Bloomberg in Bermuda

I was assured by the Bermudian taxi driver that "my Mayor" slips unobtrusively into Bermuda at unexpected times throughout the year to stay in his exquisite and very private waterfront home in Tucker's Town. How he knows that is uncertain.

Of course, golf and the lack of the sirens that we fellow New Yorkers experience are the real reasons for taking a short, one and a half hour flight to the island of Bermuda from New York City. No one bothers Mike there, and no one cares that he is a billionaire in a land of immensely wealthy residents.

My recent trip there was filled with the usual amenities. Perfectly endless sunny days since early Spring. They are experiencing a drought that has not at all affected the exquisite oleander or hibiscus, which are exploding with vibrancy in sharp contrast to the pastel-colored buildings of the picturesque surroundings. The blue hue of the ocean is ridiculous. A painter would never attempt to copy that color to canvas for fear of being called a bad artist. It couldn't be--but it really is--that blue.

The greens of the best golf courses, Mid Ocean and Tucker's Point, are a tad beige in spots. Only slightly off, as thousands of gallons are pumped daily onto the courses. This is a challenge in itself, since the tray rooftops are structured to collect the rainwater from every house for purposes other than drinking. This is a charming necessity, as there are not simply not enough sources of water on the island.

So it is not surprising that my dream last night included both Bermuda and Mike Bloomberg in an exquisitely visual, multi-pixilated frame with Dolby sound. There I was, sitting at the pool deck of the exquisite Tucker's Point Hotel, sipping a tall Dark & Stormy, or as I would call this non-alcoholic version, a Dark & Rainy. There, coming from Mid Ocean from a rollickingly good day of golf was Michael Bloomberg. He approached. We exchanged smiles. He spoke.

"Good day," he said as he smiled. I wasn't sure if that was a formal salutation or a statement about his golf game. "Yes, yes. Of course." I struggled with small talk. But we warmed up to some genuine dialog when I threw in a New York reference or two to Derek Jeter and the Yankees. I shamelessly sought his approval. After all, I voted for Mike Bloomberg three times, term limits be damned. I would carry him to the White House, if I could.

In my dream, and over several cool beverages, we became great and intimate friends in the purest sense of the word. Mike and I were just not attracted to each other in that way. But on a deeper level, we were soul mates who shared the solution to all of New York, if not Life's problems.

As dreams go, this progressed nicely. So much so that he shared with me that he was supposed to meet with his lawyer that very day to write his will and decided NOT to leave his money to his family. No, he thought he would leave it to me instead! And then, he said, "In fact, I'm not even going to wait until I die. I'm going to give you money now."

Fast forward to my return home. I am at my ATM machine and discover my balance is $26 billion dollars! What a guy!!! So I withdrew $100, because somewhere in my subconscious I knew that Mike would KNOW what I was spending. But it really didn't matter how or why. There was plenty of room in my checkbook to donate to his inevitable run for the White House.