Downtown was packed last night for Christmas on Las Olas. I parked on a street near the library garage and, walking to the meter with a fistful of quarters, saw that I had an hour and fifty-one minutes. I slipped in a quarter to round it out.
Heading down Las Olas I passed Vibe - nothing like an open-air bar to get you in the holiday spirit - and then Rare, the new steakhouse in the Bank of America building, the place swank restaurants go to die.
East of the tunnel, Las Olas was blocked to traffic. I strolled past booths hawking food, gift baskets, religion. "Are you Jewish," a man in a white shirt and black beard asked me. I told him no, then asked if he had thought I was. "I'm asking everyone," he said, to my disappointment. Then he asked: "Did you think I was Jewish?"
I joined the line in front of the SoLita booth, where I ran into an old colleague from the Sun-Sentinel. "How's it going?" she asked.
"OK," I said. "But I miss the weekly paycheck."
"You probably don't miss the stress." I told her I never had much stress, except in the last year, when everything started to go to hell. "It's worse now," she said.
I bought a slice of pizza for $3.
Working my way back up the street I found a booth handing out free plates of nachos, guacamole and salsa. I scored one of those. Then I stopped by the Gran Forno booth to say hello to Peter.
"What can I get you?" he asked. I told him I had already eaten. In front of Big City Tavern two young women were pouring free cups of hot chocolate. Dessert.
I headed back to the car, my stomach junked up but definitely not growling. The evening had cost me $3.25, which wouldn't have gotten me a side at Rare. I passed two women in headscarves speaking Arabic, and wondered if they had been asked if they were Jewish.
