Miami’s SoBeach. Photo Socotra.
Oh man, I am actually out of the winter. It was painful, but I suppose all good things are. The clock folly- springing ahead- occupied the last padding around, forgetting the last minute things that I would realize I really needed a thousand miles away.
The time line to the flight changed markedly after losing an hour, but it was OK. Completely OK, once through security and the full body scan. It was not until our little party was seated in the waiting area that the news came across the wire that TSA had apparently no idea how much radiation they are pumping through us in the interest of safety.
We were wondering about the two reactors melting down in Japan. It was not funny- but it occurred to me that it was exactly something like this that caused Godzilla to wake from his eon-long sleep under the Sagami-wan and rise to scourge the home islands.
“Not to mention the awakening of Rhodan and Mothra,” noted my Associate.
“Destroy all monsters,” I said darkly, quoting the single greatest film ever made with a cameo appearance by Raymond Burr.
“It is only going to be a question of time before Global Warming is going to be associated with the volcanic activity, you know.” That was from Jeff, the CEO of a small company that just won a big contract and is in an enviable position.
“One thing is for sure,” said our Subcontracting Officer: “We are going to be dead a lot longer than we are alive. So live.”
That made a lot of sense. We were on a little jet, a regional fraud that masqueraded as a real airliner, and my seatmate appeared to not have dealt well with the time change, or was a junky. In any event, he flopped into the seat on the aisle, his leg slumped into my side of the painfully small seat, and his elbow draped on my side of the armrest.
Damn. But, I have to say, when we walked out of the jetway and the coolness was from air conditioning and not because someone left a window open things got better fast. Then the bags were there, delivered before we were, and although someone had stolen the rental car from the Hertz #1 Gold spot, they happily coughed up another piece of crap Camry and off we went.
It was sunny. It was blue. It was mesmerizing.
So what if the rooms were not ready? We wandered out by the pool and had a salad for lunch and began to sway in the breeze like the palms. Relaxed was the only way to put tit, all the tension leaking out.
A sweet fruit drink or two later and it was possible not to care at all. The rooms came through just after lunch was past, and we made our way back to the Hilton’s Concierge to collect the bags.
“Calle Ocho later?”
The young afro-Cuban man behind the desk coughed gently. “I live in the Gables,” he said, “right next to the Calle, and I have not been there in five years.” He looked delicately at us, as though trying to tell us about in infestation of sharks in a position consistent with civic boosterism. He settled on this: “I would suggest that if I was interested in safety, I would not put it high on my list.”
That was ambiguous enough a warning that the wild street festival of Calle Ocho dropped off the menu for family-style activities as we took the elevators up from the seventh floor lobby to get settled and changed in our rooms.
“South Beach it is, then. We can meet down here at four-thirty.”
I wanted to get to the Club Deuce, the oldest dump bar in Miami Beach, a mere five miles away by cab from the downtown Hilton, but we only spent about thirty seconds in the place.
Two guys had lip-locks on each other at the bar, and that was grosser earlier in the day than some of us wanted to see, so we were leaving before all of us even got in.
“Argh,” said my Associate.
“Imagine that,” I said. “Homosexual activity in south Beach.”
I was disappointed, but it turned out all right. There was more skin at the beach than you could imagine, and more of it on the street back from the artificial dunes, and colorful tattoo ink, and pneumatic bosoms, some real, and crazy souped-up candy-colored cars and strolling people of all colors and street cafes and dancers and a pulsing rhythm and the coolest art deco buildings and, well, it was South Beach.
What an amazing tonic after a DC winter. Damn.
In honor of the Miami boondoggle, SuperMat made something Cuban back home. He is still a government guy and his shop would not come up with the travel money to let him attend this very official conference.
He said it was good on a cold and windy Sunday. I have to agree with assessment, but I am thinking about having some outdoors this afternoon, maybe in la Habanacita.
Somebody said we are dad a lot longer than we are alive, you know? And you know the strangest thing?
Muhammed-the-Irish-cabbie said exactly the same thing on the ride back from South Beach to downtown. This is very strange, and there are no coincidences, are there?
SuperMat’s Cuban Bean Soup
1 diced onion
1 tbsp minced garlic
4 cans black beans – rinsed
2 cans chicken stock
1 tsp cumin
1 tsp thyme
1 tsp oregano
2 or 3 smoked ham hocks (~2 lbs)
1 – 2 tbsp fresh lemon juice
Hardboiled eggs
Mix first 7 ingredients above in Crock Pot and top with smoked ham hocks
Set Crock Pot on low and cook for 7 hours
Remove ham hocks from Crock Pot and pull meat off the bones
Dice meat and return to Crock Pot
Stir in lemon juice
Serve in bowls and garnish with hardboiled egg.
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com