A Final Thought: I Am Not the Only One

When I left Cleveland on January 30 to escape the cold and spend a couple of weeks in Florida, the temperature was -10 degrees, and there was 16 inches of snow on the ground. When I arrived at Hollywood Beach, the evening low the next day was 36 degrees. That may not be cold by Cleveland’s standards, but with the icy ocean wind and inadequate winter clothing, it was the Arctic.

I’d heard about iguanas falling out of trees when it gets cold in South Florida, but I’d never witnessed it. Sure enough, on my morning walk on Day 2, I counted five iguanas lying on the ground. Locals told me the creatures were simply stunned and would awaken when it warmed up. I hope that’s the case. Poor things. 

I, too, was stunned into motionlessness, unless you count shivering as movement. I was traveling solo (my wife was visiting family in Georgia), so I cheaped out and rented a dumpy Airbnb.

It didn’t have a heater—only an air conditioner and a ceiling fan, and the blanket on the bed was as thin as the

single-ply bathroom tissue the host provided.

I didn’t even think to ask about a heater, but it turns out many rental units in South Florida don’t have them and don’t need them, except for a couple of days a year when it rains iguanas.

I literally could not get warm. The apartment was 50 degrees, and none of the restaurants on the famous Hollywood Beach Broadwalk have doors. It’s an open-air kind of thing. Servers were wearing gloves and hoodies. Have you ever watched a bartender make a pina colada while wearing mittens?

At one of my favorite bars, Le Tub, famous for its 13-ounce hamburger patties, I found myself complaining to two strangers who, it turned out, were from Pepper Pike and enjoy reading Mimi. I introduced myself to Lisa and Kevin, and we chatted for a while about what Clevelanders always talk about: snow, the Browns, and how people find it difficult to cross the Cuyahoga River.

I also revealed to them what had happened to me the day before:

I was having lunch at Billy’s Stone Crab, lamenting my frigid fate to yet another bar patron and explaining that I had a dilemma. It was going to be cold again that night, and I was torn. Should I simply buy a heavy blanket or escape for the night to the beckoning Marriott I could see from my bedroom window (once I wiped away the frost)? “Why don’t you just go to Walmart and buy a cheap space heater?” suggested the patron, who had gone to high school in Youngstown.

“That’s brilliant!” I replied. “You just saved me a hotel bill.”

After lunch, I summoned an Uber (there’s no need to rent a car because the area is so walkable) and headed to Walmart. On the way, I explained my plan to Aleksandr, the driver, and in a delightful Eastern European accent, he said, “You are not the only one.”

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“You are not the only one who is cold,” he explained. “Everyone wants a space heater. Walmart will probably be sold out.”

What, I thought? I am not the only one?

Suddenly disappointed at my own fat ego, I elected to try Walmart anyway. I told Aleksandr I’d give him $20 if he’d wait for me so I didn’t have to order another Uber, and he agreed.

After 15 seconds inside Walmart, I immediately left and jumped back into Aleksandr’s SUV. “That was fast,” he said.

“There were 50 people in the line!” I shrieked. “I wasn’t going to stand there and make you wait an hour for me.”

“Were all those people in line carrying space heaters?” Aleksandr asked.

I laughed. “Well, not all of them!” 

“It’s the same with hurricanes,” he said. “Except it’s bottled water and toilet paper.”

I gave Aleksandr the twenty I’d promised and asked him to take me home—to the Marriott. 

When I made it up to my guest room, I dropped the luggage and looked at the thermostat. On it were three beautiful letters: HTR. So I moved the switch from “cool” to “HTR” and cranked it up to 76 degrees.

And just like those poor iguanas, I came back to life.

Mitch@MimiVanderhaven.com