From the Sublime to the Ridiculous

I don’t seem to be able to take a trip, rather I have Adventures. I can’t tell you what it is about my karma, but things just happen to me when I travel. From the moment I stepped off the plane, I knew that this trip to Miami would be no different.
The first thing that I noticed was that there was a dress code, or should I call it a “lack of dress” code. The men all seemed to be wearing white and the woman, no matter if they were a size 2 or 22, all were naked. Well, nearly naked.
Thankfully, most folks do realize that not everything is for everybody. Just because they manaufacture it doesn’t mean you should wear it.
Really.
Things that look cute on that twiggy size two model will not look the same on your size 14 (or larger) hips. I guarantee it. But these particular citizens folks seemed to have missed that. Anyway, I’d gotten off the plane hungry adn my hosts insisted that I shower and change my clothes so I could eat and properly experience Miami. A girl’s gotta eat, so I obliged them.
I wanted to blend in with the locals, but since I am over 25 (okay, I’m 26. Sheesh) I had not packed my hoochie clothes. I’m well aware that not everyone wants to see my flesh the same way I don’t want to see theirs.

I did my best at blending. I donned a Three Dots foldover swing skirt and a white top by Worth Collection, and of course, killer Manolos, in Lavender, noja. I was feeling a little daring, so I took the plunge and hinted at some skin by folding the skirt down far enough to just show the tops of my hip bones. Didn’t Shakira say “Hip (bones) don’t lie”?
Close enough.

I was in for a treat. We went to the Delano in South Beach to peoeple watch and eat sushi in between the sheets hanging frm the ceiling, and there was a lot to watch. The music was loud and we passed on sitting at one of the dining tabes in the pool ( not a mistake. Who wants wet ankles?), but I enjoyed the folks trying to look Miami-eqsue.
But the night wasn’t over. They had a surprise for me. I was being taken to a place they said I was sure to love. We hopped in a cab and headed thorugh the impossible midnight traffic. South Beach had midnight traffic as dense as commuter traffic in New York during rush hour outisde the Lincoln Tunnel. And the cabbie was sure we would enjoy the hot-ass Miami night air better than the air-conditioning (not) and insisted that the windows be open. We headed over to another place called Mangos and I tried to be cool even though my locs were whipping me to death as they blew in the wind. It was as if I was being flogged in the face.
I balked when we pulled up. There were throngs of people outside and a line that just wouldn’t quit. I tugged the sleeve of my host.
“Um, Not sure I wanna go in there.”
They smirked at me. “Why not?” They said. “ You will love it. You’re not tired are you? This is Miami.” They said this as if the other places I’d seen since I stepped off the plane were not Miami.
It wasn’t about tired. “I’m from New York. I don’t do lines.” What I wanted to say was” Look at me. Do I look like I would wait in that line?” But I didn’t. I was nice. I kept it to myself.
“It’s okay.” They assurred me. “We don’t do liness either. Watch.”
I immeditaly felt better and they were true to their words. We manuevered the crowded, table lined sidewalk and walked right past the waiting types.
Whoa, I thought. I don’’t wanna be jacked. Folks were given us the evil-eye, and it wasn’t just the look you get when your gear is together and folks are hatin’ either. Maybe jumping the line wasn’t such a good idea. You see, I might not be the waiting tupe, but I was certainly the empathetic type. I would certainly be pissed if someone tried to get in front of me.
They gave me more patronizing smiles. “Simple economics. The rule of differential pricing. “ And they they stepped right up to the velvet rope and looked the bouncer-person in the eye. He was busy telling other line-jumpers to be that they had to go to the end of the line.
My hosts reached right through the people trying to sneak in and clasped the hand of the bouncer like they knew him. For a hot moment, I though the was going to snatch his hand away and scream at us, but I couldn’t believe it, he nodded his muscle-bound head insstead. The girl standing next to him looked us up and down, assessed us thoroughly, then opened the velvet rope to allow us entry.

Differential economics. Wow. I could like this. I was a VIP. Cool.
And Mangoes was hot. Really, like open air hot. It seemed to be a Cuban salsa bar, complete with woman dancing on the bar, but this wasn’t no coyote ugly joint. These chicks (and later guys) had frills everywhere and they certianly knew how to fling ‘em. I was worried for their health for awhile, imagining the ill-fated misstep that would send the dancers tumbling into the crowd below, until the band started playing somehting that made my hips start moving, too, all by themselves. Before I knew it, I was dancing in the uber-thick crowd and somehow I ended up in a conga line, not really caring that there was a strange person hanging on and conga-ing behind me, yelling "Eh, Mami!". (That’s what makes it a line.) South Beach was great! I hadn’t had that much fun in awhile.

Pumpkin time arrived and I knew I had to head back to my hotel. There was no use in turnign up at The Book LoVers Lounge in Lauderdale Lakes for my booksigning looking like I had no sleep. I couldn’t chance puffy eyes. I had no cucumber slices or preparation H with me (for smearing under the eyes!)

And now the ridiculous.

My hotel was a sprawling mass that crossed the street and meandered on for what seemed like miles. I discovered an intriguing restaurant called Nikki Beach that was built on an interesting concept. One didn’t hve to leave the bed to eat. Really, I mean you could have a table that was a bed. A big, four poster bed, complete with curtains and table step to help you climb in. This seemed like a good thing, right? I couldn’t wait to go.
The place was alive with some kind of fusion-confusing sounding music and it was right on the water. If you reclined right, it seemed like you would have quite the view.

Ha ha!

The hostess led me to my bed. On closer inspection, I discovered that it wasn’t REALLY a bed, there were no sheets. It was more like a big outdoor type cushion. But it was kinda dirty looking.

Stains, A dead bug.

I counted to three.

I was being open-minded. I whisked it clean to the best of ability, and climbed in, hoping that they really did change the covers periodically.
The thing was lined with big throw pillows and I tried to position myself in the cleanest spot, then strategically leaned back on the pillows so I looked cool and could see the water.

Like I said, I thought it would be cool, but it wasn’t.

I couldn’t stop hearing the voice in my head saying, “Don’t eat in bed.” It was like eating greasy foood in bed at midnight and sleeping in the crumbs or going to bed in the middle of your dining room table, take your pick.
You would think that since you were reclining, they would have taken the time to decorate the ceiling, but no such luck. And then it got worse. The waitress bought what looked likea TV tray and some drinks and proceeding to spill one.
Th eliquid didn’t absorb like it might in a real bed, instead it ran across the top of the mattress until it found the spot of least resistance, which, or course, happened to be my white pants. My butt was soaked with ice-water. Could it get any worse?
She moved us to another bed, right by the kitchen of course. This one was cleaner, (not much) but cleaner nonetheless. By the time my tapas came I just didn’t want to eat. My appetite was gone. Se Fue. Instead, I just wanted to go back across to the safety of my hotel room and enjoy the mini-bar. I left the appropriate tip (read into that what you will), and headed to my room.
But you see, things were already ridiculous, and I was on a high floor. And let me tell you that there is someting wrong when an elevator can tell you its about to break down with you inside it. The doors closed and the elevator screamed at me “We are about to experience technical difficulties.” I'd stepped into the twilight zone. So muh to a peaceful end to the night. It slowed and the lights dimmed and all I could see were visions of me, 24 floors below at the bottom of th elevator shaft with broken legs. Could they have made the thing smart enough to inform me of its health problems before the doors closed?
I eventually reached my floor, trusting that sleep would make it all better. I was going home in the morning, right?

Wrong!

There was weather somewhere and all the flights were cancelled. Instead of being on the six am flighttht I ordered, I could have one that would maybe get me home at nine at night.
I don’t mean to whine, but Why God! Why me? What was the lesson I was supposed to learn? I wondered if I should rush back and give that poor all-thumbs waitress a better tip or something.
It was like being stuck in the movie Terminal with Tom Hanks, running from gate to gate, trying to get on a flight, any flight that would get me out of Miami. I didn’t even care if I had that seat right in front of the lavatory that gets whiffs of the bathroom and where the seat doesn’t recline, even if I was in the middle seat wedged between two large people. I kept clicking my ruby slippers to no avail. I was obviously meant to suffer. Finally, hours later, they stopped laughing at me and let me on a flight. I crossed my fingers and my toes, hoping beyond hope that we would get off the ground so I could go back over the rainbow.
I think I will stay home for awhile.

Comments

Anonymous said…
...wow...dancing a conga, dining and nearly drowning in a bed, people-watching at the very posh Delano Hotel South Beach, near death elevator experiences, jumping to the front of the VIP line, and flight drama....

sublime, ridiculous...indeed!

i wanna travel with you some day....well, maybe just for HALF of one of your trips -- the sublime parts, of course.

2 funny. sounds like you had more fun than you could stand.
Nina Foxx said…
You say that now....Until you are stuck in the elevator or stalked by a tornado....Did I mention that happened in Atlanta?
Anonymous said…
impressive....you have drama with man made structures and natural phenomena -- you truly are a woman of adventure. i'll consider traveling once i've upgraded my insurance with lloyds of london.

;-)

peace sistah
Adesewa said…
I got caught up on your blogs and you had me laughing the whole time. You have some adventures!
Nina Foxx said…
Sewa,
Trust me when I tell you I laugh at myself a lot. Every day. Sometimes multiple times in a day.
Anonymous said…
Here's my favorite quote: "The liquid didn’t absorb like it might in a real bed, instead it ran across the top of the mattress until it found the spot of least resistance, which, or course, happened to be my white pants. My butt was soaked with ice-water. Could it get any worse?"
"Icy Bottom" - This sounds like a great movie (I'd pay to see it) - the question is...what rating would the movie receive?

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