The Miami Open is moving from Key Biscayne to Hard Rock Stadium. In other words, it is giving up paradise for a parking lot.
Drove to Coconut Grove yesterday to see a friend who’s doing some work for Ransom Everglades. Strolled around the grounds, which looked pretty much as one would expect the campus of a $37,000-a-year high school to look, especially the state-of-the-art outdoor swimming pool. Then, after lunch at Jaguar (delicious Mexican ceviche), we walked around the grounds of The Barnacle, Betsy pointing out the same coral ridge that runs through Ransom.
Around 5 we drove to downtown for the service of Lessons and Carols at Trinity Episcopal Cathedral. The Anglican Chorale sang, with the Florida Singing Sons, hymns familiar and obscure. Then we all walked out into the balmy Advent evening.
Saturday morning we drove to Miami through intermittent showers. The rain must have dissuaded some art lovers, as the traffic on Biscayne Blvd. was fairly light, and we found a parking space – in the lot of Trinity Cathedral – without a problem. Twenty dollars for my church.
We sat in the car until a squall passed, then walked with umbrellas to Art Miami, a huge tent that had been set up on the site of the old Herald building. Inside, we waited with other damp people for about 25 minutes. At 11 am we were all let loose.
We stayed three hours and didn’t see everything. The Koreans had a large presence, with some brilliant artists who, like many on display, demonstrated a playful sense of humor. A few of the patrons were as interesting as some of the paintings, while taking themselves much more seriously. Even the window looking onto Biscayne Bay – its causeways, its cruise ships, its condos – had the look of a canvas, showing the scene in a rare watery grey. Even I couldn’t help but think it was a view too good for journalists.
For lunch we drove – again surprisingly easily – up Biscayne Blvd. to the Design District. While consuming our vaca frita and black beans and rice at Estafan Kitchen, we listened to a pianist who, during his break, was replaced by black-and-white videos of old Latin stars. Afterwards, we walked the streets, passing art lovers and construction workers. Two people stood at a streetside information desk.
“When is this district going to be finished?” I asked the young man.
“Who knows?” he said. “Perhaps it will be the Sagrada Familia of Miami.”
We found ourselves in Hollywood Saturday morning and decided to check out the Yellow Green Farmer's Market, which we hadn’t seen since its opening a few years back. Then it was a hot, half-empty hangar off of I-95.
A line-up of cars slowly made its way into the nearly packed parking lot. After finding a space, we walked into the Italian Depot, stocked with freshly baked ciabatta, olive oils, pastas, including our favorite, Le Veneziane corn pasta, at about half the price we’d been paying for it.
Stands were set up outside the main building, scenting the air with Venezuelan barbecue and Thai satays. Inside we found a bustling hall, part farmers’ market, part ethnic bazaar. It was a microcosm of South Florida: Peruvian ceviche, Honduran street food, Cuban sandwiches, Mexican tacos, Colombian arepas, Brazilian acai, West Indian hot sauces, Ethopian injera, Greek gyros. We found rustic round loaves of delicious gluten-free bread, Louisiana gumbo, smoked fish dip, healthy juices, pastries that looked like fancy soaps. It confirmed my belief, stated three years ago in Fort Lauderdale Magazine, that Broward is more ethnically diverse than Dade. It was exactly the kind of market I try to find when I travel to other cities, and I was amazed to discover that it has existed for years 10 minutes from my home. Why aren’t people talking about this place?
Out for a beat-the-sun walk at 6:30. My body still hasn't adjusted to the time change. Headed out of the complex into the hood, where the only early riser of the four-legged kind seemed to be the cat Spanky. (If I lived with a Doberman I too would be out of the house pronto.) Back on the island, I passed another walker, a middle-aged woman. I looked at her, but she kept her gaze straight ahead, ignoring my presence. Halfway around, I passed her again and this time I said "hello." Nothing. I thought of the Saturday last month in Nashville when a young jogger had wished me a good morning. Here I can't even get a nod from a neighbor.
There was a good crowd at Savor Cinema last night for the Estonian film The Spy and the Poet. What is it about film festivals? We'll go over on a Friday evening, for a French or Spanish movie, and be about the only people in the audience. Or do the residents of Fort Lauderdale have a heretofore unrecognized interest in Baltic cinema?
Admittedly, a number of the people in attendance were speaking Estonian. I spoke to one couple, who had escaped their homeland after World War II. The Russian occupation was so horrific, they said, that people had been happy to see the Germans.
The film, set in contemporary Tallinn, included a number of Russian spies.