Pitch dark, wide awake. Not a creature is stirring, not even a cow. I roll out of bed, throw on some clothes and pad around CC like a ghost, exploring its communal spaces, multiple decks, and swimming pools (two). CC was designed as a private residence, and then converted (by popular demand) into a boutique hotel comprised of eleven rooms. I definitely feel as though I'm a guest at someone's crazy-chic home.
Although the kitchen staff-to-guest ration is 5 to 1, the crew on the dock/deck/dining room serve me my breakfast of eggs, toast, coffee, and juice in a leisurely 45 minutes (I'm the only person here). Billy Goat Tavern O'Hare it's not. But that's ok, I'm in no rush.
Two days of airplane-induced immobility and I crave a walk. I turn left out of CC and walk along an upscale (I think) residential road. I love the architecture. Unlike some places I've lived -- say, Palm Beach County, Florida (Mizner stucco) or Lincoln Park in Chicago (three-storey brick)-- no two houses are similar. Some are very ornate, with avatars, crosses, or swastikas (a symbol of Eastern religions long before being appropriated by the Third Reich) proclaiming the residents' religion. Others are painted roof to foundation in bright, tropical colors. My favorite houses, though, are the Grey Gardens type: dilapidated, drowning in flora, and rotting away, yet still retaining a hint of their original grandeur. Ancient, uncared for, and ignored, and a little proud.
But the houses are not the highlight of my walk: the best part is passing the Indian women. They eye me a tad suspiciously at first -- clearly I'm not from these parts -- but nearly all of them reciprocate enthusiastically when I smile and offer a "hi!"
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