Free Leisureville by Andrew D. Blechman

magazine, which is filled with comforting articles on life in The Villages.
    I am in the lobby for mere moments when a resident named Marvel walks up and introduces herself. She is one of several greeters, all of whom happen to be residents of The Villages. A lot of residents choose to work for The Villages, mostly as part-timers looking for a little extra cash and something to do.
    Marvel jumps right into a friendly sales pitch. “Oh, goodness, there are so many things to do here—more than a thousand activities each week,” she tells me. “It’s such a wonderful place for parents. You know what they say: people live longer when they stay involved and active!”
    I sip a complimentary cup of coffee and ask her what it’s like to live in a community that restricts visits by younger family members. “It’s true that children can’t stay longer than thirty days in any given year,” she responds. “But gosh, we’re so busy; they’re so busy. We’re living our lives; they’re living theirs. We visit them; they visit us. It works out just fine. Oh, look, I think the trolley’s back. Let’s go see!”
    Waiting outside is a bus masquerading as a San Francisco cable car with the aid of a colorful vinyl veneer. Buddy, a paunchy midwesterner with a big smile, is the driver. He is wearing a festive miniature top hat—a child’s party favor—held in place with an elastic band that might ordinarily fit under one’s chin. It is too small, so Buddy wears the elastic around the back of his head. Mindy, also aheavyset midwesterner with a contagious smile, is the tour guide. She wears a festive miniature plastic tiara. “Looks like Mindy is the Trolley Queen today!” Marvel remarks.
    I board the intensely air-conditioned bus. Mindy sits in the front on a raised seat facing me. I take out my pen and paper and look around. I am the only passenger. Nevertheless, Mindy puts on her headset and turns up the volume. “The Villages is the place to be,” she says, in her sing-song Scandinavian cadence of the upper Midwest. “It’s unbelievable! Buddy and I are both proud to call it our home. If you’re bored here, it’s your own fault!” Buddy turns his head and nods emphatically from the driver’s seat, and then puts the bus into gear. Mindy tells me that above all The Villages stands for GLC: golf, lifestyle, and convenience. “You can buy a home anywhere; we’re selling a lifestyle that you can’t find anywhere else in the world. Now keep in mind, everywhere we go today is accessible by golf cart.”
    We drive around the town square, which Mindy compares to New York City’s Times Square “because there is live entertainment every night.” We drive past several churches: “No community is complete without houses of worship!” Then Mindy points out the hospital. “Take a good look at it now because we’re about to add three more floors and an intensive care unit.” Mindy doesn’t mention that despite the expansion of the medical facility and its self-proclaimed status as a regional hospital, there is no maternity ward.
    Buddy makes his way around another large traffic circle and then pulls up to a guard booth. “These are our lovely gates,” Mindy announces. “We’re going to drive to some more established neighborhoods so you can get an idea of what your house will, uh, look like in a few years.” Mindy looks at me awkwardly. “Um. OK. We’re in the neighborhoods now; that’s why we came through a controlled-access gate.”
    Every quarter mile or so, we pass additional gates on either side of us. These are the so-called residential “villages.” Thepreponderance of gates, guard booths, walls, and security cameras is a touch peculiar, given that The Villages bills itself as Florida’s Friendliest Hometown. But it is