A love letter to me, a child who moved
after over 20 years, visiting the place that grew me
If you ever asked me where I grew up there’s a big chance that I gave you a long winded answer about being born in Connecticut, moving to South Florida at the age of three, and then moving back to Connecticut when I was just about 11. A lot of people subsequently ask me, “why?” And then I get to tell them the fun story of my parents’ impulsive decision. It was on a Memorial Day Weekend trip in 1992 to somewhere in South Florida that my parents were watching the sun set over the water. And in that moment they thought to themselves, “why don’t we just live here, in paradise?” So, the next day, before heading to the airport, they looked at real estate. And a few months later, our young family was settling into our new home in Boca Raton. We knew no one there and most of our extended family was now even further away. My dad commuted back and forth for his ongoing work in Connecticut, and thus began the routine that would shape my childhood.
And it was a fantastic childhood. We played outside constantly, riding bikes freely around the cul-de-sac, catching lizards and tadpoles and snails, and we’d all go to the beach when my dad was home on the weekends. I loved my school and wearing my uniform and my little weekend “capsule collection” of clothes. We took advantage of our proximity to cool nature preserves, and a highlight for certain were our weekend trips to Miami to eat Cuban food and buy hand rolled cigars. Everything felt alive and vibrant. Our friends were a quilted fabric of immigrants—everyone with their unique stories and foods and traditions. And it seemed like all of our parents equally loved to get dressed to the nines and have fun and go to parties. And this is what I learned life to be. It was a carefree life. A full life. There was so much potential in its currents. But despite how amazing my childhood was, it felt like over the span of 20+ years, I did a great job of burying it. Besides a few short weekend trips that I could count on one hand, I hadn’t really been back since we moved away.
At the end of last year, my parents gave us the news that they were moving back to Florida and suddenly, Florida was front and center on my mind once again.
As I helped my parents prepare for their move by clearing out our family basement, I sifted through boxes of old photographs and school projects and super secret diaries. And my heart ached for my childhood. What I wouldn’t do to be transported back to just one slumber party at Vanessa’s house with her super young, “cool”mum Olga, eating candy in bed and wearing matching silk PJs, or take a weekend boat ride, pulling up to the Boca Raton to swim in the pool all afternoon with Adam. I wished I could make up just one more dance to a 702 song or Aaliyah with Hannah and my sister. I yearned for my parents’ parties, especailly the ones where the kids were invited too, to ultimately fall alseep late at night to the sound of the adults laughing and chatting in the courtyard around the pool. Just one more lazy Saturday, with our UB40 album playing cheerfully on the stereo and my dad climing a ladder to cut down fresh young coconuts from the two trees that shaded our pool, sipping cooling juice from their freshly cracked shells.
Anyone who has moved as a child can understand how it feels. And most of us would probably admit that there is a part of us that wished we never had to.
Perhaps it’s a part of growing up—I will probably never fully know. But what I do know is that moving to a place where I felt like I lost that vivacious role model for living big took a toll on me. I became more reserved. I had less friends. I grew to be self conscious and wondered why no one wanted to date me. My heart would sting whenever I heard that my Boca friends were together, seemingly having forgotten about me over the years. And even recently, I see these friends at each others bachelorette parties and weddings, celebrating milestones, and I can’t help but wonder if I would’ve been there too.
As many of us who endured a childhood move do, I spent a lot of time wondering about the what if’s—about where I’d be now if I’d lived more of my teenage life in Boca. Who would be in my social circle? What adventures would I have embarked on? What would I be wearing? One thing is for certain—I probably would have gone to way more bar(t) mitzvahs consdiering that most of my friends were Jewish. I might’ve even had my own. Would I have eventually dated a boy I grew up with? Would I have more places to go to celebrate the Chagim? The more time passed, the more I wondered, was it the move or was it simply missing my childhood?
Either way, throughout my life, Boca became this faraway land that served as a time capsule—a place that preserved some of my most cherished memories.
And a few weeks ago, I finally got to go back.
We decided to do a quick getaway from my parents’ place and chose to stay in Delray Beach. As we approached South Florida, things began to feel comfortingly familiar. The highway signs that pointed to West Palm Beach and Miami. The vegetation and tall palm trees that lined the highway, and the sign for Miami Grill at a highway rest stop all triggered memories that I shared with Dan as we drove. A lot of things also felt entirely unfamiliar. But, as if to fulfill my nostalgic wishes, a lot of what I saw somehow felt frozen in time—allowing me a capsule to return to and turn over in my heart.
What felt super nostalgic to me were:
The color schemes (soft pinks, lush greens, lots of blues, soft yellows, terracotta)
Neon
Tropical plants and flowers
The waterways with lots of boat activity
& an overall feeling of aliveness
After a great dinner at a Lebanese restaurant called Amar, we walked a bit on Atlantic Avenue, and then headed back to Crane’s Beach House to sleep. Tomorrow would be my one full day to relive my childhood memories.
We started the day off at Caffe Luna Rosa, a restaurant across from the beach that appropriately felt as though it had been trapped in the 90s. Their playlist mirrored this one quite closely, which delighted me. We had enormous plates of eggs, and our cappuccinos were served with a biscotti and those rock crystal stirrers that I used to love to steal and eat like a lollipop when I was a kid.
Then it was off to Boca Raton. We drove up to my old community gates but were sadly denied access. It would have been so cool to see my old house, but I had a feeling that this would happen. I was thrilled to see the font on the sign and the pond near the entrance hadn’t changed much since I lived there.
We passed by my old Publix and although we didn’t go in, I had the opportunity to visit this supermarket a lot during our two week stay in Florida. I indulged in the sprinkle cookie I used to get from the bakery when we’d go grocery shopping and it was pure joy.
Surprise, we also did not go in here, but the Town Center Mall has a very special place in my heart. My mum, sister and I used to go here often after we were picked up from school, and would generally stop in at Godiva to get a special treat from the ladies who worked there. I went hard (and still do) for the prailine filled oyster, pictured here.
We also drove by my old elementary school and I was delighted to see the soft pink building just as I’d remembered.
Then it was off to Mizner Park, a place we used to visit often for dinner. It was honestly a bit underwhelming (I knew it would be) but there were still parts of it that brought me a lot of joy to reminisce over. (the architecture! the pink! the mizner font!) We sat and had coffee and when we were done, we realized that it was only 11:30a. We’d zipped through most of what I’d wanted to try to see in Boca (except for Morikami Gardens but we wouldn’t have been able to visit with our pup!) and I felt pretty satisfied with the closure it had brought me.
Of course, this left us one unturned leaf—Miami. How I have been craving Miami for the past few months is absolutely crazy, considering I hadn’t thought much about this city in many, many years. So, with four hours to spare, we decided to be spontaneous and drive another hour(ish) down the coast.
We only had time to scratch the surface and drove through the Design District before making our first stop in Wynwood. We obviously made Zak the Baker our utmost priority and indulged in the most succulent slice of babka that I regret not buying a whole loaf of. We walked around, taking in the street art and popped into a few other stores before booking it to Little Havana. Here, we had cafecitos, perused a local makers market, and I reminisced on my many Sundays spent walking this very street as a child.
We drove back up the coast to Deerfield Beach to have dinner with Dan’s aunt and family, and then drove back to Delray Beach through Boca along the A1A close to midnight. It was obviously very dark, but something about this drive—the way the air felt on my face, the smell of the nearby salty ocean and it’s embrace, and the enormous houses backing up to the water with elegant lights htiting their facades felt really, really nostalgic. We passed Gumbo Limbo where I remember one day, early in the dark hours of morning, my sister, Hannah, and our moms had gone to the park to watch baby sea turtles hatch from their nest and make their way to the sea. It was such a special thing to witness.
The next day, before heading back up the coast, we decided to stop at a few thift stores I’d earmarked and stop by a restaurant called the Cuban Cafe that I used to go to with my family religiously. We started the day with breakfast smoothies from The Seed. I really enjoyed watching people buzz in and out of this place, and I also loved that they had empanadas. It felt very South Florida.
I almost screamed when I discovered a thrift store run by the JCC and was totally thrilled to find many a menorah and seder plate inside. I had a great time chatting with the shopkeepers and could have gushed for many more hours about how excited I was to be in a Jewish thrift store.
Our last stop was The Cuban Cafe, and I was devastated when we pulled up to the wrong Cuban Cafe. I’d mistaken the address and tragically, The Cuban Cafe I’d gone to as a child was only open later in the day. We’d have to miss it this trip. However, we were set on getting sandwiches for the road, so we settled for this spot (sigh). It ended up being fine, but I will be making it my top priority to visit the restaurant I know and love when I am next in Florida.
As we returned to Central Florida, I felt grateful for the opportunity to reconnect with this part of me. I felt held and whole. I can’t wait to return, especially to Miami, to explore more!
As someone who moved in middle school, and then a larger cross-country move just before starting high school, I so related to this one. I just went back to where I grew-up this past week and I'd be lying if I said I didn't ponder what might have been.