In the 1960s and '70s, Miami, Florida was a pretty OK place to live. The climate was temperate, we didn't even have air conditioning until the mid-sixties. The suburbs were quiet and peaceful, crime was pretty rare and there was a thin veneer of stability which kept us from being too fearful of the world.
The Cuban Missile Crisis shook us up a bit, I recall. The entire city was quiet and held its breath for a couple of weeks, we knew missiles were aimed directly at Miami.
Clicking on the picture will take you to a Google Map Street view and a look around will testify that we did indeed have little pink houses, although my dad painted the house white with bright flame-orange trim. Looks like Paradise, doesn't it? Well, it wasn't, and the best thing I can say about it is that I survived.
So, proof positive that if life doesn't always start out just the way you'd like, you can go on to outlast the bastards.
If this wasn't the blog post you were expecting, good. I don't like being predictable and reminiscing isn't my best thing.