It is summer in Greenlake. People - so many people! - have emerged from their condos and bungalows and immense Victorian estates, and congregate around the lake in various shades of paleness, exercise, and undress. While they were hidden away for the winter, they seem to have been busy, because there are to be found almost as many babies as dogs. On a hillside, men, ripped men who appear to have spent all winter going to the gym just for this moment, lay stretched out tanning their white bellies and checking to make sure people are looking at them. On the lake, teams race outrigger boats, and groups of giggling teenagers pile into paddle-boats while fuzzy ducklings cluster together a few feet from shore. Shaky rollerbladers totter along, arms akimbo, while a "cool" guy cruises effortlessly by on quads, twisting and turning with feline ease. A skinny nerd stalks through the grass, his world absorbed in the book he's holding in front of his face, and I feel a strange kinship to his self-absorbed dismissal of all those around. I, Florida-raised, complain of the heat and mock myself for it. It is summer in Greenlake.