Miami Beach

The Seen Scene - Saturday Evening

One thing that amazes me is how many Hummers there are in South Beach. I mean, (1) the Hummer is a stupid vehicle anyway, (2) the traffic lanes and parking spaces here are narrow, and (3) the traffic is bad. Add it up yourself: 1 + 2 + 3 = 6! And six is the IQ of someone who would drive a Hummer in South Beach.

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Ocean Drive

In the evening we walked up Ocean Drive for some drinks. I tell you, this amazes me. Ocean Drive is lined with expensive restaurants with sidewalk seating. Seating on sidewalks packed with pedestrians. Who would pay a premium price for a gourmet meal only to eat it while be jostled constantly by strangers who are overhearing anything you say? Now to mention having your table manners on display for an audience of hundreds.

All we wanted was some drinks. The concierge told us that the Clevelander had "atmosphere." "Atmosphere" apparently means a vaguely Art Deco outdoor bar and a loud ban playing bad oldies. Oops, I guess "bad oldies" is redundant.

For our next drink we moved to the Edison. This was much nicer. We got sidewalk seating, so while we were jostled, we only had drinks, so we could watch the parade of people go by and make snide comments which were probably mostly undeserved. But we had a good time. The band was playing Latin music. Very nice. They had a girl on stage, as part of the act, who danced through each song. In between numbers she'd vanished off-stage to change into a different outfit. She was the hardest-working one up there.

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The Seen Scene

Ocean Drive is the place to be seen in SoBe, if you're into the seen scene. What happens is every teenager with a phat car in Miami cruises up Ocean Drive over and over. "Cruising" is what they call this. In actual fact, very little cruising is done. Most of the time everyone is standing still in a horrendous traffic jam. Stereos are played very loud and horns are tooted that don't toot but, say, wolf whistle, or laugh like Woody Woodpecker, or some such. The poor souls who don't have phat cars stand on the sidewalk -- if they are lucky with a slight blonde thing wearing a short flouncy pink low-rider skirt -- and loudly encourage the drivers to honk or turn up the volume. This goes on until the wee hours. And it went on right under our window. We had box seats.

While it's obvious that these people are experiencing a level of testosterone that exceeds their good sense -- I was strongly reminded of peacocks -- at the same time it's impossible not to get caught up in their exuberant vitality and energy. Go for it, Woody Woodpecker!

Oh, and for the record, Judi says the bar in the Casablanca, next to the Park Central, has the best apple martini anywhere.