As a veteran accountant, devoted to a lifetime of combatting errant tax returns, my sincere advice to you is NEVER spend Christmas in South Beach (SoBe to the initiated), Miami, Florida.
It was all a ploy to steer The Monster, my younger son, away from the back streets of Harlem, New York City, for Christmas. At the time, he was dedicating his life to being a goth rapper. A nuclear family, we had no one to spend Christmas with in Calgary, so we had no reason to stay in this Siberia of North America for the festive season.
Our trip to the land of celebrities turned into a total disaster.
My joy was always Christmas in the Bahamas radiating sunshine and leisure that would melt the heart of Scrooge or a Grinch. Instead, here we were in Miami. The weather was abysmal, bitter Atlantic winds slapped our faces. Rain, in the form of ice pellets, battered our uncovered heads.
Reluctantly, I had chosen “a one of a kind, boutique Z Ocean Hotel” with its own private beach. We entered into an art deco, pint-sized edifice. Paying the same price as our spacious resort suites on Atlantis Island, Bahamas, we entered a dark dungeon of a room, half the size, all done up in The Monster’s favourite non-colour: BLACK, the paint of the year in this hotel.
We arrived in the late afternoon. The rain had stopped for the moment.
“Come on, get your swimsuits on,” I said. “Time to hit the beach.”
Where was the beach?
I had deliberately booked two adjacent rooms at the back of the hotel, to avoid the rushing noise of traffic on Collins Avenue. If the beach wasn’t plonked in front of our hotel, I foolishly assumed it would be at the back. I drew our curtains and stepped out onto our balcony. It was a foot wide. With my bulk, I couldn’t even turn around in it. Like a large cruise ship, I had to cautiously move without damaging my knees against the metal bars of the railing…. there was NO beach.
A narrow road behind us gave onto the most scenic sight: a 7-Eleven store – an unparalleled vista to the intrepid voyager. Huddled on either side, tiny concrete stores battled for a space to be seen on this street above them tall apartment buildings.
Our private beach lay behind the stores facing us. It took half an hour to find a narrow alley between them to allow us to the beach. The howling wind immediately drove us back to the hotel. But where was the alleyway we had come out of?
If we walked down Collins Avenue, the place was so crowded, we had to weave between the pedestrians until we became dizzy. To escape from the weather, we took a cab to Aventura Mall. The predicted 30–40-minute ride took us 90 minutes.
“It’s always like this at Christmas,” beamed our cheery driver when we had hardly moved a block in half-an-hour.
On entering the mall, hunger set in. Another wait of 30 minutes to get a table at a fast-food restaurant and we slumped into our booth. In the spirit of Christmas, Laura, generally a light eater, ordered a turkey lunch. The plate of food that arrived for her could easily have covered a salver. The Monster, Alex his older brother, and I took turns to gorge tablespoonfuls of turkey and cranberry sauce from her plate, in addition to the mass of food we had unknowingly ordered. The greatest shock came with the bill. The fare cost us a fraction of what we would have paid in Canada with only half the amount of food. It was then I began to notice the larger size of our fellow patrons.
The Greek poet Menander claimed time heals all wounds.
Relieved to be home again, I had plenty of it to reflect on our holiday.
A space in our fireplace cabinet was now filled with a large ceramic vase. Painted in every bright colour you can think of, a mischievous boy, his arms wide open welcomed you home. The boy always made me smile. The vase was made by Miro, which we had purchased on our holiday. In June, at Alex’s graduation, Laura wore the most stunning red velvet full dress and matching red high-heeled shoes. She looked as beautiful as she had done on our wedding day, a score of years past.
Laura had been searching for something special to wear for Alex’s once-in-a-lifetime graduation. We found the garment by accident at a shop in Bal Harbour, the upper end of Collins Avenue. As for me, a dark blue sweater with tiny bright yellow, red and sky-blue insignia that I could wear every day of the week without being bored. It came from a small bungalow turned into an artisan clothing boutique at the lower end of Collins Avenue.
Each Christmas, returning from our travels, my family sits down and watches Sean Connery in his James Bond movies. Goldfinger starts up. An early scene depicts The Fontainebleu Miami Beach hotel. When I was a kid in Africa, my father, a film buff, would take me to a cinema to watch the movie in air-conditioned heaven. My eyes lit up with wonder at the magic of ice-skaters and divers being gawked at through gigantic glass windows in the basement of the Fontainebleau.
“One day,” I declared, “I will go visit that hotel.”
And I did.
Grateful for the chance life had given me.
