Travel Blog

Friday afternoon, Hania and I drove to Miami Beach for our (mostly) annual taste of Miami Art Week. Traffic on I-95 was only a little worse than usual, but getting onto the Julia Tuttle was a lot worse. The electronic board announced that it would take us about a half an hour to drive four miles (to Alton Road).  I wondered where all these cars were going to park. We eventually reached Arthur Godfrey Road, but ended up behind a wide-load truck. A man in a kippah sped past us on his scooter.

Traffic lightened after we turned south onto A1A (aka Jimmy Buffett Memorial Highway), but available parking spots seemed like a dream. I turned down 37^th Street, found none, and joined the multitudes inching north. Circling back to 37^th we saw some people getting into a parked car. And within less than a minute, the car departed and I pulled in. Miracle on 37^th Street.

We used the restrooms at a nearby café and then walked to the beach to see the herd of wooden elephants that had been installed there. I like art; I especially like art that’s public and free.

Back in the car, we headed south to Collins Ave., which was not as bad as I had anticipated. Turning right onto 17^th Street, we headed straight to the Miami Beach Convention Center, home of Art Basel, the eye of the storm. Our favorite parking garage, amazingly, was open. (We were wise to come late in the afternoon, as people were leaving.) We found a spot on level 2.

We strolled Lincoln Road and then Washington Ave. (The price of Art Basel was $85.) Espanola Way was quiet at 5 pm, but A La Folie had diners inside and out. We took a small table on the sidewalk and ordered crepes with cider from an aloof waitress we assumed was French but found out later was Argentinian. (Undoubtedly from Buenos Aires.)

At 6:30, the party on Espanola Way – one of the world’s loveliest tourist traps – was in full swing. We walked down Washington to The Wolfsonian and joined the line of people gathered outside the entrance. The doors opened promptly at 7, and people headed straight through the lobby to the side rooms offering cocktails and food.

“This is dinner!” a woman said indignantly, showing me her croissant. (The invitation had said “pastries;” perhaps she hadn’t read it fully.

We took the elevator to the 7^th floor and worked our way down – as instructed by the elevator attendant – admiring the paintings of industrial landscapes and the outfits on many of the art lovers. I was reminded of what a treasure The Wolfsonian is. On one floor we saw the stained glass window full of Irish literary references that Micky Wolfson purchased after it was rejected by the person who had commissioned it.

Back in the grandiose lobby, a DJ alternated between spinning records and playing the trumpet, while people – some beautiful, some ordinary – talked in tight groups. We bought some Christmas presents in the gift shop and then made the long walk back the garage.

Was it worth all the trouble of getting there? Definitely. Saturday morning I woke up with an idea for this year’s Christmas card.