Third Space: Boca Grande

You can take the girl out of The South, but you simply cannot take the incessant need to sip ranch water while nibbling on Gulf shrimp poolside at the club in Pucci couture out of the girl.

When I say “Boca” I am not referring to “Boca Raton,” the Southeast Florida town known for its golf courses, outdoor shopping malls and proximity to Maralago.

I am talking about the little slice of paradise nestled between the Gasparilla Sound and the Gulf of Mexico only accessibly by a $6 bridge toll and generational wealth.

Think golf carts. Think 300-year old banyan trees. Think driving shoes embroidered with the infamous pirate insignia and mascot of the historic Gasparilla Inn: Florida as it was meant to be.

Think rich white people.

Maybe you’re asking yourself how a place like this relates to a girl like me — barefoot in jean shorts listening to Buffett. And I would tell you that though my street clothes might read New York dirtbag I was raised by Melanie Matheny daughter-in-law of Ethel Rose Matheny, was the ‘02 Chi Omega Eta Delta Sisterhood chair go gators, and know my way around a blind embossed monogrammed thank you note with patterned envelope liner.

Me and also Me.

Honey, I’m just getting warmed up.

Every year I have been blessed to be hosted by my dearest girlfriend Atha Louise in lieu of her grandmother, Louise. She has a beautiful house on the Sound stacked with artwork of white pelicans, free-blooming in-ground orchids, and a garage organization system devoted exclusively to shells. All the beds are twin and have no less than four layers of (pressed) linens. The Isles community is gated, but only for inbound traffic and seemingly only guarded in the daytime. This is perfectly logical in Boca.

I'm home.

When you first arrive “on island” as an outsider you might be thinking to yourself, what the hell is this place? You might go in some shops and say “wow, that’s embellished, who even buys this stuff?” If you don’t like grouper, you’d probably go hungry. But around Day 2 something strange happens.

You start moving very slowly.

You use “honey” “sweetie” and “dear” all in the same sentence when asking for cow’s milk for your drip coffee.

You pick up an outrageous tennis dress in Lilly Pulitzer and say aloud to no one “now, this is cute….”

You win back-to-back games of mahjong against your hubby, Miller who is just back from golfing before joining your group of friends who all met their hubbies when y’all attended Vanderbilt and now come to Boca every spring break with all your kids (all 2 years apart and in matching rash-guards).

The first rule of this sneaky transformation is that you do not talk about this transformation.

Me after 24 hours in BG.

My favorite thing to do in Boca is put myself together (“2 out of 3 done — hair, makeup, outfit” - Bama Rush), charge the cart and get to the Beach Club in the morning for a good spot by the pool.

Naturally The Beach Club is The Gasparilla Inn’s pool club right on the beach. There’s a restaurant with a lunch buffet and ice cream station, two poolside bars, unlimited striped towels and spa water. When I tell you sitting here all day people watching bookended by a bloody maria and a piña colada could become my entire personality.

Hold my calls.

Sun-kissed and freshened up, after cocktail hour on the screened porch where you discuss anything but politics, you arrive for your reservation at The Pink Elephant.

Also a property of The Inn, “The Pink,” as the locals call, is the cornerstone of Boca Grande nightlife. And by nightlife I mean evening life. Lord, I ain’t hit the roof since I don’t know when.

There’s an iceberg chopped salad, Frank Sinatra’s “The Lady is a Tramp” playing, and Lou who has worked there for over 20 years is your server.

I ask you, what’s not to love:

Yes, that is a pink elephant cocktail charm.

If you don’t look too close, don’t stay too long, have an unlimited limit on your credit card and are familiar with the privilege that is the undercurrent of the old Florida South, you will coast through the weekend in a salty lightly-buzzed haze.

And if you’re anything like Attie and I, you might surrender to the crispy nostalgia of your youth. Searching for shark’s teeth with your grandma as a kid, sipping her burnt Mr. Coffee as a teen. You’ll be able to vividly recall being blissfully unaware of the violent inequities of the outside world or the consequences of your vacation community’s preferences. And if even and only for a moment, you’ll be able to give that feeling to the next generation of little towheads.

Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose.

And now for my Paids, I will tell you what happened after leaving Boca. An epilogue I will call “the Loose Caboose.”