Saturday evening Hania and I drove to the beach and parked near the Goodland Hotel. Walking toward the ocean we passed a couple walking a dog. They were from Memphis, traveling with their pet, but the woman was originally from Texas. We told them about our spring trip there in 2019 and all the beautiful wildflowers along the highways.
At S3 we found two seats outside at the bar, next to a group speaking with Scottish accents. Chatting with them, we learned that they were aeronautical engineers here for a conference. One of them, who was originally from Northern Ireland, said that one of the things he liked about America was how people of different ages mixed socially. In the U.K., he said, life was more segregated. Then they headed off to dinner at YOLO.
And one of the nice things about South Florida, I thought, is that you don’t have to travel to meet people from elsewhere.
You know it's summer in South Florida - or almost - when the top post in your online neighborhood newsletter reads "mango thief."
My friend Dave arrived shortly after tipoff last night because he mistakenly went to the Twin Peaks close to Hard Rock Stadium. Of the twenty-odd screens, two were showing the Villanova-Michigan game; a couple had the Arkansas-Gonzaga game; most were tuned to the Panthers.
"The other place," Dave said, "was full of Colombians watching soccer."
A friend and fellow Villanovan is in town for the Miami Open, and yesterday I was in Davie scouting out sports bars where we could watch tonight’s game against Michigan. The first place I tried told me they wouldn’t have the sound on because Thursday is their Trivia Night. They suggested a place a short drive away.
This was Twin Peaks. The manager here said they’ll put the sound on if there’s enough demand for it. I asked her about the place, which I had never heard of. “It’s a kind of upscale Hooters,” she said, employing two words that are very rarely paired.
I dropped my wife off at the dermatologist’s office yesterday morning and then headed to the strip mall across the street, where one of the signs read: Bakery Café.
A long counter of pastries and focaccias greeted me. I asked about a round bread – a cross between a roll and a loaf – and a mustachioed man in a white baker’s coat told me it was made with milk mixed in with the flour. As I paid for one, I asked where he was from.
“Modena,” he said.
It took a few seconds to register. Moldova, I thought? Most people tell you the country they’re from; the city only if it’s a major one. Paris. Boston. Modena came as a surprise. But I recovered quickly.
“Oh, yea, the home of Pavarotti,” I said.
The man’s assessment of me seemed to soften. I asked if he’d seen the Stanley Tucci series about eating in Italy. “I saw only the one about my region,” he said, adding that his region, Emilia-Romagna, had the best food in Italy. But, he added, it’s hard to make a living.
“Before the immigrants from Italy all came from the south. Now there are more like me from the north. Emilia-Romagna, Veneto.”
His daughter was in college here, studying to be a doctor and playing for the tennis team. Our conversation moved from Italian food to Italian tennis players.
Early Friday afternoon I sat at the bar of the Elbo Room with my friend Don from Boca Raton. It’s Don’s tradition to drink a beer in the famous watering hole every Spring Break, and this year I had decided to join him. The beer has improved since his first drink there back in the ’60s – we both had Cigar City Jai Alai – but the music hasn’t changed (at least in the early afternoon when most of the customers are aging male Boomers). We sat there looking out at the passing scene, feeling ourselves at the center of something, however insignificant, as the singer belted out renditions of “Bad Moon Rising” and “Sweet Home Alabama.”
When our plastic cups of beer were empty we took a stroll up the strip, passing bars packed with students and blasting techno. And we wondered what “songs” from this music these students will listen to in their 70s that will take them back to a particular place and time.