Ah Miami, the city so sexy your every breath hits like a hot blast in the mouth.
The 305, where vehicular homicide gets you less than 30 days, provided you have a good lawyer.
Mi-ami, the place to go when you want to give your culture a bad reputation.
Hauteville sous la pays.
I grew up in Miami, but left before the last afternoon bell at Gables High had quit ringing in my ears. Like so many sons of farmers or inner city kids who dance, I'd been consumed by dreams of "making it out of here." Except instead of an incestous backwater or gang-ridden ghetto I dreamt of leaving a sprawling metropolis, a global culture center.
Of course it isn't all bad down here.
The city's traffic conspires beautifully with its residents' weakness for leasing gaudy overpiced cars. Though your house may be a dump, you will have at least 3 hours a day to show off that whip as you turtle your way down the 836.
The weather is great, and concerns about the heat unfounded. Miami is the coldest city south of the Mason-Dixon line. True, you will be blowdryered as you dash between valeting your Masserati and walking into the China Grill, but otherwise you can expect to spend 95% of your time at a chilly preset 65 degrees.
Of course if you don't mind hot weather, you can always choose to don that Bruno-esque mesh fashion shirt and sweat your way from club to club down Collins Ave.
Seriously, there are some wonderful things about Miami. The cultures of South America and Europe nest comfortably within the county limits. You can learn Spanish, French, or Portuguese in a few short weeks. In Miami you can unpretentiously sample from dozens of cultures, either by patronizing their restaurants or hiring some roofers.
And there are stars down here! You're likely to witness people shooting a movie or music video as you maneuver your sports car around town, and even more likely to witness people living a movie.
Living here, expect to have neighbors arrested by helicopter dropped Swat teams at midnight. Expect to see folks down the street demolish their 3 bedroom and build a solid gold McMansion with a champagne jacuzzi, and expect to see it foreclosed on within the month. Expect to see corrupt politicians elected by the votes of the deceased survive scandal with a tenacity only matched by their zombie constituents.
All of this is fun and entertaining, and not why I left.
I left because growing up I witnessed the people here overcome by a pathological need to consume and produce, and to have this conspicous consumption observed and validated by others. I knew no adults who didn't see the acquisition of wealth as the driving impulse behind their every breath and movement.
Among friends and family, conversations inevitably centered on posessions and who had them: houses, cars, and water toys. Going out on a weekend night focused not so much on fun but became instead a cocaine-esque quest for more, hipper, better bars and parties offering unaffordable drinks and even less affordable girls. Here, even romance bears the mark of a market transaction, of a trade: tits for Tahitian timeshares, butt for a BMW.
I knew I couldn't or at least didn't want to compete in this game, but I also knew how hard it was not to get caught up. I didn't lack ambition, I just wanted a different definition of success.
Not that people aren't shallow everywhere, and not like there aren't people in Miami who consistently rise above it.
It's just that I knew deep inside that I wasn't immune to the Miami disease, and that the one sure cure was heading north on I-95 and not looking back for a while. And I still believe that in South Florida, with the probable exception of some medical doctors, it's practically impossible to both pay the mortgage and escape with your soul.
To those I left behind, I wish you luck.
Nice car, by the way.
