South Beach

South Beach was crowded. No parking spaces available that I could find, even on private side streets with #Old Florida style homes tucked safely behind imposing gates with pretty trellises. I hated the place; still, I visited it often, trying to fit in, trying to find the secret formula for having fun, as if my ingredients were not mixed correctly.  But real fun, the memorable type that turned into joyful memory, was not to be had on South Beach, not even by tourists, tattooed men, or sexily clad, half-dressed women.  The secret was in putting it on thick--smiling hard, laughing harder, drinking too much, making too much noise in its hotel cafes, sandy beaches, or while riding on motorcycles or in muscle cars on its narrow two-lane streets.

It wasn’t the place’s fault that we were all vain and superficial, always wanting to prove otherwise because we didn’t know better. We searched endlessly for perfection in cosmetic procedures, designer labels, highlighted hair, and perfect houses, careers, cars, men, women--but it was nowhere to be found.  All we wanted was constant confirmation--from a friend, stranger, neighbor, girlfriend, husband, wife--that we were perfect. But what they did know or what could they say when they were oblivious and blinded by their own vain pursuits.

Then the force and energy that was Florida – because every place had an energetic knowing -- spat our failed efforts back in our faces, making us squirm constantly for never achieving our misdirected goals. Why not? The place had nothing to prove; it was naturally beautiful with its mysterious ancient Everglades, leathery predators (alligators, crocodiles, venomous snakes), 524 species of birds, and 2500 species of palm trees.  Its wild lands coiled, circled, and flushed the state with swamps, rivers of grass, hammocks, ocean of endless blue... into the million faces of eternity, but we didn’t care about that either.  We only cared about our small, twisted goals, and how we were going to stop the hands of time.  We were determined to beat God at his rat race of aging and dying.  We were going to shop, cosmetically enhance, and lie ourselves out of that mess.  If I knew anything about a place, I knew it held our lesson in hand, and it made everyone stick tight to the script of that lesson until someone-- anyone-- got it. 

Florida, the uncompromising bitch of a teacher, prodded, poked, and insisted we learn, grow, and eventually move away to another place to learn another lesson. "Let go of control, let God take care of his big, bad business," it seemed to say; instead, we held tight to our convictions.  Egomaniacs by default, we had to run the show.  The truth was we found our human selves--its aging bodies, distracted minds, restless spirits-- repulsive, and we tried every distraction possible not to deal with it.  We were not going to learn the lessons of love, kindness, compassion or forgiveness for our imperfections--or those of others.

Not that it wasn't normal or human nature to fear death or to try to stave of aging, but in Florida the pursuit of immortality was a mad dash to the end, a competition with all age groups, genders, and races determined to win at any cost.  It’s no wonder we had a Fountain of Youth – a spring that supposedly restored the youth of anyone who drank or bathed in its waters – in St. Augustine.  There were very few pockets of sanity or spirituality that talked a different game; the conspiracy to be forever young, to shop, botox, sunbathe...   was held tight and in the hearts of most people-- and all submitted to its pursuit until they tired, moved away, or died.  So, we came to South Beach's walk of shame to parade our latest effort at beating life at its own game with our new stilletos, prettier boyfriends and girlfriends, luxurious cars, bigger breasts, tighter facelifts because we didn't know better. 

From 23rd street to South Pointe Park, with the wooden boardwalk built over Miami Beach’s last natural sand dune, the game was on, yet it all played like a medicore jazz ensemble thinking itself a few steps from greatness. Overbuilt, overcrowded, overvisited, the jewel of Miami Beach was better served as a miniaturized night-time replica and ode to a lost #Art Deco age with moonlight beaming on facades; while on the outdoor stage of a small quaint hotel’s café, a tiny model of #Billie Holiday belted her heart out while waves foamed and crashed in the ocean across the street.