Billie Eilish was interviewed by Terry Gross on “Fresh Air” yesterday and as she spoke about her appearance – and the thinking behind it – it occurred to me that she is the antithesis of Taylor Swift. And it struck me as odd that two of the biggest female singers were such polar opposites, both in their physical presence and their musical styles. (Pop music – a genre that contains multitudes.) Of the two, I find Eilish’s music the more interesting by far.
Picking up the mail yesterday evening I found, amongst the bills and Christmas cards, a priority envelope from the U.S. government containing my new passport.
I don’t know what number this one is, but I do know I’ve had a passport since 1968, when, as a junior in high school, I went on an Easter trip to Italy with the Latin Clubs of New Jersey. This is the first one I renewed online – a surprisingly easy process – and the first one that carries a picture of me without my glasses. (Seeing the mug shot again, I was reminded of the wag who said that if people really looked like their passport photos, nobody should be allowed to travel.) Happily, like my driver’s license, which also shows me bereft of spectacles – what I think of as an instance of facial nudity – it’s a document that only people who don’t know me will see, officials in uniforms who, hopefully, will give it only a cursory glance.
I’ve been writing my Christmas cards this week – keeping them brief, per my belief that making your own card gives you license to be succinct. While I go through my increasingly, distressingly outdated address book, I listen to old broadcasts of Christmas shows on the Millennium of Music website: A Medieval Christmas. A Baroque Christmas. A Mediterranean Christmas. A Bohemian Christmas. Musical journeys in time and space.
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 37th Street, found none, and joined the multitudes inching north. Circling back to 37th we saw some people getting into a parked car. And within less than a minute, the car departed and I pulled in. Miracle on 37th 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 17th 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 7th 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.
This is my week for classic Fort Lauderdale restaurants. Tuesday night we went to the soft reopening of the Mai-Kai. The food was OK (as I remembered it) and the drinks were excellent, though I sent back my Floridita Daiquiri - described as Hemingway's favorite from the Floridita Bar in Havana - because it arrived frozen. When I complained (I don't think Hemingway drank frozen cocktails) I was told that all the Mai-Kai's daiquiris are frozen. We were seated outside, as the dining room was not yet open, and after the meal we went in to look at the bar, which was as atmospheric as I remembered it, though I seem to recall the old one had windows with water continuously running down the outside panes, giving the feeling of being inside a waterfall. But it was good to see the place beautifully restored.
Last night, I went with some friends to Cafe Martorano. I had heard it was loud, and it was; a bit like eating in a disco - there is a disco ball over the bar - except that nobody was dancing. The chef-owner doubles as DJ. As Max Beerbohm once said: "For people who like that sort of thing it's just the sort of thing that they like."
Also leaving us this week, also at the age of 95, was Charles Dumont. Most famous for writing the Edith Piat hit “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien,” Dumont was a singer as well, interpreting his songs with a gruff, lilting gracefulness. (“C’etait le temps, souvenez-vous/le temps des grives aux loups.”) Now he joins those two other Charles’s – Aznavour and Trenet – in the French chanson afterworld.