The Window Washers

My Monday begins as I open the sliding glass door and step onto the back balcony into the halfway-cool morning air. A welcome breeze is coming off the ocean and ruffles the fronds of the palm trees that grace the grounds of our condo at Palisades Palms. Michael has been out here for awhile. As I stand gazing out to the sea, he looks up at me and says, “The window washers are here.”

I rein my telescopic gaze in and notice the normally secure taught ropes and cables stretching from the top of the tower to the ground, three floors beneath me, dangling loosely close to our balcony railings.

A while later, as we sip our coffee, I wave as I watch the window-washing crew ascend in their questionably safe platform. Even though it has railings of sorts, and even though they have ropes tied to their bodies for safety, my knees get weak just thinking about being them. When they reach eye level, I wave and tell them, “You are very brave.”

A Trek to the Beach

Today—Monday—is the first morning since we have been here that a thick blanket of clouds safely hides the sun. Ordinarily, I would bemoan this fact, but today I am grateful. The blistering heat of this year’s September sun is more than I bargained for when I made reservations for our beach escape. As a result, I have taken refuge in the shade of our two balconies or the coolness of the AC, either here or there or somewhere. Today, this portion of Galveston’s sandy beach and I can finally become acquainted.

After I grab my waterproof sandals, Michael and I head to the beach for a morning walk. Just getting there is quite a jaunt but half the fun. Taking the elevator to the lobby, we bump into several vacationers who have already called it a day and are returning to their rooms—it is not even 9 am. Passing through the door to the pool area, we circle around tables and chairs and loungers and a fire pit, making our way to a gate that takes us to a stairway leading down, which drops us at a gate that is the beginning of the wooden walkway leading to the beach.

If you look closely, you can see three window washing crews on the two towers of Palisade Palms.

I stop often, looking back and up to see the progress of our areal window washers. My knees continue to weaken thinking about them. Seeing them. So I turn, take a few more stairs leading down, follow Michael along a path through the beach grass, and—we are here, at the beach! Finally.

Send in the Clouds

The beach is as pristine as any beach can be! No seaweed. Never trash. Very few people. It is perfection. I stop and stare more than I walk. The clouds are GLORIOUS! I want to be a kite and dance among the soft, pillowy peaks. And those that look like a floating castle, and I wonder why we left our beach kite at home. My packing was very haphazard it seems. No forethought—it was only a week, after all. How much could we need?

Turning back toward our condo, I notice other clouds that loom large. Too beautiful to threaten. Too overwhelming to take lightly.

Leftovers for Lunch

When the clock nears 11:30, we are both hungry. Our stay-at-home food options are few, but I begin to enumerate them. When I reach my third unappealing choice, Michael says, “What about your leftover lasagna from Mario’s?” Brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that?

Ten minutes later, the lasagna warmed; Michael and I are on the balcony, looking toward the beginning of forever, sipping cold French rose and eating decadent leftovers—meat, cheese, pasta.

Life at the beach, in a condo with a balcony, on a Monday is—lovely, I think.

Gin, not Vodka, Shaken, not Stirred…

Our Monday afternoon melts. We fill it with nothing! Reading. Napping. Looking at the weather forecast. Reading. Making plans—making at least one plan—where to go for Happy Hour. It’s hard to pass up the opportunity.

Four-thirty finds us sitting at the bar in Landry’s, swiveling around in the upholstered, high back stools that line the room-long, highly polished, wide strip of granite that is the bar. I’m waiting for my gin martini. Michael awaits his Old Fashioned.

Five minutes ago, I panicked, slid off my stool, and went in search of the bartender, asking when I found him, “I did say gin? Right?” I said GIN. Michael says my instructions are too lengthy. Martini. Gin. Up. Shaken till icy cold crystals form on top when poured. Three olives.

When I take the first sip of my gin martini, it is perfect. I can imagine how well it will go with our shared truffled fries and my tuna poke. It seems like a totally perfect happy hour dinner to me. And it is—simple, elegant, crisp, tasty, salty, umami-filled decadence. We may never go back home.

I think I said that in February, too—always in jest. Wimberley is a magnet with an extremely powerful pull.

The Ship Channel

Suitably happy from our hour at Landry’s, we drive East on Sewall Boulevard, impressed that humanity doesn’t overwhelm the premises today. This weekend, hordes lined the Seawall in all directions: walkers, drivers, cyclers, revelers, scantily clad, nubile young bathers, and everyone with a car. It was almost claustrophobic. I wondered what high summer must be like.

Bypassing Palisades Palms, we head to our favorite spot on the island—the ship channel. Don’t ask me why, but being here makes me happy. The sun is behind a cloud. There is a gentle breeze. The little red Mustang loses its head, and the top goes down. We just sit and be. Happy. Grateful.

The sun breaks through the cloud cover as it nears its time to sink into the horizon. Michael looks left, toward the north, and dark clouds that are so blue they are on the verge of black. He starts the motor, the engine purrs, and the Mustang’s top is back in place.

The Storm

The storm threatens and rumbles, but there isn’t a drop of moisture anywhere. Soon after dark, more than four hours later than predicted, the storm roars like a lion. Rain pours. Wind howls. Whips. Lashes. And then—it is gone.

As Mondays go, this one has been rather spectacularly special.

Landry’s In Galveston

If you are in Galveston and want a very happy, Happy Hour for dinner, pop into Landry’s on the Seawall. If there is one thing I can say about Tilman Fertitta’s restaurants, it is that the food is consistently good. I’m not sure what his magic formula is, but it seems to work. Happy Hour is 3:30 – 6:30 pm, Monday thru Friday. Peruse the menu by clicking on the link below.

https://www.landrysprime.com/location/landrys-prime-seafood-steaks/#happy-hour-galv