THANKSGIVING IN MIAMI
By Greg Evans
It is that time of the year when everyone that lives in a colder climate either heads to Miami or talks about going, and all the year-round residents of Miami groan. A few years ago, my girlfriend (at the time) and I decided that we shouldn’t let others be the only ones to aggravate the locals by actually using blinkers to turn and switch lanes, and by staying within a reasonable grasp of the speed limit. So, we too, decided to spend Thanksgiving in one of my favorite cities.
For those of you that aren’t privy to life with an OCD’er, when it comes to neurotic dusting, folding of clothes, and planning vacations, my advice is to drink three beers and say yes...to everything. Once the idea was a go, she was on the computer creating a 40,000-line Excel spreadsheet complete with formulas, function tabs and links, yays and nays, maybes and pricings, this detail and that and within hours we had rented an Airbnb from a couple, Rodolfo and Scott, from out in El Portal. Along with the spreadsheet, she created an itinerary of equal length and complexity.
The morning arrived, 6 a.m., we walked out into the dark 30-degree agony, crunching through the freshly fallen leaves that I gathered must have been near waist-high, that two days earlier we spent four hours clearing from the yard. I could have practically swam to the car.
We hit the road with steaming coffee, wearing heavy coats and wool socks, and yet harboring that gooey feeling of euphoria that the average 9-5 worker experiences on that first day of vacation.
AAA estimated that 48.3 million people hit the highways during the holiday weekend, and ALL but seven went to Miami.
As we crossed the Florida line, our speed went from 80 mph to -3 mph. But in true fairness, the traffic delays only lasted from Jacksonville to Downtown Miami; once you hit the Pinecrest, Cutler Ridge area, everything opens right up again.
If you don’t mind long car trips (like I don’t), then getting to Miami is pretty easy, just locate I-95 and drive until you see neon lights. My girlfriend, on the other hand, is not yet a seasoned long-distance traveler and from now on will require tranquilization and a sealed crate until the destination is reached.
The most notable characteristic of the zodiac sign Aries (mainly my girlfriend's), and I surmise 9/10 of the drivers on the Florida roadways, is their proclivity for speeding, passing on the right, tailgating, road rage, sporadic gunfire, ten-car pileups, and backseat driving.
“That’s it, pull over,” my girlfriend shrieked, “I’m driving! With you behind the wheel, we won’t reach Miami until I’m in menopause!”
For three or four hours, I hung on for dear life and watched my life flash before my eyes multiple times as she careened and swerved around other vacationers and various pieces of wreckage and shredded tire that decorates I-95 south like Hamra Street during the Siege of Beirut.
Upon arriving in Miami, like all snowbirds, we threw our bags down and raced over to South Beach in search of alcohol. Reaching the beaches by way of MacArthur Causeway is like playing the old Nintendo Classic Rad Racer. The winding, undulating streets with the glittering skyline of buildings spread out before you, and giant cruise ships starboard waiting to leave port.
Stepping out of the car into the warm Miami Beach evening is like arriving on a distant planet in a visiting spacecraft. You immediately realize you are someplace unique, possibly even earth. There is no place like it. I have been to Miami Beach numerous times over the years, and every time I feel like I have arrived home.
Immediately you become aware of the retro, 1950s architecture, a congruous study of hipster and chic, irregular and recherche, with a splash of Rio de Janeiro charm yet maintaining still an Anthony Bourdain edginess. The steady 75 degrees despite overcast, gentle ocean breeze and ubiquitous plumes of pot smoke leave even the stray cats in a perpetual contact high.
Every group of people you pass speaks a different language. The fashion sense here is exclusive to Miami Beach, much like the driving. Being behind the wheel in Miami is a lot like playing golf; whatever you think you should do, do the opposite, because the rules and courtesies of the road that you might be used to back home, wherever that may be, don’t apply.
But you can be yourself here, your own kind of weird; it is wholly refreshing. We hit the South Beach Café to watch futbol, drink Pina Coladas out of fresh pineapples and sip redeyes. We stopped by the World Erotic Museum (WEAM) and studied the photography of George Daniell, shot over to Wynwood Walls, and touristed for a while before returning to the beach.
We rented bikes and, starting on fifth street, headed north along the beach walk. Biking here is survival of the luckiest. Much like the I-95, going slower than traffic is treacherous. At one point around 23rd street on the beach walk, I had slowed down during a short, congested stretch and two maniacs nearly ran me off the walkway. I crashed into my girlfriend, bounced off her hip, and pseudo-wiped out, skidding and hopping on my right foot while straddling the bike, trying to quell the momentum so that I wouldn't fall over.
We briefly left the beach walk and cruised along Ocean Drive. Cars are temporarily no longer allowed on Ocean Drive from fifth to fifteenth streets. County commissioners decided that too many people were renting fancy cars with the hopes of racing Justin Bieber or Khalil Sharieff. Repeatedly they drove around the block or were u-turning and going back and forth, flexing, and it was getting, well, obnoxious, so now you can only walk, ride a bike, zip along on a scooter, or glide via rollerblade until further notice.
By dinnertime, we realized that it was Thanksgiving, and we were starving. We decided to eat at Majestic. My girlfriend ordered the spaghetti carbonara with a medium Brazilian mojito that was so big it tilted the table. I ordered the whole fried red snapper washed down with Modelo. It was Thanksgiving in paradise. There were no dishes, no cold weather, no responsibilities, no dress code, and if you have sufficient postage to have the kids mailed to you, no reason to go home.
