A foreigner in a foreign land

You step foot in one of the five boroughs in New York City and you can feel the pounding heartbeat of the city that never sleeps. You land in Las Vegas and the sounds of slot machines ring in your ears. You may have the first dollar you ever earned hanging up in your office, but overnight you turn into a “put it all on black” high stakes roller. Even Los Angeles has its own vibe. You arrive in the city and you automatically become a connoisseur of cool. Right away you know who’s got the “it” factor and who’s a poser and going to burst into flames.

Cities, towns, villages — big or small — all give off an energy or feel all their own. For example, the small rurual town where I grew up gave off a folksy, work hard, pray on Wednesday nights and Sunday morning feel. As a kid, it was the kind of place you couldn’t wait to leave. You could have your bags packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Yet, you absolutely love it when you’re bringing up your own kids.

I say all this because I recently found myself in a foreign land.

They spoke English so that wasn’t a problem. And I never actually left the U.S of A. But, the minute I took a look around, I realized I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Instead of the normal signs you see along the street or roadway, I saw golf cart signs and turtle crossings.

It gets better. The homes were nice enough. They had comfy wrap around porches and were located on beautiful tree-lined streets There were ponds and lakes too. People played golf and there was plenty of sunny weather to go around as well.

The land, though, had a sterile feel to it. I found myself on Sand Lake Bluff or Bay Bluff Road. There was a Magnolia Crossing and a Point Pleasant Landing too.

I kept waiting for two things. First, when I went for a walk, I was on the lookout for a zealous homeowners association representative. I expected them to pull up in a golf cart and to point a finger at me, informing me that I was walking in the wrong direction. Or to tell me that I was breaking some arcane HOA rule.

I found myself also looking for a camera crew. I felt like I had landed in a Hallmark Christmas Movie set based in a quaint little boating town. I was certain the mayor or local coffee shop owner was going to introduce me to the woman who would become the love of my life. (I guess I should apologize to the real love of my life before she reads this and gets upset with me.)

I fully expected to find Augusta National Golf Club in Augusta, Georgia or Pebble Beach on the Monterey Peninsula in California just up the road. The development was obviously trying to convey a certain image. I suggested to my wife that I needed a Titleist or TaylorMade golf bag and clubs to fit in with the other residents. I even considered running out an getting an old captain’s hat. Ya know, to show that I’m the captain of my own ship.

My wife reassured me that I was dressed fine just as I was in my worn t-shirt, scuffed up shorts and sandals. Golf anyone?