The east coast of South Florida feels like purgatory. There's Miami, and there are beaches, but drive for 20 minutes outside of either, and it's just vast plains of boxy, beige retirement villages, distinguishable only by their names, which all sound like euphemisms for a place you go when you die — Valencia Isles, Windward Palms, Mangrove Bay — and the relative elaborateness of their welcome fountains.