Impressions Linger by veronica sykes - Miami, Fl.

At a glance impression of Miami. Personal observation of a party town.

Tequila and a Corona: my mantra for the two weeks that I’ve visited Miami. It’s been yelled over the many illuminated, matted, wooden, metal, glossy bar-tops to the same complacent-faced bartender in the clubs & bars in this city. I always remember this trip with a bitter, fuming coat of not yet processed day-after alcohol blooming in my mouth. Vignettes of flesh and lights, sand and cheeseburgers, café and tostadas flash along with my merrymaking associations of Miami. Miami is definitely a party town. But there are subtleties that aren’t as popular as its nightlife that make Miami so unique and its own. I arrived on Saturday, August 26, 2006 at 3:07pm. Begotten from Norfolk International Airport and arrived in Miami International Airport. The trip was done on a whim. Called my friend from college up and told him I’d be visiting him before the summer ends. Didn’t tell him when. When I knew I’d tell him. So I told him Wednesday, August 23 at 2:35am.

He was asleep. Best time to catch him.

“Mike. I’m coming in a few days. I’ll send you an email with my itinerary. Can’t wait to see you. Sleep tight.” All he said was, “Ok.”

I love my friends.

I arrived on time. To the minute. Got my bags from the treadmill. And walked out. First thing you notice is the heat. The stifling, almost constricting heat of MIA’s arrival pick-up area. The pilot said it was around 97f. The cloud of heat that hit me when I went through the sliding doors nearly dried me from the inside. I’d be expecting him to be waiting for me outside. He wasn’t. I waited. Tried smoking a cigarette but it only felt like I was sucking hot air through a straw. I decided to wait ten minutes more before I’d use the pay phone. I watched the people getting picked up. Hispanic, fat, beautiful, blond, black, skinny people entering Mercedes or Datsuns. The smile was the same. Familiar and intimate. Their glances to me were slightly odd. One gave a: “Otra leche condesada gringa” look, another: "Where does she shop?" look, and finally, a look I mostly received by both the sexes: "Yum! Fresh meat." My attire is laid-back. T-shirt, loose jeans and sneakers. I don’t have a flair for fashion like Miaminitas. I don’t expose my milky whites like them here, most of them, the majority of them, the slim and fat, wear their stretchable tops no matter where they may go, laundry mat or bar, to display their lush sun-glistened busts; with their complimenting pants to mold the unfit and enhance the fit derriere. Gucci, Chanel, Juicy Couture, D&G seem to sashay pass me like oil and water with my thrift store treasures. I sit in the heavy heat admiring the ladies of Miami and wondering that even in the most intolerable environments these ladies well try to look their sexiest. Luckily for me the arrival area is under the departure area. I was safely hidden from the tropic’s white intense sunlight. But I could feel its sweltering body emanating in gusts of gas around me. I finally saw my friend bathing in the light, waiting for the traffic to enter the shaded arrival area. He honked once and I was gone. The funny thing about Miami is that there is no order. The streets and traffic indicators are the same as every whatever town in the fifty states. The only thing different are the people. Miami is an international city, thousands migrate here for vacation

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