Florida Beach Real Estate

My grandfather just bought a Florida beach villa, and I’m going to admit to you that I’m jealous. His front yard is decorated with key lime trees, and when he goes to sleep at night he falls asleep to the rhythmic crashing of the surf, only a few hundred yards away from his Florida beach villa. What I wouldn’t do for my own Florida beach villa. When I was a boy my grandfather taught me to swim. He would throw me in the pool, and in my panic I’d yell “grandpa! I’m drowning!” And he’d say “you call it drowning, I call it learning to swim.” Then he would laugh. I think I always held this against him. Which is why I am annoyed that he just bought a beautiful Florida beach villa not far from Orlando. Of course, I don’t really like Florida. But if I had a Florida beach villa I might feel differently. I don’t like Florida because of all the strip malls, but if I had a Florida beach villa I wouldn’t leave my property. I’d have my wife do our shopping and I’d work from home on my computer. That is my dream. But I still dislike Florida. My grandfather moved to the Orlando area to meet women. He was divorced before I was born, and he always complained about the lack of interesting or beautiful women in upstate New York. By upstate New York I am UP state. About as far from a Florida beach villa as you can get. I’m talking the North Country here. Where the men are men and the cows are nervous. Where trailers litter the county highways and rusting Chevy Camaros on blocks litter the front yards of those trailers. Double wides, to be specific. Single wide trailers are for fools. Needless to say, my grandfather didn’t go on many dates in his hometown of Ogdensburg, NY. He always wanted to move to Florida, and he always wanted a key lime tree. And now that he bought a Florida beach villa, he has both. Lucky guy. When I was ten, my grandfather took my to Disneyworld. I hated it. I hated the crowds and the fakeness. But I loved the ocean, and I’d always make him dive me there. I think he loved the ocean too. Watching the crashing surf, I would see him smile slightly, and he never smiled. He was a tough man. My grandfather’s name is Albert Ficelle, and he named his Florida beach villa the Flying Dutchman. I’m not sure why. I asked him last week when I went to visit him, and he mumbled something about his childhood friend Christine. But then he said “Roger, it’s time for a walk to the beach.” And off we went, our flip-flops clacking against the hot beige pavement. Which is another weird thing about Florida. The roads are not black. It’s weird. I am leaving for the airport now. Grandpa Albert called me a cab, and I’m getting in. I hate him for buying a Florida beach villa, but I hate leaving it more.