MUSINGS AND MISHAPS

Author: Lindsey Whitton

I've often wondered what it would be like to be an anthropologist: to ponder the science of man, to examine the psychophysical, the relationship between the human body and the mind, to observe first hand other foreign cultures.

Over winter break, my friend and I had the rare opportunity to conduct our own field study, to actually experience a strange and exotic culture and to mingle up close and personal with an indigenous species. Close your eyes and picture the scene: a semi-tropical climate, white sand and pounding surf, three glorious meals a day prepared by natives using the finest local ingredients, just the two of us … with hundreds of senior citizens.

We spent our February vacation visiting my grandparents in Florida. They live in a pretty seaside community abutting the Atlantic Ocean with scores of other retirees, many small yapping dogs and the occasional onslaught of visiting grandchildren.

When experiencing such a new culture, it is very helpful to have an experienced interpreter and guide. (Believe me, retired Florida is shockingly different than Middlebury, Vt..) Fortunately, my grandmother and her best friend Jan volunteered to begin our indoctrination and assimilation the first morning over breakfast (though it was afternoon by the time we got up.)

They gave us the dirt on everyone who was sitting by the pool or walking down the dune walk. They told us about each person's love life, financial state, quirky habits and bizarre birthmarks, interrupting each other whenever the story got interesting and gesticulating like mad. By the time breakfast was over, we were filled in on 10 years of good gossip and were ready to hit the beach to do our own field research.

As we sat in beach chairs and fried our lily white winter skin to a nice fuchsia tone, we met one of our favorite characters, the Hustler. He jaunted down the dune walk in his itsy-bitsy leopard patterned Speedo, gold chains sparkling in the sunlight. His armpits and chest were shaved and his white hair was neatly brushed and gelled back. "He is high maintenance," my friend murmured. "Obviously an alpha male."

We were soon approached by a sweet couple, Mary Jane and Bob from Toledo, Ohio. They were dressed innocuously in conservative, understated clothes that blended in with the sand and wheat tones of the surroundings. They connected with my friend over mutual Midwestern roots, a sort of Darwinian moment when an otherwise isolated species discovers a common gene. But we knew their big secret: a few years before, Mary Jane and Bob had won $28 million in a lottery. ("Told you the Midwest was a great place to live!" my friend reminded me.)

[Note to file: Sometimes the most successful species in a habitat have learned to camoflauge their strength with unnoticeable appearance.]

The next day, sitting by the pool with our two faithful guides, a beautiful, extremely well-preserved woman who didn't look old enough to qualify for senior citizen status, walked purposefully towards us. Trailing a few respectful, even subservient, steps behind was an extremely buffed, very young man — her boyfriend.

"Allo!" chirped the lady with a thick French accent. "Oh, excusez-moi! But is this your shirt?" She looked down with disdain at my friend's polo shirt strewn on the adjacent lawn chair. Apparently he had treaded on sacred, tribal territory. That specific lawn chair belonged to the Parisian. He apologized as she snapped up her chair and trotted off to the other side of the pool with boyfriend and a small, white dog at her heels. [Note to file: When sensitively observing a new culture, never invade the personal space or nest of a dominant female member.]

We continued to conduct fascinating field research over the week. We identified the Fading Southern Aristocrat who, after 15 years, had yet to step onto the beach. "She doesn't like the feel of the sand between her perfectly manicured toes," our guides informed us. Her hair, a 1960s beehive marvel of architectural grandiosity, appeared to have a personality of its own.

After a week of research, we reluctantly returned to our natural habitat in freezing Vermont. But we did not return empty-handed. We had adapted to our temporary environment and were more tanned, more freckled, five pounds heavier and in possession of a more complete appreciation of that facinating Floridian species.

Before you are too quick to judge, remember that only the trivial matter of about fifty years of age separates each of us from this species and culture. And we could all do far worse than end up by the ocean, tennis and golf at our beckon, and enough characters to keep us entertained into the next century.

[Note to file: Middlebury would be perfect if we could just build a beach... ]