Saturday. It's a beautiful day for a bike ride today, but first I must mail a package to an eBay customer. He bought a copy of Rene Rondeau's Hamilton watch identification guide. I bought this at the Daytona Regional watch/clock show for $20, and sold for $180. Ka-ching. I'm very happy with this, and wish I had a deal like this every week. I knew the book was worth some money.
I grab my trusted Murray coaster bike, and head over to the John Yarbrough Linear Park bike trail, which I referenced earlier in this blog (click on the link for my entry describing this bike trail). I notice the tires feel a little bit soft, so I stop at a "Mobile" gas station, but they want a dollar for air. Fuck that. So the next gas station, a "Hess" service station, has it for free, so I give the tires a little boost. Does anyone but me remember the days when just about any gas station had air, and the air hose was located where it was supposed to be ... right next to the gas pump. And the idea of charging for it was was about as ludicrous as a restaurant charging a buck for salt and pepper? Yet here we are, with most gas stations charging a buck for air at a "kiosk" that located in some far corner of the gas station behind some bushes or a brick wall that you need a frickin' compass to find. And of course the machine won't take a dollar bill; you typically need four quarters, which of course you never have in your pocket when you need it, so then it's back to the station building where you stand in line behind people buying their Slurpees and lottery tickets so you can beg the clerk to change a dollar bill, then hoof it back to the air machine. Just another one of those little things that gets my knickers in a twist about "modern life." It isn't good enough that companies like Mobil and Shell and Exxon are making gazillions of dollars off us every year with gasoline; they have to charge us a buck to put a little air in our tires. I don't know what's next, but I'm sure some Exxon executive somewhere is figuring out a way to charge for a paper towel and washer fluid to clean your car windows.
Anyway, on with the bike ride. And despite this being a weekend, I stop at Sun Harvest Citrus for free orange juice, and buy a slice of key lime pie and coffee, which I enjoy on their patio while reading Sanibel Flats. This has turned out to be one of my favorite stops. Who doesn't like all the freshly squeezed orange juice you can drink, raise you hand?
The whole bike ride is about 20 miles, because it is 4 miles each way along Cypress Lake Dr/Daniels Parkway (switches when it crosses Highway 41) to access the trail. This is my least favorite part of the bike ride, because it's along a busy stretch of highway with lots of intersections, residential driveways, and entrances to strip malls. So you really have to be careful traversing the stretch to and from the trail. Once you're on the trail, you're home free. I spend quite a bit of time at the rest stop at the northern end of the trail, which is where it intersects with Colonial Blvd. At that location is the eastern edge of Page Field containing one of two approach runways. Page Field is the city's secondary airport for light civilian aircraft, charters, and so forth. It was the city's main airport until 1983 when Southwest Regional Airport was built. Page remains an active airfield, with an average landing of 207 aircraft per day, according to Wikipedia. This gives you an idea of the number of rich folks around here who own airplanes. I sit and read Sanibel Flats, while watching numerous planes fly overhead, cruising at about 100 feet on their approach to land. Most are single-engine "prop jobs" ... Pipers, Beechcrafts, and so forth. But there is also the occasional private jet that streaks overhead and thunders upon touchdown, as the pilots deploy the thrust reversers. This brings back childhood memories when the family would drive over to the old Madison airport, just to watch the planes fly in and out. It was great fun then, and it's still fun now, and a source of wonderment. I wonder how rich you must be to own your own jet?
Anyway, the whole bike ride is very fun, but I have decided I need a more cushiony seat for my bony rump, and will look for one at the flea market tomorrow. I get back to the condo, and I'm hungry as balls, and particularly hungry for a Firehouse Sub sandwich, because I haven't had one since Dec. 28, when Dawn and I shared one at a Firehouse Subs in Orlando. So I Google it, and find a sub shop about 2 miles from the condo along College Parkway. I have a little trouble finding it, because it is located in a distressed strip mall, in which only one other store, a Radio Shack, is operating. The rest of the strip mall is fenced off, presumably to prevent vandalism and/or loitering. So it's a sad little Firehouse Subs. It isn't very busy (especially for a Saturday evening) and they have a skeleton crew on board of people who aren't particularly perky. And the soda dispenser, which dispenses 120 varieties of Coca Cola products, is only partially working. But, damn, the sandwich is good. I order a "New York Steamer" which is hot pastrami and melted cheese on a warm Italian roll, with lettuce, tomato, mustard, and mayo. I have this with a "Coke Zero," and have two refills, one spiked with cherry flavoring, and the other with vanilla. Yum.
Sunday.
After a leisurely breakfast, I head on over to the Fleamasters Flea Market. I buy a new gel-cushion seat for my bicycle, which I figure I will bring home with me and transfer it onto the bike I have at home. I also found a guy, “Chris,” at one of the booths who deals in vintage watches (among other things), and I bought an Elgin doctor’s watch from him, and haggled him down to $140 from his initial asking price of $250. (I think I’ll be able to sell it for $250). We swapped business cards, and hopefully will get together again to look at more watches that he has stashed away at his home/workshop. He also gave me a lead on one of the pawn shops here in town that takes in vintage watches (brands other than Rolex, which tends to be the ONLY brand that most pawn shops take in).
The flea market is a very fun place, and it's amazing what you find here with the variety of merchandise. The whole “market” is a bunch of these wooden structures that are joined into a crisscross complex by a series of breezeways. You walk down “columns” which are marked with colors (Red, Green, Blue, Yellow, Orange) and “rows” which are marked with letters (A through D). And that’s just one portion of the flea market. The other part is contained in a large building known as the “Grand Pavilion,” and “grand” is a misnomer. It kind of reminds me of one of the animal barns at the Wisconsin State Fair. The pavilion has maybe another 100 dealers, plus a music stage where they have live music on Saturdays and Sundays. It’s considered a “privilege” by the merchants to “move up” to the Grand Pavilion, and vacancies by outgoing dealers are quickly scooped up by those waiting in the wings in the building that I previously described. And, as you might guess, the monthly rent is a little higher in the Grand Pavilion. I think you can rent a “starter booth” in the “crisscross” building at $65/month. And then, outside, surrounding both buildings, you have the produce vendors selling fruits, vegetables, potting plants, honey, jam/jellies, and so forth. Total, there are advertised to be 900 dealers. Some of the dealers do very well. But walking down some sections of the aisles is a little like strolling the "Boulevard of Broken Dreams." You can tell the dealers who aren't doing well because their product is too specialized, or their booth is about as welcoming as a pork chop at a kosher wedding.
It looks to me like the first storm that would come along with winds in excess of 50 mph would turn the whole thing into a big pile of kindling, but obviously it has stood for years and years. The owners probably just patch the thing back together after a big storm with slats from orange crates or whatever.
I have been communicating the last couple of days with a woman from Match.com who I will call "Cami."
She initiated contact with me and said my profile looked interesting and that she would like to meet. She’s 60, so at the upper end of my age range I’m looking for, but we seem to share several things in common, one of which is simply frustration over this whole "dating thing." So we approached our meeting as more of a chance to compare notes. Also, she is from Naples, which is about 40 minutes away and kind of far, but one of things I want to talk to her about is the differences between Ft. Myers and other surrounding communities, particularly that Ft. Myers is perceived as kind of ghetto by Naples folks. So I agree to meet her in Naples tomorrow (Monday) and figure that I will use the whole day as kind of a "field trip" to Naples to see what I am missing. Our meeting will be at 4:30, at a place called “Season 52” in outlying Naples along Highway 41, which is the main north-side corridor that connects the various communities that comprise southwest Florida. I am looking forward to this, as Naples has several noted attractions, including a zoo, and a couple of nifty shopping/eating districts in "old downtown" known as "Third Avenue South," and "Fifth Avenue South."
Expenses: key lime pie/coffee $5; dinner at Firehouse Sub, $8; bicycle seat $23. Total: $36
Bruce
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