“Oh, you’ll hate it and love it!” “A land of contrasts…” – such was the (sometimes cliched) reaction of my acquaintances when I informed them that, courtesy of a serendipitous piece of timing, and the discovery of a very cheap fare from New York to Paris via Iceland, I had decided to go to the USA, ostensibly to attend the New Orleans Jazz Fest.
I flew into the Floridian humidity with a giant smile – there had been a group of American Young People who had been doing some missionary work (they were fairly vague about the nature of it, perhaps picking up on my utter disdain for the concept) in Peru. The plane began its descent, and after several hours spent complaining about their week in that country, they broke into a raucous rendition of the national anthem. My smile, I admit, was a lopsided one; I could not decide if I was enjoying this first taste of the Western World or not. It would prove not only to be the first of four impromptu national anthems I endured over the next month and a half, but the first of many instances of this nation confounding my now seriously-culture-shocked thought processes within the USA. I was subjected to a great many questions from US Customs officer Scott, and while he could not have possibly known, to me, this vaguely overweight middle-aged man represented an encounter with an American archetype I was sure would mirror my many subsequent meetings with Middle America.
Looking south
After a couple of nights couch surfing with Andrew, the son of Cuban immigrants living in Fort Lauderdale, I met Tom at the station and, after a good long hug (it had been a long time since I’d seen a familiar face), we decided to go down to Miami, primarily because of the simplicity of getting there. We were to stay at the Deco Walk hostel, right on the road running alongside South Beach. Tom had six months in Colorado ski resorts, and was overdue for a summer. Having arrived at twilight, Peter, the night manager – who had previously expressed his shock that we had spent any time at all in an outer suburb called Hialeah (we had mistakenly disembarked & called him to explain we’d be a little late checking in) – now questioned us in disbelief when we announced we’d be going for a swim: “But it’s LATE!” “Yeah, we know, but we’re kind of itching to get in the water…” “But…the sun’s going DOWN!” Half Puerto Rican, late 20s and gay, Pete’s incredulity eventually turned to fascination with the two Australian backpackers, and he was constantly wanting to know what the two close friends were doing… “Oh look, they’re working together on the COMPUTER!” “You guys are wearing matching white socks! That’s so CUTE! I didn’t know they MADE those anymore!” Casting aside his curiosity, we took our first swim in what I will here claim is the Caribbean, though technically it was the Atlantic. Sparkling and clear with a blue tinge that was fading with the daylight, it engulfed me like a a lukewarm doona; just cool enough to be refreshing.
Tom with sunnies
Brooding
We had come with a list of “dive bars”, determined to forgo Miami’s glitzy, surfacey offerings in pursuit of a little more seediness and edge. At the first place, a very much out-of-the-way craft beer bar, we were told by the locals there that our status as tourists made us a rarity in the venue, and were extremely lucky to have found it. Indeed, this seemed to be true, as the beer was wonderful, and we once again found ourselves the sources of fascination at the hands of the (decidedly heterosexual) Miami residents. Eventually, we wandered (stumbled) down to Club Deuce – to my mind the very definition of a dive bar. Pool tables, a U-shaped bar, advertisements featuring scantily-clad women and decidedly shady characters. After playing several rounds of low-quality pool, we were approached by Geoff, a (drunk) Canadian whose wife Linda owned a condo in Miami. Indeed, their very use of “condo” summed up Miami conversational content as far as I was concerned. Tom and I proceeded to take turns being roundly beaten by Geoff, and upon losing sight of the balls – or imagining there were several more than 15 – we retired to the bar, whereupon Linda regaled us with stories of her exploits in the heady rock scene of the 70s. She had managed to get into various “situations” with the likes of Keith Richards and several members of Led Zeppelin, the details of which have thankfully vanished in the fumes of Canadian Club (having being drank, of course, at Geoff’s insistence).
We spent the first few hours of the following morning recovering on the warm sand, and a stroll along South Beach and its boardwalk produced many “Miami” (in the adjective form) moments: transvestites, rollerblades, skimpy clothing; transvestites on rollerblades wearing skimpy clothing…not to mention some effortlessly cool Art Deco buildings.
Deco clock
I had not travelled to the South East for the architecture, but the light-pastel-painted facades give the Deco District a very stylish feel, and the promenade oozes cool. Aluminium letters, geometric shapes and sleek designs abound in this city that formed my first ideas about the USA. It is indeed a meal for the eyes, if only a canapé for the soul.
This timeless aesthetic contrasts pertly with the colourful, outrageously-dressed folk who wonderfully dodge, weave and sweat amongst it all.
"Miami" moment
Art Deco building
climbingatree 