And man, I did have a dreadful flight. I sat next to this couple that spent the whole time eating “Cheese-Its” and snuggling. Ick.
As previously advertised, I just spent a long weekend in Miami, illegal immigration and cocaine capitol of the world. Bottom line, its worth about one weekend, tops, and don’t go out of your way to go there. See it once, then move on to something else.
Thursday, I attended a West Palm Beach charity luncheon featuring Terry Bradshaw as guest speaker. Because that’s how I roll. He was introduced by the new congressman for that district, one Tom Rooney. Yeah, those Rooneys. Being a former die-hard Houston Oiler fan, it was pretty tough to take all the Steeler worship in the air. You know what Terry,
Mike Renfro caught the ball in bounds and its still a touchdown. Bradshaw gave an extended monologue version of his wacky Fox pre-game show hijinks with Howie and Jimmy. Basically the message was, “enjoy being alive and smile.” Other than the five minutes’ worth of bitter hatred for his ex-wife and not making what Ben Roethlisberger makes, thrown in at no extra charge, it was a cotton candy speech. Terry, you and your boys may have cheated to beat the Oilers and win Super Bowls, but people still remember your star turn in
Cannonball Run and not being able to spell "cat" if you're spotted the "c" and the "t."
From there it was on to the I-95, which seems to be the dorsal spine of the East Coast, to head south for an hour and a half to Miami, Florida, home of sunshine and drug lords. To call the drive boring is something of an understatement. Imagine the Gulf Freeway between Telephone Road and Nasa Road 1 going on for 50 miles, and that’s what you get. Along the way you see signs for towns whose only claim to fame is having been destroyed by hurricanes. What do these people do the rest of the time? Board their windows? Clean up storm debris? Kill looters? Life’s tough when you’re just waiting for the next disaster to strike.
After arriving at the hotel downtown and being checked in by 6 foot desk clerk Oksana, who apparently has the reception desk stint at the Four Seasons while waiting for her modeling or event hosting career to take off (but who apparently has left her mail order husband), I hit the fitness center. Short of the
Houstonian, this is the best hotel fitness center I’ve ever been to. The club is open to the public, which has led to three types of people working out there: (1) hotel guests (easily spotted by their wintry pallor and flab overabundance); (2) chaches (training to look good for their real estate or four star restaurant executive assistant gig); and (3) insanely hot latin babes from Planet Playboy. I’m not so sure South Florida hasn’t passed LA as cosmetic surgery capitol of the world. Even so, this was as good as it got all weekend, babewise, and Miami’s real finest still couldn’t compete on a Saturday night at
Randol’s in Lafayette or in the stands at Death Valley for an LSU home game. Funny no matter how many places I go, the daughters of Evangeline still reign supreme. The rest of the night was pretty uneventful-dinner at chain restaurant Oceanaire downtown, and a brief walk down Biscayne Boulevard where it becomes painfully obvious that Miami has succumbed to condo culture. Everywhere you turn, you see another 30 story high rise. Maybe its my skewed Texas perspective (Like the parent of the kid in the marching band convinced he was the only one marching the right steps, I prefer to think we’re normal and everyone else is out of whack), but I can’t understand this need to coop oneself up in concrete towers, depending on an elevator as a lifeline to nature and a sealed window as a constant reminder of being pigeonholed. Oh, and you pay twice as much for the “security” involved. Three guys in sports coats with walkie talkies. Give me a home…..
The next day, Friday, after getting hit $30 for a breakfast not quite as good as the half as costly Hilton buffet from yesterday and a $15/day internet access charge (free internet access at Motel 6, not the Four Seasons?), I discovered that the “cold front” the TV weather models had been warning of had blown through. Around here, a cold front apparently consists of anything below 75 degrees. It would get up to about 70 by mid-afternoon, but it was breezy, so don’t forget the wind chill factor. Leaving the hotel, I notice several Miami cops wearing fatigues talking to a phalanx of Hispanic guys in dark suits and ties with lapel pins standing around three or four black Lincoln town cars, and assume some on-the-take despot or his surrogate is a fellow hotel-mate.
Miami is really a collection of neighborhoods and small towns. Miami fronts Biscayne Bay. To the east is Miami Beach, which like Padre Island is an elongated barrier island, with several towns including “Miami Beach.” Key Biscayne (anyone remember
Bebe Rebozo?) and several other smallish islands lie to the south of Miami Beach in Biscayne Bay. Immediately south and southwest of Miami proper are Coconut Grove and Coral Gables. Other little towns and neighborhoods like Hialeah, Miami Springs, Homestead, and Pinecrest ring Miami but for the most part where one stops and the other starts is indiscernible.
My first stop is Little Havana. The hotel concierge, who appeared to be Cuban, warned against getting out of my car while there, but having already braved Igauzu, Argentina (not to mention Galena Park, Texas) and having not shaved for a couple of days due to a 24 hour bout with fever, I figured I’d be ok. I anticipated a sprawling area with obvious Cuban influence and cultural markings, and while I did see some of that, the area is not nearly as large or as Cuban as one might think. Its not quite a sham like Little Italy in New York, but neither is it an overwhelmingly Cuban area. I did see a smallish fenced off area near an alley where some old guys were playing dominoes, but for a beautiful Friday morning with early Spring in the air, I expected more. Where were all the guys in wife beaters and linen shirts smoking cigars and wearing hats? So much for stereotypes. The area does cover about 20-30 blocks, with small tract houses often painted with bright colors. Though the area in no way is “blighted,” its clearly not that affluent. There’s one main street (“Calle Ocho”) with a lot of commercial establishments—think resale shops, convenience stores, cigar shops, and beauty parlors/barber shops. Some of the main cross streets have been named after US Presidents with Cuban connections—Ronald Reagan, Theodore Roosevelt, and John F. Kennedy.
From Little Havana I drove to the other side of town, which may have been the other side of the world.
Coconut Grove is to Miami what Park Place is to Monopoly. Lush, palm-lined streets with numerous impressive mansions overlooking the bay. I stopped in Kennedy Park and followed a smallish trail leading to the water past several trees with coconuts. Hence, “Coconut Grove” I imagine. Coconut Grove lacks much in the way of commercial development, which separates it from, say, Turtle Creek or Highland Village in Dallas, but it does have one interesting area, the “Coco Walk,” with several non-chain restaurants and shops. On the other hand, I noticed several “private” banking establishments dotting the streets. I’m sure they’re in no way involved with money laundering or investment scams.
From Coconut Grove I continued west to
Coral Gables, which in many ways would be Boardwalk to Coconut Grove’s Park Place. Coral Gables is where they keep the
Biltmore Hotel, which as I’ll describe later is probably the finest hotel I’ve ever seen. That small town has several private golf courses, numerous private schools, a huge number of mansions and mansionettes (I call them “gate houses”), the area’s botanical garden, and the University of Miami campus. This is where the real money lives. I started out looking for running socks (left mine back home), which took me near to the UM campus to a store called “
Foot Works,” highly rated on the internet for running shoes and apparel. Its hard to find the particular socks I like but this store had them in stock. They’re located in a shopping area that on Sunday hosted a smallish art fair (which I drove by but skipped because my feet were killing me from Saturday’s South Beach adventure-tease). On my to the Niketown store, I passed Dan Marino’s restaurant (named after himself in a fit of modesty), and observed that the menu sucked. From there I drove through much of the town, observing the many great houses on incredible tree-lined streets. One thing about Miami and particularly Coral Gables, the trees and shrubs dominate the area; its still February but there was natural color all around (as you’ll see in the flickr pictures). Still enjoying great sunny, 70 degree weather, I head to the “Miracle Mile,” which ironically, is neither miraculous nor a mile. Its basically another shopping district. I guess if you consider a Starbucks across the street from a Houston’s miraculous, then ok. Its not a mile so much as two city blocks. The name, I think, has historical connotations. This raises the point that the city hall and many other buildings in the area have really interesting combination Spanish/roman architectural styles. They pre-date the art deco period, and appear to have been influenced by the similarly-themed Biltmore Hotel, located nearby. Unlike Houston, Miami and Coral Gables have obviously done a pretty good job of preserving older structures. From the Miracle Mile I proceeded to the UM campus. Along the way, listening the local jazz station’s latin jazz program, which played a rousing version of the “I Love Lucy” theme by
Arturo Sandoval, complete with someone saying “Lucy, I’m home from the club” at the end. It was a fitting theme for the afternoon. OK, the UM campus sucks, lets just get that straight. Late 1960s/early 1970s pre-fab, functional, Warsaw Pact-style architecture. And it’s a private university so there’s not a lot of hot coed babe action to dress up the place. Think Tulane with KGB Headquarters-style buildings. The University of Houston thinks Miami has an ugly campus. What do you expect, what with Mike Brady as the epitome of the 1970s architect? That guy could barely run his own home without Ann B. Davis butting in every 5 seconds (between her 12 daily trips to the butcher, that is). Oh, and this will be my first annual plea for al Queda to take out the Pennzoil Towers, I mean, when no one’s there of course, like Christmas Day or something. They’re basically the black monolith from 2001, only uglier.
The Biltmore Hotel deserves its own paragraph. Bult in the 1890s and acquired by the Biltmore chain in the 1920s, this place is incredible. Swimming pools, movie stars, plus the most sumptuous pools, gardens, fountains, architecture and decorations, surrounded by golf courses. Because Coral Gables does not appear to have succumbed to high rise condo culture quite to the same extent as other areas of town, the hotel can be seen for many miles away. Bill Clinton stayed here early in his presidency (the 1993 pictures of he and Hillary are pretty amusing with 15 years’ distance-helmet hair and bold “fourth grade class president” outfits did Hillary no favors, even then). A small army of staff covered the place, meticulously tending to the grounds, serving guests at the pool or on the course, or performing other functions. If I ever come back here and can get approved for a loan, I’ll try to stay here.
The rest of the night was fairly uneventful. I had dinner at “
Titanic Brewery” right next to the UM baseball stadium. They were playing Rutgers in the first game of the season, and I managed to sneak in a watch a couple of innings. As it was around 50 though, I bagged it and went home. Miami won 6-1.
Saturday was all about South Beach, getting in my weekly long run, checking out the people on the boardwalk, and exploring the fabled Art Deco buildings. It was another spectacular day, bright all around, but a bit warm for the nine mile run I’d planned for the beach and promenade. Luckily, the constant breeze I’d noticed since arriving Thursday was even stronger, obviously near the beach (duh!). South Beach, for those unaware, was home to the Art Deco architectural movement in the 1930s and remains the most concentrated example of such style still in existence. The area still has a certain seedy, Jackie Gleason feel to it, despite obvious restoration efforts that commenced in the 1980s. In the morning hours during my run, I notice a rather conspicuous absence of dirty, disgusting Euros that one normally encounters in tourist areas such as this, no doubt attributable to the precipitous decline in the euro against the dollar (how’s it feel now, euro?). Basically, South Beach, at least that morning, was like an extensive Galveston with fewer Wal-Mart shoppers and their children (you know, 50 pound overweight 60 year old women in tube top dresses and big hats, and husbands with shorts, long dress socks and sandals, and “US Marine Corps” hats). Lots of towns in Argentina are just as nice. Tomorrow, however, driving through North Beach, I would see much more opulence in the magnificent newer hotels and the crowds frequenting them. For the run, however, along the promenade, I also began to notice an abundance of muscular, tan guys in their 20s-early 40s, usually two at a time, wearing too-tight designer shirts and sunglasses. Never a good sign, although I can live with it. As The Todd said in a recent
Scrubs, “If I’m gay, why do I spend so much time at the gym?” Excellent point.
The Food Network was sponsoring the famous
South Beach Wine and Food Festival that weekend, located in tents right on the beach, so as I progressed in my run, and thereafter, I noticed crowds starting to grow. Who was attending? Chaches, that’s who. Wine-sipping, three day beard having, Armani wearing chaches and their cosmetic surgery enhanced girlfriends. I’d planned to attend the festival until I found out the prices-a ticket to the main tasting tent sponsored by Whole Foods cost $212. In this economy, that’s obscene. Nice tip of the cap to the coming Great Depression II. No word on whether they let people pay for tickets with sacks of pecans like in
To Kill A Mockingbird. Besides, I figure that every year, for 1/10 the price, I go to the best food festival in the world-the
New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. Rachael Ray can keep her blue cheese burgers with carmelized onions. I’ll take crawfish monica and Prejean’s pheasant, quail and andouille gumbo any day of the week.
After my run, I had an excellent sandwich at
Portofino Deli, owned by an Italian family who appeared to all be working that afternoon. The clientele seemed predominantly euro (those people find me everywhere). I spent the rest of the afternoon walking the area. Up Ocean Drive, with its famed Art Deco hotels, crossing over to Lummus Park and the beach itself, pausing often to gawk at the beach volleyball players (I looked in vain for the topless beach that a friend promised I would find, to no avail; I was like Ponce deLeon looking fruitlessly for my own little Fountain of Youth), as far as the Lincoln Road shopping district, and back down Collins Avenue. I’m not much of a beach person, but this beach was exceedingly clean, the water was a deep, clear blue-green, and the crowds were plentiful. As the day wore on, the whole area became more crowded, and the people watching more interesting. The crowds continued to be a little more upscale than one might usually encounter in a tourist town. I also notice a discernible lack of the Cuban influence so obvious on the mainland. Here, the buildings are white, and so are the crowds. It’s a much different feel from yesterday.
After a few hours walk, my feet were pretty much toast, so I headed back to my hotel for rest, a shower, and back to South Beach for dinner (after suiting up of course). The night crowd was decidedly different. This crowd was younger (though not kids), more affluent, and appeared to be a mix of people from the festival and other more permanent party-goers. I didn’t head to the clubs in the North Beach hotels such as the Delano or Fontainebleau, but there were plenty of people prowling South Beach and the Lincoln Road bars and restaurants. I passed a table (nearly all the restaurants had outdoor seating), with several couples, and overheard one rather attractive women laying the boom on her husband/boyfriend over some remark he’d just made. I’m a veteran of many such ass-chewings and can authoritatively say that was Bob Bullock-esque in scope. The guy had that “get me the hell out of here” look on his face I know oh so well. Good times…good times. Really points out how beautiful women are just like sports cars. Oh sure, every now and then they’re good for an exhilarating ride, and people are often envious as you go by with one. But more often than not, they stall, idle, or fail to respond to urging. They’re incredibly expensive to fuel and maintain, are highly unreliable, and fail to respond to care and attention. Replacement parts and upgrades are extremely expensive. They’re subject to accelerated wear and tear. And they say mean things to you when you do something nice. Err, uh. I’ll take Mary Ann over Ginger any day.
Sunday is going home day, so by necessity I didn’t do too much. Mainly I drove around Coral Gables again, looking at some of the houses and park areas, then headed back over to Miami Beach to check out the hotels in North Beach. As I mentioned earlier, they were generally larger, newer, more opulent, and more plentiful. For over 30 blocks, they lined Collins Avenue one right after the next. I also noticed car after car after car with New Jersey license plates. Is anyone still in Newark?
One final word about the West Palm Beach airport. Its where all the white people are, and specifically, the Yankee diaspora. One only hears that ugly, northeast, grackle and IROC covered accent spoken here. “Oh my GAWD!” Archie Bunker would be right at home. Everyone here looks like Morty and Helen Seinfeld, and their arch nemesis Jack Klompus at the Del Boca Vista Condos (phase III). Flights leaving here generally go to only four places: Boston, Philadelphia, Newark, or LaGuardia. Folks, these are the people who don’t know how to vote, drive on a highway, or flee a hurricane. Yankees are like aggressive non-native species. They’re the
zebra mussel of humanity. They choke off native species and flora wherever they go, leaving blight in their wake. They and their IROCs, Aqua Velva, gold chains, Vanilla Ice haircuts, wife beaters, monstrous guts, cigarette smoke-crusted necks, and ever-present New York Yankees hats foul the landscape. These people need to load up their Cadillacs with their Sunday Times, bagel and lox, and collection of acid-washed jeans, crank up their Bon Jovi cassette tape, and blaze a trail back north on I-95, and leave the South for Southerners. Same for you, Californians.
On that happy note, I’ll close.
Next-STEROIDS (one day).
