The Levine's of Florida

Uncle George with Ira and his nephews. He adopted Florida as his home.

Our drive to David's neighborhood from West Palm Beach airport was not at all like driving down the New Jersey Turnpike with smoking factories on the right and a big blue IKEA on the left. You know you are in New Jersey when you land in Newark. Here, we drove along quiet, wide streets dotted with Italian villas. Each community announced their presence in a grand way, focusing our attention on stone archways, beautiful waterfalls, sparkling fountains, and lush tropical leaves. I am not sure why they all have Italian names. We saw Valencia Shores, Valencia Palms and Valencia Bay. There were variations of communities named after Villas, Venetians, and Villaggios. The Italians must really enjoy the letter V and the Floridian Jews must really love the Italians. If it weren't for the palm trees, I would have thought the pilot took us out of the country.

We also passed a neighborhood with the unfortunate title of Journey's End. Floridians, as well as every human from every other state, will eventually meet their journey's end. We all will. But why rub it in? Journey's End might be a great place to live, but I am sorry, that is not a good name. Nor is The Falls. Completely missing the reference to its waterfalls, I immediately thought of the commercial with the lady who falls and can't get up. Don't you think there could be some more upbeat communities for the sunshine state?

Uncle George moved down to Florida years ago with his family. He did meet his journey's end here, but his legend lives on. Just yesterday at the pool, Norman met a man he knew from the Board of Ed, another legend in his own right, and they were reminiscing about Uncle George. Like my husband, his uncle's reputation precedes him. All who know of him, love him. A New York City gym teacher from Canarsie High School, Uncle George will live on forever as a Floridian, basking in the sun at his pool and remembering a life that touched many.

Visiting with Uncle George's family.
Richie and his wife, Gracie

Aunt Sonia and Paula

There are many who now call Florida home, just like this branch of the Levine family tree. But there are also many native to this area, including a vast population of earth's creatures. My favorite activity besides painting animals, is taking a walk and seeing animals. Florida has scores of nature preserves and wetlands, each with an abundance of wildlife and forestry. Green Cay is such a place. This trail gave us a reason to fall in love with Florida beyond the appeal of a warm winter or a warm hug from the people we have been missing.

Norman's friend Brian introduced us to Green Cay. A narrow boardwalk raised above lakes and grassy swamps meanders through the preserved land, offering many opportunities to bird watch or take a photograph. Norm was so excited to see his friend and they spent the 3 mile trek catching up. Once we said goodbye to Brian, the two of us set out again on a much more leisurely pace just to absorb the beauty before us. Many Floridians come to walk in Green Cay, but most do not come for exercise, they come with tripods and cameras slung over the necks. I am assuming those impossibly huge back lenses were telescopic to capture a rare bird on a distance tree. My brother would know this better than I would and I hope he could come one day with his equipment and enjoy the wildlife that abounds here.

How ironic. We came down to Florida to see people we've been missing, and I spent the morning thinking about my brother, a photographer who lives in New York. When you experience something this spectacular, you want to share it with the people you love. I am glad Norman and I got to walk this path together.

The animals of Green Cay call this place home. We are intruding on their world with our foot path, yet they seemed not to care. Some of the birds perched on the railing and did not fly away even as we approached. How lovely that some creatures can get along with each other in such sweet symbiosis. The people of this country should take a lesson from them, hopefully before we kill them all off. The Earth is a beautiful place to live.

So is Florida... something Uncle George knew very well.

Flying to Flakowitz

These two could stay in the pool all day.

Here is my husband getting fitted with a snorkel thing.
David has all the newest Florida gadgets!

My first plane ride happened when I was a teen. I flew across the country with my parents. I don’t know what I imagined I’d see out of the plane window other than an image of Georgia O’Keeffe’s painting of clouds. When I looked down over the land, I was surprised to see vast, unending stretches of brown and green fields. I guess I was expecting some sort of border identifying the states, after all, my only view of the country was a map in school with black lines separating the states. Where were the black lines when I looked out of the plane window? How will anyone ever find California, Florida or New York? Geography was obviously not my strong suit.

Along with my many quirky personality traits, I suffer from a bad case of acrophobia. I don’t do down escalators, especially those big open ones in the department stores. I won’t look over high balconies like there are in Shmooey’s building or chance a peek through the panoramic windows of Vicki’s New York City apartment. But if I could open the window of an airplane and stick my head out to see what is 35,000 feet below me, I would. That makes no sense, I know. I love to fly. I would have missed out on some really great trips if I let my fear of heights take over the skies too.

Norman picked up a Post before boarding our plane to Florida. I usually don’t read a print newspaper as I prefer up to the minute internet coverage to stay informed. Doesn’t everyone want to get their bad news as fast as possible? Halfway into our flight, Norman was sound asleep and dreaming of pickleball, so I grabbed his newspaper. This guy murdered that guy. That guy punched this guy in the face. Some creep ejaculated all over a woman’s back in the subway. Yuck. Why does he read this stuff? My personal favorite was a story where TV anchor, Rosanna Scotto’s son testified that a man admitted to killing someone in his home. After the murder, the killer sat down to eat pancakes. Gee, it must not have fazed him much. It seems that murderers can have a night of good fun and still enjoy a hearty breakfast. And because this was the New York Post, the pancakes made the headlines, not the murder. Fear of crime on the streets chased us out of Brooklyn many years ago and I bet it’s why people retire to Florida, leaving the city and the cold behind.

Newark to Florida seemed a short and easy flight to me, but then again, I was not flying the plane. Thank goodness for that. I don't have much experience these days with airplanes. We had a wonderful male flight attendant who I had assumed was the pilot but then wondered who was doing the flying when he was busy handing out drinks and cookies. (I guess they’re not called stewardesses any more.) The plane touched down in West Palm Beach with applause from the snowbirds happy to have reached their winter home safely. I was looking forward to the warm welcome of Florida and seeing where David lives, but there was a down escalator in the airport I still had to deal with. I could fly, I just can’t ride a moving stairwell. I don't think I am that old, but maybe I do belong with the altacockers after all.

A beautiful home

And it comes with a cute butler along with Delmy

Our friend David has a lovely palatial home, with artwork worthy of any museum. And his newspaper, The Palm Beach Post, is a much more delightful read than its New York cousin. No murders were discussed in this paper and pancakes were only offered as a recipe for the home chef. The top story in David’s Post mentioned a man hired to remodel a home. He left his truck unlocked and when he returned to his vehicle, all of his tools were missing. The man wasn’t killed, but his day certainly was. This made news in West Palm Beach. No plate of pancakes would have make up the difference for him. 

Unless, of course, it was served to him by Maddy, the waiter at Flakowitz.

Norman, as the more experienced guest Floridian, told me that my first visit to the sunshine state would not be complete without visiting Flakowitz of Boca. He said anybody who is anyone would be having breakfast there between 9:30 and 10:00, and we will probably run into a Brooklyn homey or two. My husband finds friends no matter where we are, and sure enough, we heard, “Oh, Mr. Levine!” as soon as we parked the car. An old coworker from Norman’s school was so excited to see him that she dropped her laundry in the parking lot before we ever got into the famous Jewish eatery. That’s my husband. Friends flock to him like a Brooklyn Jew to a good bagel store.

Flakowitz has fat New York style bagels, enticing aromas of freshly baked babka,
appetizing perfect for a Bris or a daily brunch, and knishes that should be classified as a cultural phenomenon. This is a Jewish Mecca of delight and I could understand why it has such a large following. Guy Fieri’s face was even plastered on the walls. It’s not just Jews who enjoy a good smear.

Sue was our hostess. She was in charge of crowd control and she did this with a smile, joking around with the hungry guests who lined up for a table. Sue refilled coffees and happily swept the floor between seating her customers. This was a woman who should have retired years ago along with the folks who think every day is Sunday, but she clearly loved her job. The regulars kiss her goodbye and thank her before leaving just as they would thank their mom for a home cooked meal. Coming to Flakowitz is like
visiting your extended family.

A Flakowitz brunch starts with a plate of complementary marble cake. Friendly waiters who know everyone’s name offer coffee and oatmeal as an appetizer. Two elderly ladies at the table next to ours were discussing the marble cake. I bet they meet there every morning and exchange the same words, as if they memorized the lines of a funny script. The marble cake was very light and one of them remarked that it was from properly beaten egg whites. Her friend said that there were other flavors in the cake that made it so delicious. She knew better, after all, she was the baker. There’s not much a Jew enjoys more than a heated argument. Except maybe a good breakfast special.

I think I like it here!

Florida is a lovely place. We arrived at the airport in New Jersey wearing winter coats and we’ve been living in shorts ever since. Friends and family we haven’t seen in years are welcoming us with hugs and stories of a happy life. The sun is shining, the skies are blue even if the forecast calls for a shower, and our friend’s home is like a dream. The best part of this vacation is seeing David in his element. He is as handsome as ever, swimming in his pool and busy meeting friends for a game of poker or a lecture. He just needs to buy Delmy some baking powder and vanilla so I can make him a proper piece of mandel bread... a breakfast treat worthy of any Flakowitz order.