Those winter weeks before the start of the German open-air season, which the author spent year after year in South Florida, to work and play tennis – preferably on the public squares.
Image: Karen D’Silva / Cavan Images / laif
Anyone for tennis? About encounters with cozy retirees and sleazy swindlers, war veterans and amateur historians as well as Gerd Müller in the courts of Florida.
“Yes. It was a happy time. ”The first and last sentence from Lars Gustafsson’s short story“ The Tennis Players ”can be used in many ways. It applies, for example, to the happy times that I miss most in the current circumstances. Those winter weeks before the start of the German open-air season, which I spent year after year in South Florida, to work, by the way. And to play tennis. Always on the Atlantic side, in the narrow, densely built-up coastal strip between Miami Beach and Boca Raton, roughly halfway.
According to Wikipedia, Fort Lauderdale is “the Venice of America”, which is nonsensical in every respect. The oldest house in the city dates from the early twentieth century, the swanky palazzi are made of concrete and are much younger. There are plenty of canals near the coast, but most of them end abruptly, as do the roads that run between them. In the rarest of cases they are connected by bridges. Lauderdale is a city of dead ends. To characterize it as “Damascus of America” would still not be an appropriate comparison. At best, the smells are oriental when you turn downtown from one of the large boulevards and cycle between the blooming front gardens to the tennis center. Before the work is done, mind you.
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