that each coach includes two restrooms that, in every way, resemble those found on airlines, except they’re three times larger. A rough section of track that sways you gently side-to-side is a train’s equivalent to mild turbulence. Enough said, except it doesn’t appear you’ll ever have to wait in line, nor worry about breaking Federal Law that prohibits congregating close to the cockpit door.

As I return to my car at the rear of the train, I see that more passengers have boarded since I left for lunch. Someone is sitting in the seat I left and every row is occupied by one passenger. Rather than invade someone’s space by sitting next to them, I grab my things and move forward to a car that is virtually empty. You would think that I had learned my lesson earlier. I’m lucky I didn’t get thrown off the train. Still a different conductor “needed to know” where I was going in order to make sure I got off the train at the right station. He accomplished this by writing “TPA” on a small piece of paper that is placed in a crack above my seat. I’m going to guess that people failing to get off at the right station is something of a pandemic for Amtrak, but I have to believe that Tampa Union Station is impossible to miss (the train sits there for a while, rather like a stopover at an airport), I’m beginning to think these guys’ attitude don’t serve Amtrak as well as they deserve.

With the sun now low in the sky, I begin to recognize familiar landmarks on the outskirts of Tampa. The train’s whistle is blowing almost continuously now, stopping traffic at more and more crossroads. The conductor announces we’ll be “backing into the station” in about 10 minutes. Considering how fast we appear to be going forward, I wonder if the train turned around while I wasn’t paying attention, or just how this will be accomplished. Moments later, the train turns north into an area of warehouses just east of Ybor City and stops just short of I-4. I keep my seat as other passengers begin to stand, as if they might get off the train. The conductor comes up to me and asks if I know this isn’t where I get off. I allow that I grew up in Ybor City, pointed at I-4, and assured him that I would recognize Union Station when I saw it. I must be wearing my “dumb tourist look” today! The train then began moving backwards. Mystery solved.

There can be no doubt that I enjoyed this trip. Traveling by train afforded me the opportunity to do any number of things I could never accomplish as easily or as well while driving or flying. The train isn’t perfect, primarily because there is so little (or no) schedule flexibility. Unlike Southwest Airlines, with eight flights a day between Tampa and Ft. Lauderdale, Amtrak will leave in the noon hour and arrive in the five o’clock hour. If you can live with that single limitation, everything else about the trip is well worth the consideration. I know I’ll be back. Hope this journal encourages you to give it a try.

Be sure to check Amtrak’s robust web site for a lot more details that will familiarize you with how different train travel is from flying, and how to better prepare for your trip.

Taking The Train to Ft. Lauderdale (Part 1 of 2)

I travel regularly to the Ft. Lauderdale to work with clients. Ordinarily, most meetings are scheduled for late morning or the afternoon, necessitating a flight from Tampa, or a drive that, with stops, lasts nearly five hours. Flights can be expensive for meetings called on short notice and no matter how appealing I find the Florida Everglades, the drive is grueling. Today is different. I don’t need to arrive in Ft. Lauderdale before 7:00 PM, making this the perfect opportunity to try another mode of transportation. Considering the round-trip cost is only $61.20 (AAA Rate), I’m pretty excited about taking Amtrak from Tampa.

The response from most people I tell I’m taking the train is the same: really? Yes, really. Here’s my journal from the trip with this bottom line: Really, I’d do it again!

The Tampa Union Station preservation is impressive. Built in the era of the cavernous and needlessly large, it is still beautiful and well lit. I was pleased to learn of free, overnight parking located behind locked gates. Passengers are far less anxious, with no security or lines. Not a single suit or tie in sight like you see at airports. Some people may appear a little more down-trodden but, for the most part, they’re a civilized lot.

We’re instructed to stand on a covered, concrete platform outside as the train backs slowly into the station. Passengers are told to board one car at the rear of the train for Palm Beach and Ft. Lauderdale, another for Miami and all other destinations.

The car is empty and there are plenty of seats, so there is no real need to scramble to be first. Seats are comfortable with outstanding leg room. Most passengers’ legs might not reach the seats in front of them. I was surprised to see two, 120-volt electrical outlets at every seat, but they didn’t work when I plugged in my lap top. Turns out power is only working on the “port side” in this car. One passenger offered to trade seats with me without prompting. My view of fellow passengers immediately stepped up a notch.

Big windows afford maximum view. Guess it is asking too much for someone to wash them more often. The train left the station at 12:53, only eight minutes late, riding through the familiar back side of Ybor City I knew well as a child, though it looks far more gentrified today. We pick up speed pretty rapidly, too. The train is quiet and the air conditioning works well, but you will have to get used to the rocking back and forth on certain parts of the track. No need to pack your noise-canceling headphones, but you can hear the train’s whistle blowing often in the distance, which is a good argument for being seated at the rear of the train.

Not as much chatter from the conductors, like flight attendants on an airplane, but they do have a sense of humor, indicating they will find the stowaways when they collect tickets. Our conductor is a large, bearded man who seems polite, friendly and confident.

As soon as my ticket is taken, I head forward to the dining car. My first impression is less than expected. It’s really more like a snack bar. I indicate to the lady behind the counter that it is my first trip and she kindly advises I should check out the dining car farther forward. It was good advice.

Tables for four with white linen table cloths, glass salt and pepper shakers and real, metal utensils (you won’t find that on a plane any more). Sit where you wish, either alone or join someone at a table already occupied. Apparently this is appropriate train etiquette, as if we’re all the same on this train. I opt to sit with an older woman traveling this train for the third time to visit her daughter in Miami. She has already ordered a Corona.

The dishes are the harder plastic kind that might be reusable, but are still presentable. I’m drinking respectable iced tea before we reach Plant City. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are served on this train, and there’s even a children’s menu. The short menu of main courses for lunch include Spicy Buffalo Chicken Wings as an appetizer for $7.50, Today’s Warm Sandwich ($8.00), Amy’s Organic Veggie Burger ($7.75), Angus Steak Burger ($7.75), Freshly Made Specialty Salad ($9.00) and the Chef’s Luncheon Special (9.00). Breakfast is reasonably priced, but dinner is going to set you back a bit more, with prices ranging from 12.50 to 22.50. But really, where else are you going to go? All entrees include coffee, tea or milk. Beer, wine and premium cocktails are all available at reasonable prices.

The burger seemed like the safe call, but I’m a sucker for Chef’s specials, so I take a chance, ordering grilled chicken and mushroom sauce over a wild rice medley, served with a small salad and a warm roll. Gourmet it’s not, but my lunch fell squarely in the comfort food category and was quite satisfying. Three baskets of T. Marzetti’s salad dressings, real butter and Promise, condiments and Mini Moos on the table assure you won’t be wanting anything, but the wait staff always seemed to be within eyesight and are friendly and responsive. There are several desserts available that sounded quite nice, including a warm apple crisp with ice cream, but I decline. I’m comforted knowing I can still try the burger on the way back.

About the only down side to the meal is the view. With wide open windows, the dining car affords you both the best and worst Florida has to offer in the way of scenery. Unfortunately, the stretch between Plant City and Lakeland offers little to enjoy, but that is hardly criticism. I am well fed and watered, that battle already won.

The view begins to improve as we approach Winter Haven just after 2:30, passing close to large lakes and over the small canals that connect them. One momentarily unsettling event occurred earlier when the train slowed to a stop and was then passed by another passenger train moving at full throttle. Our train is clearly “the local,” virtually crawling through the city, whistle constantly blowing. I begin to feel sorry for the neighbors. Maybe a couple of passengers disembark at Winter Haven. The train doesn’t stop but for a couple of minutes, at most. Just past the station we cross over another canal-between-lakes. Four people on a pontoon boat wave at the train as it passes overhead. You won’t see that happen from an airplane.

The train doesn’t ever seem to maintain any given speed, and seems to slow more often than ever reach any noticeable speed. Still, I see orange groves, lakes and the wide, open spaces Central Florida is known for, along with white sand ridges covered with the palmetto, pine and oak hammocks that I happen to love. It appears the track is under repair every few miles, with wooden ties strewn along the grade and CSX (the rail line) workers and their equipment found in isolated locations giving reason for the train to slow. We pick up speed again on a straight stretch of track north of Avon Park. With my handy GPS in hand, driven crazy by my constantly driving off the road, I am comforted by always knowing where I am.

As we approach Sebring at 3:25 PM, the scenery improves dramatically with miles of orange groves to my right and big lakes and oak forests to my left. We pass a large RV park, filled with refugees from the cold north, the train, no doubt, something they’ve grown used to. Soon the orange groves engulf us on both sides, just before we pull into a small station on the outskirts of Sebring, the train’s whistle still blowing.

It turns out I was right about all the construction. Apparently it has slowed the train and we are predicted to roll in fifty minutes late to Ft. Lauderdale. At least we can use our cell phones to call ahead and change arrangements. I have to admit that I wouldn’t have known we were late if the conductor hadn’t told us. There is a timelessness to train travel that is dramatically different from air travel. There is a difference between sitting in frustration at an airport, waiting for a delayed flight, and sitting comfortably on a train in motion, largely doing as you please. I don’t think I will feel half as bad about being late by train as I would were I flying Southwest Airlines into Ft. Lauderdale’s airport.

I also learned the conductor isn’t as happy as he first appeared. Apparently “management” has chosen not to maintain the public address system on the train—he claims it hasn’t worked in over two years—so conductors must walk the length of the train, repeatedly announcing the next stop. Unlike airplanes, where you are instructed to stow all your electronic toys before you land, including those that involve headphones or earbuds, a lot of people are missing the announcements about the next stop, and failing to get off the train when they’re supposed to. The conductor was clearly unhappy about this and a little condescending of people who failed to pay attention. I considered his behavior less than professional, and certainly not the best face Amtrak would want to present.

Just short of Ft Lauderdale, the train comes to a complete stop, presumably to allow traffic on the rails ahead to clear. Unlike air travel, train travel is a very linear, two-dimensional concept. This stop affords me the opportunity to confirm gangs are alive and well in Broward County. The back side of warehouse buildings facing the tracks are covered with highly ornate graffiti. If they did not signify some form of lawlessness and danger, I could appreciate the art.

In Palm Beach, Broward and Dade Counties, Amtrak shares the rails with the Tri-Rail, a local train providing frequent, regular service. The stations take on a stark, open, modern look resembling bus, light rail and subway stations. That’s fine, I think, unless it is raining. As the train pulls into the station at 5:55 PM, about 45 minutes late, my impression of the trip remains strongly positive. I look forward to tomorrow’s return trip.