Miami Nice
by Karen Williams
It was time.
I had lived in the Orlando area for four years and yet never ventured south of Kissimmee. It was time that I journeyed to the land of foliage on steroids, highways that jut into the sky like carnival rides, and (who knows?) actor Don Johnson in a crumpled summer suit and five-o-clock shadow. It was time I visited Miami.
Moreover, it was time I visited my son Joel, a second-year law student at University of Miami. A brief fact-finding mission would reveal if he was REALLY hitting the books or, instead, falling prey to the lures of the city: cruising Collins Avenue and doing chips-and-salsa dancing in the clubs till Mr. Sun squints over the horizon.
Nothing against Miami. I had delayed my visit because (a) I originally hail from a small town in Indiana, which renders me leery of bustling, melting-pot type places without cows and (b) I’m scared to drive in heavy, fast-moving traffic, which tends to keep me pretty close to home these days, if not utterly confined to my garage. But when my boyfriend, Mark, graciously offered to drive me to Miami, I decided to venture into the unknown. I bought a “Learn Spanish during Rush Hour” CD, choked back my metro-phobia, and planned our brief visit to “Dade but Never Dead” County.
We left on a Saturday, traveling down I-95 near places I’d only heard about: Cocoa, Melbourne, and (homesickness began to set in) Vero Beach. Then, just as Mapquest predicted, we rolled by Fort Pierce, good old Stuart (first name or last?), and West Palm. Next came those places that puzzle the heck out of a person when first seen on a map: Hypoluxo, Boca Raton, Pompano Beach, and See-Inset-Below. Then, of course, came Fort Lauderdale, which would be the perfect habitat for my cousin’s son, Thomas Lauderdale. The leader of the popular musical group “Pink Martini,” he’s perhaps unaware there’s a town where he could have name recognition even WITHOUT playing piano like there’s no tomorrow.
Finally we entered Miami proper. (Or improper, if you want to get strait-laced about people’s attire.) Suddenly, like bats out of Hades, 12 motorcyclists zipped around us at speeds surely in excess of 100 mph and, to top it off, buzzing in and out of the carpool (“HOV”) lane. We fully expected them to be nabbed by police up ahead, but the only arrest we saw was a Volkswagen pulled over by three cruisers. The bigger the city, the bigger the irony, we concluded, and had fun flouting authority in the carpool lane with our low-occupancy vehicle.
Mark and I enjoyed Sunday lunch with Joel and his girlfriend, Olesia, on the sidewalk (a table, actually) at Sunset Tavern in South Miami/Coral Gables, and then we toured the University of Miami campus, where Joel, Olesia, and I shared an “Oh, I could’ve had a V-8!” moment about our college days in Indiana. With that many palm trees and sidewalks for roller-blading (hoop-rolling in my day), even Freshman Humanities would have seemed humane. The libraries—both undergrad and law—loomed large and impressive. If THEY don’t have the book you want, I surmised, you just plain don’t need it.
Back at Joel’s apartment, I found ample evidence he was indeed keeping current with his law studies, revealed by stacks of forbidding-looking textbooks and journals about somebody-or-other vs. somebody-or-other vs. somebody-or-other else. Certificates on the wall indicated that, in some courses such as “Constitutional Law,” he had “booked” the class—gotten the top grade. Not too shabby for a guy whose boyhood had him headed straight towards a career with the demolition derby.
If efficient American travelers can “do” Europe in a week, we did Miami that weekend. We savored soul food at Esther’s Diner (“since 1961”) and eyed the mansions of the stars, where we could virtually feel J-Lo, Rosie O., Julio, Ricky Martin, and Shaq waving a plastic pink flamingo at us in greeting. We saw the new 6-6-6 condo towers—six bedrooms, six baths, six million dollars. (With all those bathrooms, they’re a steal by anyone’s standards.) And of course we checked out Miami Beach, where vintage hotels and trendy shops beckoned us to bask in the neon haze of almost-always summer. After visiting the lighthouse at Key Biscayne, we strolled the beach while Olesia and Joel debated whether he has hairy, over-size hobbit feet and Mark and I prudently kept our sneakers on.
“Ah, Florida, my Florida,” I purred as we headed home on the turnpike Monday evening. “How on earth could ANYONE choose to live ANYWHERE else?”
“Apparently they haven’t,” Mark groaned, eyeing the surrounding traffic. “Where’s that carpool lane when we need it?”
It was a short visit, but I was smitten by Miami. And if Joel lands a good summer job with a law firm (résumé available upon request) AND the Dolphins get back in the swim of things, I’ll be even more smitten.
Meanwhile, every time I sit down at Denny’s and order “Moons Over My Hammy,” I’ll feel a sweet little tug on my heart.
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Copyright 2005, Karen Williams
