Leisureville (3 page)

Ever the host, Betsy suggests I drop my luggage off at their house and join them for dinner. “They call it ‘Florida's Friendliest Hometown'—and that's just what it is,” she says as she gets into her Miata. “Everyone's so friendly because everyone is so happy. So make yourself comfortable at our house and enjoy your stay.”

I decide to first take a walk around alone to get my bearings, and perhaps acclimate, before popping over to the Andersons' house later in the afternoon. Although “hometown” is a relative term given that everyone here was born someplace else, damned if, as I look around, everyone I make eye contact with doesn't greet me with a big friendly grin.

I retreat to Starbucks to catch my breath; the coffee shop with its generic interior design feels like a portal back to the real world. I pick up a
New York Times
and scan the headlines. I'm oddly comforted by the fact that there's been continued violence in the Middle East.

Back outside, I walk down the street to a little room with a large display window—the main WVLG broadcast studio. A DJ with a large potbelly and a graying chinstrap beard talks into a microphone while pressing colored buttons on an extensive control board. An outdoor speaker hangs from the building. The DJ repeats the mantra that I will hear so often during my stay: “It's a beautiful day in The Villages!” Then it's a Lesley Gore classic: “Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows.”

The studio is attached to the chamber of commerce. Inside, I look at a rack of brochures, but I note that all the information pertains exclusively to activities within The Villages. I purchase a map for five dollars. It is large and double-sided and depicts only streets inside The Villages. Anything outside the community—even something just across the street—is represented by a white void. Curiously, there is a large white empty space in the center of the map as well.

I ask the woman at the desk about the big white space, but she doesn't know why it's there; nor does she know why there are no
brochures for any businesses outside The Villages. Typically, a chamber of commerce displays information from a much wider area. “I guess there just isn't space for more brochures,” she says, adding, “People ask us the darnedest things.” When I ask to use her phone, I notice that The Villages' sales office is the first number listed on her speed dial.

From Spanish Springs, I drive for what feels like a good twenty minutes until I finally approach the Andersons' village. I'm a bit concerned because much of the muffler seems to have fallen off on the drive up from Orlando, and the engine is leaking a lot of oil.

The Andersons' village is clean and new, with rows of tidy ranch homes ending in quiet culs-de-sac. Lawn sprinklers effortlessly turn on and then off in near unison. The lawns are perfectly edged, and try as I might, I can't find a single weed. The driveways are so clean they looked scrubbed, and in fact some are.

The neighborhood is so immaculate that it resembles a set from
Leave It to Beaver
, but Wally and the Beaver are nowhere to be seen. There are no bicycles or baseball mitts littering the yards; no school buses; no swing sets; no children playing street hockey. For that matter, there are no children. There aren't even any young couples holding hands. Aside from the droning of a distant lawn mower, the neighborhood is ghostly silent. Mr. Wilson would be in heaven.

Children aren't the only demographic missing. Despite its Spanish-theme architecture, the community is about ninety-seven percent white. The lack of diversity has led to embarrassing mistakes: the Village of Santo Domingo was originally spelled “Sant
a
Domingo.” It wasn't until a Hispanic couple moved into the community, I'm told, that anybody noticed the error.

I noisily pull up to the Andersons' home and cringe at the thought of my car leaking oil on Dave's spotless driveway. I hesitantly park on the street, well aware that parking there overnight is against the rules. It's a quandary: do I stain Dave's driveway, or do I flout the rules that I suspect he conscientiously and happily
obeys? I choose the latter, figuring that if I arrive home late at night and leave early in the morning, nobody will be the wiser.

Betsy greets me at the door with another big smile and a peck on the cheek. I'm surprised at how much bigger the Andersons' new home is. The ceilings are high, and the space is airy. The house is so clean it's as if the air itself has been sanitized. I feel like Oscar Madison landing in Zurich, and worry that I might somehow scuff a surface or otherwise make a mess. But after a long, sweaty day of travel, it's a relief to be in such tidy surroundings.

Betsy shows me to the guest room, where I notice shiny plastic beads hanging from a corner of a mirror. “Did you go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras?” I ask.

“No need,” Betsy says. “They do Mardi Gras here. And it's wonderful. So much fun.”

Betsy tells me to make myself right at home and to please feel free to rummage through the refrigerator as often as I like. Between my bedroom, the kitchen, and a pleasant screened-in porch, or lanai, there is a danger zone: an open living room with a plush white carpet and similarly untouched white furniture. There is one rule: I am not to walk across this carpet with my shoes on. Given that I'm wearing sandals and my feet are often dirty as well, I spend the next few weeks avoiding the room altogether. I notice that Dave does too, except when he dims the light up and down for me above a prized possession hanging on the wall—a print by Thomas Kinkade, an evangelical oil painter with an unusually devoted following, whose trademark is Painter of Light. The iridescent streetscape changes with each motion of the dimmer switch.

There are many framed photos around the house as well, but they are mainly of themselves, or of younger couples from back home—friends they like to refer to as “adopted family.” Dave has two adult children with his first wife, but he has an uneasy relationship with them, and it clearly saddens him to talk about it. Betsy
doesn't have children. There's just one photo that I can find of Dave's kids, but it's dated, possibly taken before the divorce.

Dave comes home and greets me with an easy smile. Dressed in khaki shorts, a yellow polo shirt, and loafers, he's the picture of leisure. “The only thing I worry about these days is my daily golf game,” he says. “It's a totally different way of life.”

“It's fun,” Betsy says. “Just plain fun. And why not have a good time? We're retired and we have enough money to live here. We've worked hard for this.”

“Some folks say we're insulated from everything on the outside,” Dave continues. “That bothers some people, but it doesn't bother me. With the Internet, we have access to what's going on in the world. We can choose to be impacted by the news and get involved, or not.”

Dave pours me a glass of chilled white zinfandel. “People are happy here,” he continues. “Can't say we've run into too many sad people. Have you seen anybody moping around? And not all of them even live in The Villages. That seems to be the whole concept of The Villages—they've created a secure and comfortable zone that other people can share even though they can't afford to live here or if they're the wrong age to participate. They allow the melting pot to occur. You can visit it downtown and then play golf or go home. That's The Villages' way.”

“Even the supermarket employees are pleasant to deal with,” Betsy says. “There's never any rush at the checkout like back home. They ask you how you are, what you're making for dinner. People are polite. The employees can't do enough for you—and they have a rule against tipping. It's a whole different world down here. We're not used to this sort of kindness.”

I ask about the house's previous owners, who put a lot of energy into the place by upgrading the cabinetry and tile. According to Dave, the husband was driven crazy by The Villages' policies and business practices.

“He felt controlled, and nickeled and dimed,” Dave tells me. “That's why he installed a satellite dish even though The Villages offers cable. He wanted control over what channels he could select. He rented a post office box outside The Villages so he wouldn't have to buy a key to use the same mailboxes the rest of us use. It seems everything about The Villages started to rub him the wrong way. For instance, the walls come white. He wanted dark beige. He thought beige and white paint should cost the same. But they charged him extra for the tinted paint and didn't refund him for the original white paint. I think that finally drove him out.”

“Thank God,” Betsy exclaims. “Some people wouldn't be happy if you handed them the world on a platter. I mean, c'mon, look at all this place has to offer.”

“So I guess there
are
some unhappy people here, but they move out,” Dave says with a shrug. “Some people are just naturally unhappy. They get so wrapped up in local politics; they feel the need to delve into the negatives. Sure, their intention is to improve things, but still: who cares if the monthly amenities fee is $129 or $134?”

I hear the gentle musical blend of WVLG in the background. “None of that acid rock or heavy metal,” Betsy says. “They play nice music; just plain nice music. I leave it on all day. Apparently the previous owner didn't like the radio station either.” Although more than two decades younger than Betsy, I find myself enjoying the easy listening as well, marveling at how it reduces my stress by a notch or two.

Dave pours me a second glass of wine. We sit in the lanai and enjoy the slight breeze. I see similar homes packed tightly together all around us.

“Nobody on the block even knew who they were,” Dave continues. “Our neighbor Phil across the street—everybody knows Phil —he says they never even invited him inside.”

“They didn't play golf,” Betsy adds with finality.

“Clearly these people were unhappy for a long time,” Dave says, packing his pipe with apple-spiced tobacco. “And much to our benefit.
Much
to our benefit.”

I ask what happened to the couple. “Who knows,” Dave says, puffing on his pipe. “Maybe they bought a house in a regular neighborhood where they can do anything they want.”

Dave and Betsy take me out to dinner at one of the dozen or so country clubs to which all Villagers automatically belong. Dave offers to take me in the golf cart; Betsy will drive her Miata and meet us there.

Dave unplugs the golf cart and backs it out of the garage. He points out their new address shingle hanging from an old-fashioned driveway light pole. It gives their first names in a cheery script and the house number. I'm surprised when the light suddenly turns on. Dave tells me that all the driveway lights in the neighborhood turn on and off at the same time. I feel a slight chill as I look up and down the street and notice that all the driveway lights have switched on. I find it somehow creepy, and wonder if the couple who moved away felt similarly.

Dave puts the windshield down on the golf cart and flips on the headlights. He drives down the curving streets and then passes through a tunnel. We glide past golf carts traveling in the opposite lane. The sensation is oddly thrilling. Cruising along in a golf cart at twenty miles per hour is somehow more invigorating than traveling in a car at seventy. Occasionally a speedier souped-up golf cart flashes its turn signal and passes us on the left. Golf cart headlights and red taillights are all around us, traveling in a silent and orderly fashion, like a video game with the sound turned off. Dave has a smile plastered to his face, and so do I. We look at each other and chuckle with amusement.

At dinner, I notice that the entrées on the menu are surprisingly affordable, as if early bird prices are a permanent fixture, and it's always happy hour somewhere in The Villages. Many of the
people I meet carefully adjust their weekly schedules around happy hours with free appetizers and two-for-one drinks.

After dinner, we stop on a balcony to admire the setting sun. “Quite a sunset,” I remark.

“A lot of them are,” Dave responds.

“There's no place I'd rather be,” Betsy says. “This is home.”

“Gosh, what a day,” Dave continues. “A bad day here is better than a good day at most other places. Oh, well, I guess some of us are meant to suffer, and some of us aren't.”

“That sunset is pretty as a picture,” Betsy says.

“It's more like a postcard,” Dave counters.

“I say picture. It's just like a painting you'd hang on a wall,” Betsy says.

“No, it's definitely a postcard,” Dave says. “But you'd need a wide-angle lens to capture it.”

I look out over the championship golf course with its undulating carpet of green, punctuated by palms that stir in the mild breeze. Across the way is yet another golf course, this one designed by Arnold Palmer. In the distance I see a cluster of homes big enough to be classified as McMansions, but designed for very few occupants—a retired couple, perhaps, or a widow.

Dave is in as good a mood as I've ever seen him, as if a huge burden had suddenly been lifted from him. He is positively light on his feet as we leave the country club. To my astonishment, he grabs an antique light pole near the door and swings—yes, swings—around it. He even attempts to kick up his heels like Fred Astaire.

Back home, Dave generously gives me keys to the house and a guest pass, which allows me to use many of the amenities, such as family swimming pools. To obtain a guest pass, Dave had to register me with The Villages, and my birth date and other information rest in their computer system. Non–family members, like minors, are permitted to visit for only up to one month a year.

Since each visitor is registered and handed a bar-coded pass, it would be difficult to overstay one's welcome, as access to all amenities would be denied. In effect, my guest pass is a visa that entitles me to experience The Villages' lifestyle, but like most visas, it also expires. This is one way The Villages keeps tabs on minors. But it's the residents themselves who generally keep a close eye on occasional scofflaws: a youngster wearing a school backpack has little chance of escaping the attention of one's neighbors.