THE VILLAGES IS LOCATED ROUGHLY IN THE CENTER OF FLORIDA, about an hour north of Orlando International Airport, where I touch down feeling like a dork in my new argyle socks and loafers, and surrounded by giggling children running around in mouse ears. Given my travel budget, I rent an old beater, which is spray-painted black and is missing hubcaps, and whose odometer registers a quarter-million miles. The car shudders and misfires as I drive north along a relatively lonesome patch of the Florida Turnpike, which to my surprise cuts through rolling pastureland instead of swamps. This is Florida’s “high country,” home to the state’s cattle industry, which is slowly disappearing as ranchers sell their sprawling properties to housing developers and land speculators.
The sides of the road sprout billboards advertising retirement communities. Photos of seniors playing golf and relaxing in pools are plastered with slogans such as “Life is lovelier,” “On top of the world,” and “Live the life you’ve been waiting your whole life for!” Interspersed are signs advertising the central Florida of old: hot-boiled peanuts, deerskin moccasins, and ’gator meat.
I don’t see any advertisements for The Villages, but I do see state highway signs that guide me there via an off-ramp and a few small towns filled with vacant storefronts and roadside citrus vendors. I know I am getting close when the loamy soil and piney solitude segue into a construction site that stretches as far as the eye can see. A billboard displays a joyful phrase not often seen these days: “The Villages welcomes Wal-Mart!”
A short distance farther I spot the top of a beige water tower painted with The Villages’ omnipresent logo—its name written in a looping 1970s-era faux-Spanish script. The construction is soon replaced with lush fairways speckled with golfers. I turn on the radio and tune in to WVLG AM640, The Villages’ own radio station.
“It’s a beautiful day in The Villages,” the DJ announces. “Aren’t we lucky to live here? OK, folks, here is a favorite I know you’re going to love. The Candy Man Can. C’mon, let’s sing it together.” I listen in resigned silence to Sammy Davis Jr. and his effervescent lyrics about dew-sprinkled sunrises, feeling slightly claustrophobic and uneasy about living in a gated retirement community for the next month. Can someone under forty and as restless as I am survive an extended stay without going stir-crazy? Can I relate to people who play golf all day and play pinochle at night? Will they inundate me with Henny Youngman one-liners and stories about the Brooklyn Dodgers until I cry uncle?
It doesn’t take long before I am hopelessly lost. Every direction is filled with nearly identical rooftops, curvy streets, gates, and flawless golf courses. A little while later the pleasantly landscaped, meandering boulevard I am driving down ends abruptly at a pock-marked county road. Across the way, the green grass and lush golf courses are noticeably absent, replaced with a narrow sandy road surrounded by a scraggly pine forest. Once upon a time, these inscrutable forests were home to fiercely independent subsistence farmers, called Crackers, who delighted in squirrel meat and rarely traveled except to move deeper into the pines. I watch as a towering pickup truck with a Confederate flag turns onto an unpaved road and briefly loses its footing in a patch of deep sand.
I make a U-turn and continue to drive around aimlessly until I spot an arrow pointing toward Spanish Springs, one of The Villages’ two manufactured downtowns. A sign beside the road cautions against speeding, noting that The Villages is a “golf cart community.” The road is more of a parkway, four lanes across with a handsome palm-studded median. What at first appear to be unusually wide sidewalks turn out to be roads specifically designed for golf carts, which whiz silently along them. I see another sign reminding visitors, “It’s a beautiful day in The Villages.”
A few miles later, I drive by a hospital, an assisted care facility, and a large Catholic church. I go through another roundabout, cross an ornate bridge, pass something built to look like the crumbling ruins of a Spanish fort, and suddenly I’m in the “town” of Spanish Springs. I spot Betsy outside a Starbucks standing beside her shiny red Miata, dressed attractively in pale pink slacks and a white cardigan, and sporting a nice tan. She greets me with a relaxed smile and a friendly hug, and insists on buying me a very welcome cup of iced coffee. It’s comforting to see a familiar face from back home.
“Isn’t it nice?” she asks. “People call it ‘Disney for adults,’ and I’m beginning to understand why. I just can’t believe I’m here. I’ve met people that have been here for five years and they’re still pinching themselves. It’s like being on a permanent vacation.”
Surrounding us is an imitation Spanish colonial town spiced up with a few Wild West accents. There’s a central square with splashing fountains, a mission-like building at one end, a stucco church at another, and across the way a saloon in the style of the old West with wrought iron balconies. According to The Villages’ mythology, Ponce de León passed through this area, just missing these waters—the fountain of youth he so desperately sought. The streets around the town square are lined with buildings that appear to be about 150 years old. There are faded advertisements on their facades for a gunsmith, an assayer, and a telegraph office. I feel as if I’m on a movie set, which strikes me as an uncomfortable place to live.
Betsy and I take our coffee to the central square, and sit on a bench beside the fountain of youth, which is strewn with lucky coins. The sun is shining, but it’s not hot. We catch up on neighborhood gossip, the miserable New England weather, and the uncertain fate of our neighborhood park. Betsy is left pondering her incredible luck. “If we were still living up north, those problems would be our problems,” she says with a sigh. Although not meant unkindly, her comment stings. But she’s got a point; her life promises to be a lot more carefree down here than it was back home.
We mosey around the square and then head to the western-motif saloon, Katie Belle’s, which is for residents and their guests only. Outside, a historical marker explains the building’s colorful past. “Katie Belle Van Patten was the wife of Jacksonville businessman John Decker Van Patten, who, along with a number of other investors, built the luxurious hotel in 1851. …”
The plaque looks so authentic that I have to remind myself I am standing on what was pastureland a mere decade ago. Inside the saloon the walls are covered in dark wood, and heavy draperies hang from several large windows. An enormous Tiffany-style skylight catches my eye, as do two dozen line dancers keeping time to a country and western tune. Many of the stools along the bar are filled with retirees holding draft beers. I look at my watch. It’s just past two in the afternoon. “Line dancing is very popular here because you can do it without a partner,” Betsy explains. “They say the only problem with being a widow in The Villages is that you’re so busy you forget you are one.”
Although I’ve sat for a beer at an American Legion Post before, I’ve never been to a bar solely reserved for senior citizens. The first thing I notice is that no one is what I would call particularly beautiful, at least not to my age-biased eyes. But they all look as if they’re having a good time.
Ever the host, Betsy suggests I drop my luggage off at their house and join them for dinner. “They call it ‘Florida’s Friendliest Hometown’—and that’s just what it is,” she says as she gets into her Miata. “Everyone’s so friendly because everyone is so happy. So make yourself comfortable at our house and enjoy your stay.”
I decide to first take a walk around alone to get my bearings, and perhaps acclimate, before popping over to the Andersons’ house later in the afternoon. Although “hometown” is a relative term given that everyone here was born someplace else, damned if, as I look around, everyone I make eye contact with doesn’t greet me with a big friendly grin.
I retreat to Starbucks to catch my breath; the coffee shop with its generic interior design feels like a portal back to the real world. I pick up a New York Times and scan the headlines. I’m oddly comforted by the fact that there’s been continued violence in the Middle East.
Back outside, I walk down the street to a little room with a large display window—the main WVLG broadcast studio. A DJ with a large potbelly and a graying chinstrap beard talks into a microphone while pressing colored buttons on an extensive control board. An outdoor speaker hangs from the building. The DJ repeats the mantra that I will hear so often during my stay: “It’s a beautiful day in The Villages!” Then it’s a Lesley Gore classic: “Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows.”
The studio is attached to the chamber of commerce. Inside, I look at a rack of brochures, but I note that all the information pertains exclusively to activities within The Villages. I purchase a map for five dollars. It is large and double-sided and depicts only streets inside The Villages. Anything outside the community—even something just across the street—is represented by a white void. Curiously, there is a large white empty space in the center of the map as well.
I ask the woman at the desk about the big white space, but she doesn’t know why it’s there; nor does she know why there are no brochures for any businesses outside The Villages. Typically, a chamber of commerce displays information from a much wider area. “I guess there just isn’t space for more brochures,” she says, adding, “People ask us the darnedest things.” When I ask to use her phone, I notice that The Villages’ sales office is the first number listed on her speed dial.
From Spanish Springs, I drive for what feels like a good twenty minutes until I finally approach the Andersons’ village. I’m a bit concerned because much of the muffler seems to have fallen off on the drive up from Orlando, and the engine is leaking a lot of oil.
The Andersons’ village is clean and new, with rows of tidy ranch homes ending in quiet culs-de-sac. Lawn sprinklers effortlessly turn on and then off in near unison. The lawns are perfectly edged, and try as I might, I can’t find a single weed. The driveways are so clean they looked scrubbed, and in fact some are.
The neighborhood is so immaculate that it resembles a set from Leave It to Beaver, but Wally and the Beaver are nowhere to be seen. There are no bicycles or baseball mitts littering the yards; no school buses; no swing sets; no children playing street hockey. For that matter, there are no children. There aren’t even any young couples holding hands. Aside from the droning of a distant lawn mower, the neighborhood is ghostly silent. Mr. Wilson would be in heaven.
Children aren’t the only demographic missing. Despite its Spanish-theme architecture, the community is about ninety-seven percent white. The lack of diversity has led to embarrassing mistakes: the Village of Santo Domingo was originally spelled “Santa Domingo.” It wasn’t until a Hispanic couple moved into the community, I’m told, that anybody noticed the error.
I noisily pull up to the Andersons’ home and cringe at the thought of my car leaking oil on Dave’s spotless driveway. I hesitantly park on the street, well aware that parking there overnight is against the rules. It’s a quandary: do I stain Dave’s driveway, or do I flout the rules that I suspect he conscientiously and happily obeys? I choose the latter, figuring that if I arrive home late at night and leave early in the morning, nobody will be the wiser.
Betsy greets me at the door with another big smile and a peck on the cheek. I’m surprised at how much bigger the Andersons’ new home is. The ceilings are high, and the space is airy. The house is so clean it’s as if the air itself has been sanitized. I feel like Oscar Madison landing in Zurich, and worry that I might somehow scuff a surface or otherwise make a mess. But after a long, sweaty day of travel, it’s a relief to be in such tidy surroundings.
Betsy shows me to the guest room, where I notice shiny plastic beads hanging from a corner of a mirror. “Did you go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras?” I ask.
“No need,” Betsy says. “They do Mardi Gras here. And it’s wonderful. So much fun.”
Betsy tells me to make myself right at home and to please feel free to rummage through the refrigerator as often as I like. Between my bedroom, the kitchen, and a pleasant screened-in porch, or lanai, there is a danger zone: an open living room with a plush white carpet and similarly untouched white furniture. There is one rule: I am not to walk across this carpet with my shoes on. Given that I’m wearing sandals and my feet are often dirty as well, I spend the next few weeks avoiding the room altogether. I notice that Dave does too, except when he dims the light up and down for me above a prized possession hanging on the wall—a print by Thomas Kinkade, an evangelical oil painter with an unusually devoted following, whose trademark is Painter of Light. The iridescent streetscape changes with each motion of the dimmer switch.
There are many framed photos around the house as well, but they are mainly of themselves, or of younger couples from back home—friends they like to refer to as “adopted family.” Dave has two adult children with his first wife, but he has an uneasy relationship with them, and it clearly saddens him to talk about it. Betsy doesn’t have children. There’s just one photo that I can find of Dave’s kids, but it’s dated, possibly taken before the divorce.
Dave comes home and greets me with an easy smile. Dressed in khaki shorts, a yellow polo shirt, and loafers, he’s the picture of leisure. “The only thing I worry about these days is my daily golf game,” he says. “It’s a totally different way of life.”
“It’s fun,” Betsy says. “Just plain fun. And why not have a good time? We’re retired and we have enough money to live here. We’ve worked hard for this.”
“Some folks say we’re insulated from everything on the outside,” Dave continues. “That bothers some people, but it doesn’t bother me. With the Internet, we have access to what’s going on in the world. We can choose to be impacted by the news and get involved, or not.”
Dave pours me a glass of chilled white zinfandel. “People are happy here,” he continues. “Can’t say we’ve run into too many sad people. Have you seen anybody moping around? And not all of them even live in The Villages. That seems to be the whole concept of The Villages—they’ve created a secure and comfortable zone that other people can share even though they can’t afford to live here or if they’re the wrong age to participate. They allow the melting pot to occur. You can visit it downtown and then play golf or go home. That’s The Villages’ way.”
“Even the supermarket employees are pleasant to deal with,” Betsy says. “There’s never any rush at the checkout like back home. They ask you how you are, what you’re making for dinner. People are polite. The employees can’t do enough for you—and they have a rule against tipping. It’s a whole different world down here. We’re not used to this sort of kindness.”
I ask about the house’s previous owners, who put a lot of energy into the place by upgrading the cabinetry and tile. According to Dave, the husband was driven crazy by The Villages’ policies and business practices.
“He felt controlled, and nickeled and dimed,” Dave tells me. “That’s why he installed a satellite dish even though The Villages offers cable. He wanted control over what channels he could select. He rented a post office box outside The Villages so he wouldn’t have to buy a key to use the same mailboxes the rest of us use. It seems everything about The Villages started to rub him the wrong way. For instance, the walls come white. He wanted dark beige. He thought beige and white paint should cost the same. But they charged him extra for the tinted paint and didn’t refund him for the original white paint. I think that finally drove him out.”
“Thank God,” Betsy exclaims. “Some people wouldn’t be happy if you handed them the world on a platter. I mean, c’mon, look at all this place has to offer.”
“So I guess there are some unhappy people here, but they move out,” Dave says with a shrug. “Some people are just naturally unhappy. They get so wrapped up in local politics; they feel the need to delve into the negatives. Sure, their intention is to improve things, but still: who cares if the monthly amenities fee is $129 or $134?”
I hear the gentle musical blend of WVLG in the background. “None of that acid rock or heavy metal,” Betsy says. “They play nice music; just plain nice music. I leave it on all day. Apparently the previous owner didn’t like the radio station either.” Although more than two decades younger than Betsy, I find myself enjoying the easy listening as well, marveling at how it reduces my stress by a notch or two.
Dave pours me a second glass of wine. We sit in the lanai and enjoy the slight breeze. I see similar homes packed tightly together all around us.
“Nobody on the block even knew who they were,” Dave continues. “Our neighbor Phil across the street—everybody knows Phil —he says they never even invited him inside.”
“They didn’t play golf,” Betsy adds with finality.
“Clearly these people were unhappy for a long time,” Dave says, packing his pipe with apple-spiced tobacco. “And much to our benefit. Much to our benefit.”
I ask what happened to the couple. “Who knows,” Dave says, puffing on his pipe. “Maybe they bought a house in a regular neighborhood where they can do anything they want.”
Dave and Betsy take me out to dinner at one of the dozen or so country clubs to which all Villagers automatically belong. Dave offers to take me in the golf cart; Betsy will drive her Miata and meet us there.
Dave unplugs the golf cart and backs it out of the garage. He points out their new address shingle hanging from an old-fashioned driveway light pole. It gives their first names in a cheery script and the house number. I’m surprised when the light suddenly turns on. Dave tells me that all the driveway lights in the neighborhood turn on and off at the same time. I feel a slight chill as I look up and down the street and notice that all the driveway lights have switched on. I find it somehow creepy, and wonder if the couple who moved away felt similarly.
Dave puts the windshield down on the golf cart and flips on the headlights. He drives down the curving streets and then passes through a tunnel. We glide past golf carts traveling in the opposite lane. The sensation is oddly thrilling. Cruising along in a golf cart at twenty miles per hour is somehow more invigorating than traveling in a car at seventy. Occasionally a speedier souped-up golf cart flashes its turn signal and passes us on the left. Golf cart headlights and red taillights are all around us, traveling in a silent and orderly fashion, like a video game with the sound turned off. Dave has a smile plastered to his face, and so do I. We look at each other and chuckle with amusement.
At dinner, I notice that the entrées on the menu are surprisingly affordable, as if early bird prices are a permanent fixture, and it’s always happy hour somewhere in The Villages. Many of the people I meet carefully adjust their weekly schedules around happy hours with free appetizers and two-for-one drinks.
After dinner, we stop on a balcony to admire the setting sun. “Quite a sunset,” I remark.
“A lot of them are,” Dave responds.
“There’s no place I’d rather be,” Betsy says. “This is home.”
“Gosh, what a day,” Dave continues. “A bad day here is better than a good day at most other places. Oh, well, I guess some of us are meant to suffer, and some of us aren’t.”
“That sunset is pretty as a picture,” Betsy says.
“It’s more like a postcard,” Dave counters.
“I say picture. It’s just like a painting you’d hang on a wall,” Betsy says.
“No, it’s definitely a postcard,” Dave says. “But you’d need a wide-angle lens to capture it.”
I look out over the championship golf course with its undulating carpet of green, punctuated by palms that stir in the mild breeze. Across the way is yet another golf course, this one designed by Arnold Palmer. In the distance I see a cluster of homes big enough to be classified as McMansions, but designed for very few occupants—a retired couple, perhaps, or a widow.
Dave is in as good a mood as I’ve ever seen him, as if a huge burden had suddenly been lifted from him. He is positively light on his feet as we leave the country club. To my astonishment, he grabs an antique light pole near the door and swings—yes, swings—around it. He even attempts to kick up his heels like Fred Astaire.
Back home, Dave generously gives me keys to the house and a guest pass, which allows me to use many of the amenities, such as family swimming pools. To obtain a guest pass, Dave had to register me with The Villages, and my birth date and other information rest in their computer system. Non–family members, like minors, are permitted to visit for only up to one month a year.
Since each visitor is registered and handed a bar-coded pass, it would be difficult to overstay one’s welcome, as access to all amenities would be denied. In effect, my guest pass is a visa that entitles me to experience The Villages’ lifestyle, but like most visas, it also expires. This is one way The Villages keeps tabs on minors. But it’s the residents themselves who generally keep a close eye on occasional scofflaws: a youngster wearing a school backpack has little chance of escaping the attention of one’s neighbors.
Dave also hands me his and Betsy’s “calling card.” Villagers have revived a quaint tradition that seemingly died out not long after the time of Edith Wharton and Henry James. Instead of business cards, many Villagers carry cards that list their name and village. The Andersons’ also displays a 1950s-era image of a man and a woman swinging golf clubs.
As Dave and Betsy wind down for the night, I head out in search of nightlife. As I drive off, smoke sputters out of the exhaust, and the loose muffler roars. There’s oil splattered on the street, but thankfully, none on Dave’s driveway.
Spanish Springs is buzzing with people of all ages strolling along the sidewalks. A group of giggling retirees walk past me wearing giant sombreros and carrying oversize cocktails in their hands. They tell me they are on a scavenger hunt. A friend shouts greetings to them from a restaurant patio across the street.
A crowd has gathered around the center gazebo for the nightly bread and circus of free entertainment and inexpensive drinks. The band’s front man is wearing faded jeans and a blue blazer. A partially unbuttoned shirt reveals a forest of glistening blond chest hair. He hops around the gazebo with his cordless microphone, pointing this way and that as he sings the chorus, “God is with me, yeah!” He then breaks into a rendition of Chuck Berry’s classic “Johnny B. Goode,” descends from the podium, and starts mingling with his audience of boogying grandparents and shrieking grandkids, several of whom jump up and down in their motion-sensitive sneakers with blinking red lights.
I chat with a man named Joel who moved to The Villages shortly after turning fifty-five. “I love it here,” he tells me. “The neighborhoods are neat and clean. We’ve got covenants here and they’re enforced, which is good, because they keep out the riffraff.” Joel, however, ran afoul of one of The Villages’ deed restrictions: lawn ornaments are prohibited in many neighborhoods. “It was just a boy and a girl holding hands,” he explains sheepishly. It wasn’t even two feet tall. I got a knock on the door the very next day. It’s my own fault—I should have known better.”
The band finishes its final set and the audience clears out. Empty drink cups litter the ground. The nightly cleaning crew silently picks them up and collects the 100 or so folding chairs. One of the crew, a stocky man with a thick southern drawl peculiar to rural Florida, approaches me. “Shit, these old folks do more drinking than them college kids. And that’s a lot. They got nothing else to do. You watch.”
I head across the street to the last place open in Spanish Springs: Katie Belle’s. There’s nobody at the door to check my resident ID, so I just sneak in. A country and western band is onstage playing one of Shania Twain’s hits. The dance floor is packed with older couples, dressed casually in shorts or jeans, swaying back and forth. Some are wearing sandals with athletic socks. Although my outfit is somewhat par for the course around town, I nevertheless resolve to leave my sweater vest, loafers, and argyle socks at home next time. I belly up to the crowded bar and order a draft. It arrives in a mug that looks heavy, but out of consideration for the older clientele is made out of plastic and is light as a feather. To my surprise, a bartender announces last call moments later. I look at my watch: it’s nine forty-five.
An older man taps me on the shoulder and asks if he can borrow my pen. He holds it carefully in his arthritic hand to take down the phone number of a woman wearing bright red lipstick. He returns a few minutes later to borrow the pen once again, to jot down another woman’s phone number.
I introduce myself to two guys farther down the bar who look to be in their mid-twenties. They’re brothers, they tell me, visiting from Iowa, where their mother used to live before she packed up and moved to The Villages. Carl, the younger brother, gulps down several shots of tequila lined up in front of him. He sports a goatee and a baseball hat with the brim squeezed into a tight semicircle. He spots my notebook and pen.
“You writing a book?” he asks. I nod. “It’s a good thing, because this place is fucked up!” His brother, Ben, nods in agreement. I ask them if their mother is happy here. “She misses some things,” Carl says.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Home.”
They invite me to the equivalent of after-hours in The Villages—a late-night karaoke bar inside a bowling alley. It’s just outside Spanish Springs in a strip mall that is also owned by The Villages. The facade is designed to look like the Alamo, and it’s called, not surprisingly, the Alamo Bowl. It is one of two thirty-six-lane bowling complexes built for residents so far: one smoking, the other nonsmoking.
The three of us squeeze onto the front bench of their mother’s golf cart. Ben unrolls the cart’s plastic siding to protect us from a nippy wind, while Carl whips out a six-pack from a cooler behind the seat. We each pop open a beer. Carl flips on the battery, and the cart shoots forward. “Golf carts are definitely the way to go,” he says. “You can drink and nobody screws with you.”
Outside the Alamo Bowl, the parking lot is filled with golf carts, four to a space. “Bowling alley bars suck dick,” Carl offers, then pops open another beer. We step inside the karaoke bar, a popular Mexican-theme place called Crazy Gringos. It’s full, and we struggle to find seats. An older woman with a bright red sweater and skinny legs is singing “Tainted Love.”
We pull chairs up to a crowded table and I’m introduced to Jan and Darryl. They were neighbors when Carl and Ben were growing up in Iowa and remain good friends with their mother. Now they live in The Villages, too. Several pitchers of beer arrive. Carl leaves to sign his name on the karaoke list. Jan turns to me, asks if I’m looking for a “sugar mama,” and winks. With her short hair and bouncy energy, she passes for younger than her seventy years.
As is often the case when a Villager greets a stranger, the conversation veers to life in The Villages. “You can be anyone you want to be here,” Jan says. “If you ever, in your younger years, wanted to play softball, be a pool shark, or twirl a baton—maybe you weren’t any good at it, or didn’t have the time to do it—well, you can do it now. After living here, Darryl and me, we’re not going back to Iowa. The kids are there and all, but we’re not going back. It’s too friggin’ cold.
“This place is so unique. You can’t really compare it with anywhere else. Anything you need or want; it’s just a golf cart away. It’s unreal. And you don’t have to be fifty-five to enjoy it—well, you do if you want to live here—but it’s fun for everyone. My kids love visiting. Heck, my daughter would move in tomorrow if she were old enough. We were in a rut back in Iowa. But we’re here now, and it’s a party place. It’s been like a vacation from day one.”
Darryl looks at me with rheumy eyes. “I don’t say a lot,” he says, slurring his words. “But I like it, too. I just want to spend my days here; the ones I have left.”
Onstage, Carl is singing a rap song about big butts and getting “some booty.” I’m surprised to see several younger men on the dance floor make like they’re having sex from behind with their young dates. Then it’s back to the golden oldies with Elvis’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” and the dance floor fills up again with inebriated seniors. “They play anything from the 1950s or 1960s and the floor is packed,” Jan shouts over the music. “That’s the age group you got here.”
Several drinks later, I stagger to the toilet, passing alongside the closed bowling lanes. Once there, I bump into a man wearing a Veteran of Foreign Wars baseball cap. “I was a marine at Guadal-canal,” he says, and then lets out an impressively long belch. “I was wounded there and now I have diabetes. But after all these years, at least I can still party at The Villages.”