Back on the Beach, the city, north-bound, stretches into again Jewish dominated Surfside, Bal Harbour and thereafter reaches the strait over which a bridge carries pedestrians and motorists to the Utopian sounding Sunny Isles, fittingly beginning with a mile long nudist beach hidden behind a line of dense vegetation. Sunny Isles is also home to the City of Aventura, rife with huge condominium high-rises and a gigantic shopping centre. This futuristic looking part of the coast in turn comes to an end at the Golden Beach, where greater Miami’s most expensive and privately owned seaside (as opposed to lagoon-side) mansions are located — name says it all.
To the north of these luxury villas, many of which have been bought by industrial Venezuelan money, discreet Hallandale makes its entry — a silent and nostalgic memory of once roaring 1970s Hollywood, with its huge traffic circle and adjacent night life, and Dania Beach, even more secretive than Hallandale, and lost further into the shadows of time, provide the last landmarks on this coastal road, since at Dania it comes to an abrupt end. Before the inlet for heavy commercial maritime traffic and cruise ships to Fort Lauderdale, overlooked by the Hollywood International Airport, there is the Wilderness Beach, once the private property of a Mr. John U. Lloyd, who in his will bequeathed it to the state on the condition that nothing must ever be built or otherwise constructed on this stretch of virgin territory, protecting a narrow lagoon lined with huge industrial cranes on its opposite shores. It’s the only stretch of original beach in this part of Florida, and whenever I walk its dunes I find myself watching out for the Aleph, hidden under a mangrove tree.4
All these facets of south Florida — as well as many others here unmentioned — had begun to sparkle in my mind as I was finally released by the infamous (sometimes downright obnoxious) Homeland Security and allowed to leave the airport. As soon as I found myself comfortably installed behind the wheel, I pressed the pedal of my Mercury Grand Marquis and was catapulted down the dusky I-95 in grand American style to become one with my experience. A week later, after having immersed myself to satiation in slow-flowing rivers of vehicles, I had to take leave of this rolling fortress only to again be assailed by outside reality.
When the local city bus began to move I was surrounded by returning day shift Haitian airport workers chatting exotically in their French-Creole vernacular. I was indeed on my way to the Las Olas Boulevard, but at only 4 PM, decorum suggested it was a fraction too early to start having drinks, so I stopped at Starbucks, which for once had a staff able to interpret ‘a double espresso’ without having to resort to the menu board naively asking if, per chance, I wanted a doppio? The initial ‘Can I help you?’ I couldn’t get around. But I did put the clerk to the test by asking him what kind of help he had in mind. A tired smile semi-lit up his face as he pontificated: ‘And what can I get for you, Sir?’
But you can only stretch a coffee for so long. Though I managed to bring a newspaper together with a cigarette outside, I discovered little in it worth glancing at, not to mention reading. Incidentally, southern Florida was just suffering its first cold spell for the winter. Newspapers and presumably (you would only witness their comments via the text machine on the TV screen) high-pitched news anchors warned owners that shivering crew cut rats on diamond leashes could catch cold if allowed outdoors after sunset. Dressed for the tropics I soon found myself in the street throwing apprehensive glances into warm and festively lit restaurants, where armies of waiters in black shirts swirled around the tables preparing the set for the night’s performance. But something in me vaguely objected to the idea of being tied to the attention of six ostentatiously aftershaved men, all introducing themselves by first names, giving me odd compliments for my excellent choice of pizza toppings only to in the end expect huge tips for their trite jokes — it’s a very common idea in the US that relieving you of your plate before you even finished eating while simultaneously throwing the bill on the table, is synonymous with excellent service, as though every second that half-empty plate is staring back at you would be an eyesore to you and a testimony to the laziness of the staff. Typically, if a couple dines out, and one of the two finishes before the other, the waiter will promptly remove the empty plate, as if indicating to the person taking his time that he’d better hurry up.
What finally drew me in to an establishment named Caffe Europa was the appearance around a high bar table, close to the window, of three immaculately manicured, and expensively enhanced Latina beauties. Routinely I gazed in their direction as I entered the premises; apparently they couldn’t care less. So I modestly took a seat at the bar from where I could at least enjoy observing three women dressed to kill, pretending to converse with one another. Here I also met with Paul, a gentleman from New York about my own age, having dinner. He introduced me to the bartender, describing her as a friend of outstanding talents.
Now, you don’t necessarily fancy your bartender to have a facial expression betraying a hundred years of boredom with human affairs. But there is also the other extreme: the female bartender who is your cheerful, ever so attentive, eye-blinking gal from the word go: ‘What can I get for you — Honey?’ ‘We have the best pizzas in town’, freely alternating with gossip, a little hutch-hutch, blink-blink, ‘see what I mean’, and ‘would you like another glass of wine Love?’ presented with such candid enthusiasm that you’d have to have a heart of stone to refuse such an offer at your own expense. To be both honest and kind, she actually was a pleasantly spontaneous, entertaining lady who in solidarity with her husband had spent part of her life locked up in what had been, by then, a US owned Venezuelan oil or mining town — one of those corporate islands guaranteeing the commodities of corned beef, watered down American beer and chewing gum, even in the midst of a Congolese jungle.
And what about Paul? A New York expat teaching journalism and mass communication at Miami University. He looked slightly haggard and pale, but it might just have been the habitual complexion and state of mind of an East Coast Jewish university professor in cultural, if not (God forbid!) ethnic exile. It transpired he was in a rather intricate parental situation. Apart from having fathered a now adult woman living in California, he had also more recently spread wild oats in South Africa, the consequence of which was a 14-year old girl living with her mother in Johannesburg. I believe he also mentioned having a relationship with another woman at present. He recommended the fish — steamed with fresh vegetables in aluminium foil — finished his glass of white wine and ended his meal with a dessert. It occurred to me that I might finally have met the other person in South Florida who ever reads anything beyond newspapers, fashion magazines, the TV Guide and this year’s best sellers. He handed me his business card and encouraged me to get in touch whenever I’d be in town next.
With Paul gone, the two seats next to me were occupied by men of a quite different order, the older of them a teary-eyed crocodile dividing its hunting hours equally between business and business. He proudly flaunted his ring, a huge diamond in its midst, which he had allegedly obtained for twenty bucks at an auction many years ago while no one besides him had realised that the stone really was a genuine diamond.
The other man — from the interminable plains of an equally interminable Midwest — could just as well, and rather, have been a used car salesman, covering up any knowing dishonesty with a laughter a bit too loud and too long. It so happened that he was the local art dealer — we’re talking Picasso and Warhol originals (not that I would know the difference between a genuine Warhol and a fake one, or be able to even see the relevance of such definition). His gallery was situated next door.
Mr. Diamond jested that he’d just bought a piece of art which would prevent him from buying another one over the next couple of weeks. He then switched the subject to real estate, wondering if the art dealer could help him find a two bedroom condo in Lauderdale with beach access. The art dealer assured me that both he and Ron — along with their presumably well-to-do mutual friends — were just a bu
nch of (and these were his exact words): ‘nice, ordinary, hard-working people’. The two of them had a couple of glasses of red wine. They were paid for by the art dealer, apparently owing his client before going back to his store that would close at ten o’clock. He invited me to pop in for a look. I said I would, but then the next guest in the hot seat kept me posted.
My new neighbour was yet another distinct character. A Brazilian businessman from Sao Paolo, of the type that you would easily identify as the typical Latin playboy, though no longer one in his absolute prime: still mainly dark, wavy and curly hair; expensive accessories (including an impressive Patek Philippe wrist watch), clear, if a little roughly cut facial features. Matrimonial ties to a woman and two young sons in no way deterred him from throwing curious glances at all women in sight. ‘I like poossi’ he spelled with virile emphasis in my ear while eagerly searching the attention of two newly arrived gringas (the Latina models were gone by now), taking seats around the semi-circular bar.
He had ordered an entire bottle of Californian Riesling with his food but drank very little. Instead he offered me most of it. Time flew. Don Pedro, while giving the project a fair chance, seemed unable to lastingly catch the interest of the gringas, although I saw them eyeing him up and down whenever he looked the other way. ‘American woman very different than Brazil’, he frustratedly concluded, and left me alone with them as well as with the remains of the bottle.
I on the other hand knew better than trying to make an impression. Besides I too soon had to leave. Shirley, the bar maid, volunteered to get me a taxi but I told her I’d manage on my own. After having paid my dues (making it a point of honour not to exaggerate the tip, in fact keeping it ever so slightly under the suggested minimum) I entered the street, took a deep breath in the crisp air, hailed down a cab and set off to the airport.5 A couple of hours later I again hit ground. This time in a coastal Colombia where the night — if nothing else — was a good deal warmer than the one I had just left behind.
1I think it’s fair to say that this type of car still sits in a no-man’s land between ‘no longer modern’ and ‘still not classic’ (the last models rolled out of the Detroit factory as late as 2011). As of today it primarily appeals to Latinos and Afro-Americans as the epitome of the American Dream within reach even for the not very rich. It is indeed a well-manufactured vehicle in the grand tradition of full-size sedans that takes on the long, straight US Interstate Highways in the same manner as a mature Côte-du-Rhône takes on a ripe Roquefort cheese — it’s a marriage made in heaven!
2In this connection it might interest movie watchers that the marital comedy Meet the Fockers from 2004, featuring Dustin Hoffman and Barbara Streisand as the ‘once’ hippie couple, receiving in their charmingly rundown and luxuriously overgrown Miami home the ever so slightly stricter parents of the to-be-bride, congenially personified by Robert de Niro (who also produced the film) and Blythe Danner, is set in the Coconut Grove. The children to be married are played by Ben Stiller and Teri Polo.
3To the newcomer in Miami it can be more than just a little confusing that some streets have up to four different names, so that although you’re correct in assuming you should make a right turn onto SW 22nd Street, you won’t find it because you’re supposed to know in advance that at this particular junction it’s marked out as Coral Way, and at another one as The Miracle Mile. Though you just might be able to figure out that the above mentioned Calle Ocho is identical with SW 8th Street, you also need to know that another synonym for it is the Tamiami Trail, as well as Felipe Vals Road. It goes without saying that East 8th Avenue is also and better known as Le Jeune Road, or simply as 42nd Avenue and that East 9th Street is of course identical with NW 62nd Street, in turn identical with Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. Nothing could be simpler!
4A first reference in passing to Jorge Luis Borges’ short story El aleph, entailing the quest for a point (el aleph) that contains all other points.
5It seems this kind of European stinginess has since been effectively counteracted by the management. On a recent revisit to the establishment I was surprised to learn that the cheque, without warning, included an added service charge amounting to 20 % of the grand total. As if this seemingly compulsory charge was not enough, even greater tip percentages were suggested in print. I was in the company of a lady whom I had invited for dinner and so would have embarrassed everybody had I protested against this outrage and asked to speak to the manager. But that’s what I really wanted, because it wasn’t mentioned anywhere on the menu that forcing the customer to tip was now standard practice. My first thought was: is this legal? The second one was: bastards! I know: Americans usually consider Europeans lousy tippers. Be that as it may. Please bear in mind, though, that it never occurred to us that the customer, as opposed to the employer, is responsible for hiring and paying the staff. Read me rightly. I certainly don’t mind rewarding truly good service with a couple of extra bucks, but I don’t want to be forced to do it. I find a 15 dollar extra fee — on top of the advertised price plus taxes — for being served exactly, and in order of appearance, a glass of wine, an ice tea, a chicken pasta, a pizza, and a Tiramisu a rip off. Besides that, I now have enough evidence to proclaim Caffe Europa the financial maelstrom of the entire city, the background being the following. I was at said Caffe Europa also some days before the event described above and managed to have my car ticketed although I was sitting six feet from it and only went inside to pay an espresso for 3.50 at the bar. During that brief absence ‘someone’ managed to paste a parking ticket to the amount of 32 dollars onto my windshield and disappear in the blink of an eye. Now, if that is not ominous, I don’t know what would be. You’d probably say: Why on Earth do you keep returning to that damned place? My only answer is: The moth is attracted to the ever luring flame even if it will devour him and beautiful women seldom seem to mind all this bull since in the end somebody else is paying for their expenditures. To conclude: it’s a nasty game, but someone’s gotta play it!
Colombia
Barranquilla doesn’t have much that recommends itself. In a sense it was quite merciful to arrive there in the wee hours. At 3 AM there were still a myriad of taxis lined up outside the airport terminal. This allowed me to name my price.
To know what a taxi from any given airport to the city centre should cost is a classical issue sometimes open to a debate ending with the tourist’s overpaying — the question is only with by how much. It’s often easy to understand why though. Let’s say you arrive in the middle of the night (inconvenient departure and landing hours being part of the punishment for consorting with so-called low cost carriers) to a city you hardly even know how to spell the name of, in a country where murder, kidnapping and robbery supposedly lurk at every other street corner. Add the local crowd waiting for their family members to exit from the baggage claim area, eyeing you from top to toe, trying to decide for themselves whether you’re the long awaited Quetzalcoatl, a B-film star on vacation or just something the cat brought in. What you see in most of their eyes is a tacit submission to the fact that you — no matter what kind of budget you’re travelling on — have more money than they, but also that they won’t have the time to get closer to it before you’re surrounded by ten eager cab drivers, and this so quickly that you hardly even have the chance to verify that your luggage is still intact and where you last saw it.
The resistance you now face is identical to the cab driver’s instinct to stick to a tourist price that he will only knock off provided he really has to in order to get you on board. (I’m speaking here of airports where a standard fee for transportation to and from the airport hasn’t been imposed by the authorities, or where metres both exist and are set in motion as you enter the cab). Your best deal is often to confuse the situation by inviting local bystanders to participate in the discussion. Unless these happen to be secretly in cahoots with the taxi drivers, they will soon
give you a realistic estimate. In other words, and in this particular case: what started out as an offer for me to be driven to a hotel considered decent and located in a better part of town for 30 dollars, ended in a settlement for 15 — remember, one salient argument not to lower the price is the ‘inconvenient working hour’, an exotic concept that the taxi drivers have learned plays an important role in an alien northern world wrapped in endless winters.
The driver was a local boy who at hallucinating speed brought me across the extensive urban grid. It was a fair distance but he did have a specific hotel in mind in the northern part of the city, considered safe for gringos. The hotel itself offered a discount to its officially advertised price as a consequence of a deal between the hotel management and the drivers, so that the latter would keep bringing tourists there. The curvy receptionist gave me one of these warm and sensual Colombian smiles, melting my jaded heart right away. I felt magnanimous and grateful too for having been brought through the menacing night to a safe haven and I let the cab driver, who made little effort to produce any change, keep the rest of the twenty dollars equalling a tip of 10,000 pesos, or five dollars — not bad.)
Incidents of Travel in Latin America Page 2
