Saturday evening I sat in the lobby of The Betsy angry and defeated. The concierge had told me that the poetry event we had come to hear had taken place Friday night. He had mentioned a crowd on the rooftop that had made me even more distraught. I had searched unsuccessfully on my phone for the email from my friend, one of the poets, telling me that the event was Saturday the 22nd. The message was only a few weeks old, why couldn’t I find it? It felt as if the world were conspiring against me, and I were a confused old man no longer capable of making his way in it.
We retrieved the car from the garage, found a parking spot on Washington, and walked half a block to Espanola Way. We had not been there in a long time and seemed to be walking through the filming of a commercial for the city: tables overtaking the sidewalk; people strolling under carnival lights, waiters singing Italian songs. We made our way one block west, to the non-pedestrian part, and took a seat at A La Folie. I craved a glass of cider. We sat at a small table at the edge of the sidewalk. Hania opened the menu and showed me that the buckwheat crepes were now gluten-free; she ordered one with Brie and pears. We sipped our cider and watched as tourists, residents, party girls passed by. A cat appeared in the doorway, also taking in the scene. We had found the coziest spot in South Beach.
