When the calendar turns to a new year in Oregon, we've all about had it with the damn rain. Our weather fatigue is exacerbated by a leaky seam in what was once a reliable rain jacket, or a drenched cat that jumps into bed, seeking warmth, usually around the facial area of the humans. This is particularly unsettling for people who don't have a cat.
Tracey floated the idea of getting some sun in Miami before she's locked down at work for six months. I'd never been to Miami. A couple of months and nine hours later, we were on a different coast, in a different time zone, and enjoying a different climate. The palette had shifted from greens and greys to pastels and soft sky blues. Our uniform of puffy Columbia kaki and wool socks was out of place. The Floridians were bright and vibrant, delightfully loud, and practiced spontaneous laughter.
English seemed to be the linguistic minority in Miami. My Spanish is about zero and my French is .01% above my Spanish. Miami is populated chiefly with Cuban, Haitian, Latin American (including North, Central, and South America), and Black people. White folks come in at about 14%, according to Wikipedia. Being in a swarm of different sounds that mean the same thing can be more inclusive than the homogeneity of our hometown, even if asking for peanut butter takes three people. Even the white folk were rarely speaking English. This is an experience we seek when we travel.
When Tracey and I tour, I drive. We're not perpetuating gender roles. I'm a car guy, and Tracey is the consummate navigator. We've made our way through many of the worst traffic environments with me in the captain's seat and her in the "You missed the exit, babe" seat. My last car rental was a Subaru. This time, it was a convertible Mustang. Even after a 13-hour travel day, I was trying out acceleration and handling before getting out of the airport garage.
Miami traffic is dense. Using turn signals is considered a sign of weakness. Use the horn instead. But there is an order to the chaos. Pedestrians have the right of way. No matter how much of an asshole a driver is, I never saw one graze someone crossing the street. This is good since pedestrians, scooter riders, and skateboarders have no fear. Traffic signals are nothing more than a suggestion. If we paused for more than a microsecond before leaping out of the hole when the light turned green, the cars behind us were honking. Yet, there is a civility. Speed limits are a lie. Merging happens tightly. The guy in the Escalade might be right next to you, but there is a "Miami Mile" of three and a half inches of bumper-to-bumper cushion to merge. It is beautiful chaos. Traffic is a tapestry of different modes of transportation that somehow weave without touching each other. When I commented on how this traffic seems to be more relaxed than other urban environments we've endured, Tracey pointed out we were in a convertible muscle car in sunny, 74° weather. Well, sure. There's that. I thought I did a fair job of controlling my lupine response of chasing the squirrel when taunted by a speeding Corvette or Lamborghini. Not that I had a chance of catching them. I just wanted to be closer to those wonderful exhaust notes, even if it's for a second before they disappear over the horizon. Next trip, we'll probably get a three-wheeled Renault.
Miami is all art, all the time. There is reverence for the existing Art Deco buildings, and colors and murals decorate walls and alleyways. It is the land of beautiful people, mostly there to see and to be seen. The foyers of everyone's home must be a beauty parlor and a barber shop to gussy up before hitting the street. Men are slim and well-dressed. A few of them are even straight. I'm not sophisticated enough to discern faux affluence from genuine, but everyone seemed to have expensive things and clothes. As one might expect in a more tropical land, the colors are mesmerizing. Various skin tones react magically with brilliantly colored fabrics.
The flamboyant vibe didn't mean they tolerated rudeness. Servers looked like they would sink a fork into the next person who ordered in broken Spanish just to seem continental, but they would do it beautifully. Good, inexpensive food is out there. The less touristy parts of town have more authentic local fare. Tropical influences enrich the local cuisine. We often pulled up a table at a local hole-in-the-wall just to see what would happen. Heaps of pork belly on top of rice and beans, cooked authentically, was easy to find. We discovered a sandwich place with stools outside looking in. We watched workers wield knives and condiments with marshal precision, yelling out names while holding up sandwiches the size of a football, moving between languages effortlessly. I learned that a demi, demitasse of Cuban coffee could propel a lone paddler with nothing more than a tennis racket and wood pallet all the way to the Bahamas, in an hour. As a caffeine junky, it is a rare treat that a cup of buzz exceeds my tolerances.
There is magic in the sky. Clouds loft puffily over the ocean until the horizon pulls them into the sea. The sky is a muted blue that rings pastel over the soft breakers, lapping at the coarse white sand. Colored umbrellas were lined up like they sprouted from a garden row. Under the umbrellas, oiled and tanned locals and tourists lounge. Young people enjoying their youth, blissfully unaware they will be spending a lot more time being old than youthful. But right now, that doesn't matter. The sun is warm, and the day is kind. The scene makes me grateful for the youth I survived. It's their turn. Miami, baby.
The Florida Keys are connected by a thin line of concrete that feels at odds with physics. How the water stays in place and not in our laps seems almost supernatural. Bridges rise to near vertigo-inducing heights, then roll into the small communities adorned with flamingo mailboxes and live pelicans. Rusty pickups share parking lots with Italian 12-cylinder hypercars. The fish is fresh. Beer is cheap. Everyone has a fishing pole.
We visited a turtle hospital on a key a couple of hours down that highway, as one does. An old roadside motel was converted into a turtle rehabilitation facility. As enchanting as the lumbering sea creatures were, it did not dilute how hostile we have made their environment. It is sobering to see how our hubris disfigures and maims these animals. It recharged hope when we met the people who have made it their lives to return these animals back to their homes, healed up and healthy. This was our last excursion, and It was time to head back to our home.
I'm writing this crammed into an airplane seat during our eight-hour flight to PDX. Collectively, we refer to limbo as a place where things are "up." That is where I am. Up between these two worlds. In a few hours, we'll be driving through the Oregon rain. For this moment, I exist 35,000 feet up amid two coasts. The sun is still fresh in my mind and on my skin, but the cold, wet air awaits. Neither is a reality. I'm in a moment of grace. Soon, the emails I ignored will come crashing down, and I won't be driving a convertible. But I'll be glad to see the cat, our cat, whose fur can deposit a gallon of water on the bed. Usually about 3 am.