It takes a village

SOMEWHERE IN CENTRAL FLORIDA — I admit we were ambivalent about spending the final two days of our trip in this part of the Sunshine State.

Don’t get me wrong. We were excited to see where our old friend Sparky plans to spend half the year so she can golf all winter and avoid Michigan when walking to your mailbox with a snow shovel and industrial ice cleats on your boots is a fashion statement.

Not that I would know anything about this.

It’s a big step. Our snowbird friend is ready to fly, and we’ve never seen her happier. Her new housemate and friend of 30 years is a gem. She’s kind-hearted, smart and the good kind of crazy.

But with all due respect to them and other heat-seeking snowbirds who land here annually, this part of Florida’s mass appeal was lost on us.

No ocean. No gulf. No beaches. No way.

Welcome to The Villages.

Fondly known as “Disney World for old people,” this retiree haven between Ocala and Leesburg is the largest gated, over-55 community in the world. It holds more than 100,000 residents in an area larger than NYC’s Manhattan that sprawls over three central Florida counties.

There are 80 different villages in The Villages – and it’s growing. Amid the property’s 32 square miles are about 90 miles of golf cart paths. That’s about the distance from Key West to Havana.

Most everyone gets around in a golf cart, some more stylish than others. They even have their own designated parking areas outside businesses, along with tunnels and a bridge to cross major highways.

The Villages’ structural layout resembles something out of a town from a Lionel electric train set, perfectly placed buildings painted in soothing pastel shades designed to appeal to all five senses.

I must say, the whole idea of this place with its Stepford-wife uniformity creeped me out when I first visited The Villages in my 30s. But 25 years later, I had a much different perspective.

Viewed through my soon-to-be 60-year-old eyes, The Villages appears less cookie-cutter and more like college for seniors with disposable income who are away at an expensive party school.

It’s an adults-only playground with one thing forbidden: children. They’re allowed to visit for fewer than 30 days, but rug rats under 19 must have visitors’ passes like international visas. I mean, how cool is that? “Where’s your shuffleboard pass, kid?”

Michigan native Harold Schwartz purchased thousands of acres in Lake and Sumter counties. In 1972, he transformed the land into a modest mobile-home park and later a mammoth community called Orange Blossom Gardens that redefined retirement and old age. He died at 93 in 2003.

His statue stands guard in The Villages’ Town Square, a testament to his goal of creating a full-service community where older people could ditch rocking chairs and needlepoint in favor of cycling clubs, computer classes and line dancing.

After Schwartz’s death, his son H. Gary Morse, took over operations, not only selling residents their homes, but also financing their mortgages, being landlord of all the commercial buildings, including the bank, hospital, utilities, trash collection, the TV and radio stations, as well as the conservative-leaning newspaper. Morse became a billionaire developer and died in 2014 at 77.

Anyway, after just 48 hours of this northerner’s exposure to The Villages, here’s what I’ve learned:

• They have entertainment every night from 5-9 p.m. in all three town squares, except if it’s raining or below 45 degrees. During our visit, we had dinner at a lovely Villages restaurant called Waterfront. For three solid hours, a 50-ish British singer (and Pink lookalike!) named Petrina belted out popular songs from every era. My special request was for her to sing “something from the 1940s.” Her choice: “What a Difference a Day Makes.” (Swoon.)
• There are approximately 3,200 possible activities to take part in here. From art to zen, there’s no earthly reason for boredom. I guess you can always stay home and work on that unfinished needlepoint.
• The golf courses are beautiful, even the par-3s. There are 50, and 38 are nine-hole executive courses, which residents can play for free. Twelve are country club 18-hole championship courses, including one designed by LPGA Hall of Famer Nancy Lopez, which do charge greens fees.
• Some of the golf carts I mentioned earlier cost upwards of $25,000 and are tricked out to look like Hummers, Mercedes sedans and hot rods. You can guess what I’d do with mine. (Mini-Mustang Sal? Or Sal Mini-O?)
• At least once a week, someone mistakes the exit gate arms for a McDonald’s drive-thru and crashes into it. A hidden camera snaps a photo of the vehicle’s license plate and promptly sends the culprit a $200 fee for repairs. “How’s my driving, Wilma?” Not so good, Fred.
• That nasty rumor about “America’s Friendliest Hometown” having the highest rate of STDs in the nation must be quelled. “Ground zero for geriatrics who are seriously getting it on,” the New York Post roared in 2009. No one asked me to put my keys in a bowl at a party. But then again, Rebecca’s been doing most of the driving.

We don’t plan on becoming Villagers. It sure was a nice place to visit, though.

My favorite part was Saturday night when people of all shapes, sizes, creeds and orientations were eating, drinking and (horrors!) dancing to Petrina’s beautiful music, including the love songs.

No one stared. No one cared. It was so moving that I teared up watching an older female couple slow-dance to my 1940’s song request. You could tell they’d been No. 1 on each other’s dance cards forever. What a difference a gay makes.

A few hours into our long drive home up I-75 north, we said goodbye to the Sunshine State. Just before the Florida-Georgia state line, there was a more official farewell that’s been there for years. I never noticed it.

“Thank you for visiting Florida,” it reads.

You’re welcome. And at last, so are we.