As published in the Wall Street Journal May 3,2008

By Patricia Lahrmer Ross | The Wall Street Journal

"I'm too young to go to Florida."
My husband had just returned from a golfing trip to Marco Island in southwest Florida, where he had discovered anew a community of vacation homes that struck his fancy. "I'd love you to see it," he said, almost in passing.

Florida? The number of candles on my birthday cake might have said yes, but my spirit screamed no. We live in New York, the land of great coffee, breakfast pastries and the morning Times. Neither golf nor fishing -- nor boating, playing tennis or bridge, or even sitting in the sun by the pool -- appeal to me as regular pastimes. No, I thought. I could never be a Florida person.

Several months later, though, a business trip took us to Miami. On a rainy summer afternoon, we drove to Naples, on the Gulf Coast, where we visited a new gated community of condos, coach homes and million-dollar digs -- and chose a small corner of it for ourselves. My sole reason for relenting was to keep my husband happy and my marriage secure. If he had a vacation home for his golfing buddies, it's unlikely he ever would leave me for a younger woman. And if things got really bad, our home in New York was a less-than-three-hour flight away.

A Dear Friend
That was five years ago. Today, friends up north are surprised to see us heading south as often as we do between January and early April. Florida is boring, one of them is rude enough to say, implying that we might be boring, as well. I can't contradict. All I can say is that we are responding to something Florida has to offer. In that sense, Florida has become the person you didn't take to because you seemed to have so little in common, and then one day you're delighted to see she has become a dear friend, in spite of your doubts.

Those doubts were considerable at first. Our early visits -- weekend trips, primarily -- were marked by resistance on my part, a sort of determination not to like the place where so many old people go. Wherever we went for breakfast, the folks next to us would be talking about their doctors' appointments. Except for the white wading birds along the roadside and the big blue sky, there was little to appeal to the eye. Houses of any architectural interest were hidden behind gates.

Yes, most people we met were ridiculously happy in paradise, and I felt as I knew I would -- like a fish out of water. The weather was fine and the natives friendly -- but oh, for a lively conversation about something other than the temperature up north or outdoor sports.

Acceptance came gradually. Seeing my husband so happy -- playing golf and tennis -- made me feel good. The night sounds of nature floating in through the screens of the lanai (that's Floridian for porch, from the Hawaiian) provided pleasure, as well. Our after-dinner walks in the dark streets presented the gift of an endless black velvet sky, filled with sparklers.

A Starbucks opened nearby, erasing our need to drive a half-hour to find an espresso. When a French bakery appeared up the road, I thought: "This is almost as good as home."

Aren't You Bored?
The biggest mystery to most of my friends is what I do with my time during these Florida forays, which can stretch to four weeks. (Yes, we stay longer each year.) I could tell them that every weekend there is somewhere to go dancing to the music of your teenage years, provided your partner isn't worn out from sports. I took a group of visiting childhood friends to a roadhouse that looked unappealing. Once inside, we all danced as if we were back in the high-school gym after a Friday night football game. There is something poignant about regularly getting lost in time gone by. Sentimental fools, come on down.

"Old Florida" is relaxing, unsung and fast disappearing to developers. You have to look hard to find it. But it's there. So now and then I'll take to the back roads to visit an orchid farm, a citrus grove or a ranch. Once I found a town whose streets were lined with ancient banyan trees. Another town had a Main Street right out of a 1950s photo album, and a restaurant serving hummingbird cake. "This is not fast food, take a seat," said the hostess.

What I've learned to love most in Florida is the out-of-doors -- walking the beaches early or late in the day or the boardwalks in parks with names like Big Cypress swamp; looking for alligators and owls, blue heron and bald eagles. The natural world can cast a spell of tranquility, and in the end, that is why we are here -- to find our inner calm that is so often lost. If you slow down, you can find parts of yourself you never knew.

Egrets and Yoga
One day you awake and -- whoa! -- it actually feels very good to be in the Sunshine State, even though the sunshine was not your reason for coming here. You love the daily sunrise and warm air, which caress you almost every winter morning. You are no longer at all self-conscious about stopping at McDonald's for a senior-discount coffee. The mailboxes shaped like manatees no longer appear corny, but charming. You are learning to tell one white wading bird from another -- the great egret has a yellow beak and the snowy egret has yellow feet.

Finding some foods from your childhood in the supermarket is another beautiful thing -- pimento cheese and ham salad spreads that your mother used to buy. You have found an excellent yoga teacher and a new friend with whom to enjoy the class. Every morning, dozens of pink hibiscus bloom at your doorstep, and one is chosen to come inside to a vase for the day. The slow pace that once drove your urban soul crazy seems civilized. A familiar phrase around here is: "Take your time. I'm retired." In New York, your life could be endangered for holding up the cash-register line.

Daily pleasures are small -- sighting a wood stork or listening to a lecture by the Jam Lady, a cookbook author, at the local public library. It's good to be amenable to absorbing the local culture, not looking always for what you left behind somewhere else. After all, New York City can't boast a mango festival, as can nearby Pine Island, Fla. And how can you not love a place where the supermarket service rep is named Precious?

Like the occasional bird you see that does not belong in the habitat -- what is that robin doing here? -- I still consider myself a member of an exotic species, especially among the avid athletes. I may be a mysterious creature, but after five years, I'm finding a place for myself here, where life is more like a leisurely birding walk than a marathon, and that works for me in the winter season of life.

Some days, I wonder what could be more pleasing than the moment, driving along the causeway over some of the Ten Thousand Islands on a big new clear morning, listening to Nat King Cole on the radio, feeling like a girl again. The red convertible top is down, and the summer feels endless. Now, that's paradise.