72 Hours in Miami

What makes Miami so mesmerising for the outsider looking in is probably the pristine horizons of sand and the wild parties. Sadly, I could neither identify with the party or beach crowd, but still my trip to Miami allowed me to evaluate how fortunate I truly was to find myself on a plane to the US of A. I do not consider myself one with the luck of the green, but after receiving a phone call from my good friend, Daniel to send me on a press junket to cover the legendary U2 at Hard Rock Stadium, I jumped at the opportunity to be in awe of one of the iconic bands of past decades with a legacy of their own and to savour the sweet contact high of the great American dream.

Those who follow the daily news cycle and everyday politics would have been warned that the trip up north in this current climate would be an ill-advised one - after all, this is a time of wariness, suspicion and alert from the tremors of terrorism, hate speech and peak Trump. But the first thing that greeted my ears upon touch down were the sweet gasps of a South American family in celebration, optimism ringing in their voices as they revelled, “We are in America!”

Having being in transit for the last 18 hours, I had my to-do lists to make the most of my short time in Miami. My immediate plan was to drop my bags off at the hotel and make the trip into town to catch Third Eye Blind play their 20th anniversary show of their debut self-titled. Living up a little to a concert in a foreign country still remains one of my favourite sport to do when travelling - if you haven't already experienced, the different atmosphere plays a part in how a band performs and reacts past the “Miami has the best crowd” spiel. Truth be told, the band has yet to move out of the shadows of their earlier successes but those in search of heavy whiffs of 1980's nostalgia got what they came for when the band pulled out the one-two blow of 'Semi-charmed Life' and 'Jumper'.

Once darkness took over, I was immediately drawn to where the city comes alive. I had to choose between a book signing session of Kevin Hart’s new autobiography in a suburban book store or a late night screening of Evil Dead 2 in Wynwood. Just on proximity alone, I settled for the later, and perhaps deep down, I knew I wouldn’t be missing out on short quips and laughs by the funny guy.

The Uber ride to Wynwood was uncomfortable since I was forced to awkwardly sit through silence between two party animals heading out for some Friday night action. The silver lining was that it left me alone to admire the spunky vibrant graffiti that left no blank wall devoid of artistic brilliance. Wynwood is what they call the testing site for artists, a place for them to plate up their art before moving to the prim and proper art galleries next door.

Ok I’ll admit the decision to travel across continents to watch a movie seems farcical, but something about the ordinariness of coming to the arthouse on a Friday night gave me the impression I was living the American life. I felt unnoticed queuing up for tickets and picking out snacks at the popcorn stand like it's my standard Friday night routine.

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As the closest point from South America, Miami unwittingly became the point of entry for most North-bound immigrants (cheapest plane tickets to the States, they say). From the conversations with my Uber and Lyft drivers, most of them made Miami their new home to escape the political madness that dictated their lives and countries in Venezuela, Cuba and Dominican Republic. It pulled the most loyal of citizens from their country and made the Floridian city a true melting pot of culture.

Conversing with them was such an interesting experience even though we struggled with each other’s languages. I resorted to gesticulating with my hands to get my point across and replying their good-natured questions with my sub-standard level of Spanglish. What I came to the realisation was that most of them were patriots at heart, who had little choice in their decision to leave for another country. Despite where they came from, they all shared the same dreams to return home with enough money. For Luiz, he dreams of the $90M power ball to steer their lives back and to Hernandez, to open an electronics store in his hometown. That experience truly humbled me and only garnered much more respect for these immigrants and at the same time, taught me a few important words of Spanish like “Muy Bien”, “gracias señor” and “speak englais”, which I cheekily loved repeating.

Popping into the suburb of ‘Little Havana’, I knew there was much to be taken in. Colourful plastered roosters, empanadas, thick crusty cubanos and the odd guy on the street thieving coins out of the parking meter. If you overlook the tourist traps found in the cigar shops and handicraft stores that welcome vacationers by the bus load, Little Havana is a gleaming treasure chest of culture far from the glitzy art deco district. What I could really get behind was the carefree lifestyle of the locals. From ten in the morning, the colourful personalities of elderly have been sat on round stools scanning their tiles at the dominoes table. While a large signboard clearly demarcated the line between local and tourist, I believed I had picked up the game in my head just from standing by the sidelines.

The next afternoon finds me at South Beach, accompanying the crowd as they saunter about at snail’s place. Ocean Drive has been a hotbed for showing off the striking art-deco buildings in Miami Beach. Everything about the district is as loud as the tourist guidebooks have warned; the pastel-hued boutique hotels with their signs of enamel and neon and snazzy vintage cars parading in the brightest of colours from one corner of the eye and the sun-kissed beach people lounging in their fancy swim wear in the other. Even though the strip was only 1.3 miles long, I had worked up quite a bit of a sweat and have been specifically advised by Leanne to not do as the others do and take my top off for fear of public nuisance.

Midway through, I popped into Puerto Sagua for some authentic Cuban cuisine and to get away from the calescent heat. The crowd inside did nothing to help with the warm temperatures but I have been told the crowd was a regular feature after a massive kitchen fire forced the restaurant to close for six months the previous year (and a favourite of Moonlight's Screenwriter Tarell Alvin McCraney). There is some sort of privilege traveling as a party of one, I was able to climb into a seat by the bar without joining the queue and tucking into an unforgettable serving of Ropa Vieja (Cuban-styled shredded beef accompanied with rice and plantains) and croquette. And as expected, the portions, and to a greater extent, my greed got the better of me.

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On the plane over, I decided I had to have some sort of adventurous spirit on this trip well since I was travelling without Leanne (my chief instigator of adventure) for the first time in six years. To do that, I travelled out of the party district on my last day in search of a hole-in-the-wall fried chicken joint that I heard symbolised the true Haitian spirit. On second thought, what I assumed to be a great idea seemed dangerously silly.

For starters, you don’t run into too many people in Little Haiti - out from the safety of my Lyft car, I found myself in a desolate neighbourhood with not a soul on the street nor WiFi to back me up. In any event, I felt that this would be the perfect and outlandish story I could brag about my love for fried chicken (if I survived the trip).

When a few online journals started hyping up how Little Haiti would end up the next hip suburb of Miami, I found it anything but comfortable for its lack of life on the stretch marked as the Lemon City. To my left, kampongs with roosters crowing amidst sprouting banana trees and aloe vera pups, to my right, empty stores once filled with life boarded up and vacated.

My plan in Little Haiti was to get takeaways like the others in doggie bags and eat out by a park bench, but I felt safer off the streets. Fritay Fried Pork and Chicken is exactly how Google describes: unassuming. The entrance is barred by heavy metal grills and the interiors clear of any stylistic upgrades from the last few years - it makes for a good sign well since the focus is on its food. Its name translated from the Haitian creole stands for an assortment of deep fried food and to respect the establishment, I had myself the sampler of fried chicken that was tender to the bone and a Haitian favourite recommended by the chef - watermelon soda. The only other visitor was an elderly man who sat at the opposite table and he had just downed his second can of red.

On the way out of Little Haiti, my Lyft driver (a fellow Haitian) reasoned against my conceived notions of Little Haiti. The culture is still rich and alive in this suburb, she admits, but the market and its associated community have their day off on the first day of the week. She senses my disappointment and talks me out of it, "There is always a next time in Miami, no?"

*Illustration courtesy of Mary Birdy

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