Miami Vices
The first step in taking a trip anywhere with Ryan is overcoming his protestations over how expensive it is. But I am nothing if not a great debater, and well versed in winning these arguments. If needed I can always play the, ‘Hey, do you remember how much plane tickets were when we went to France?’ card. He cannot. We cannot. And whatever they cost, they were worth every penny for that trip.
‘It’s your birthday, I’ll pay for everything,’ I offer.
‘No, I don’t want you to pay for everything.’
‘OK. I want to stay here,’ I pull up the Airbnb listing for the flats I like, ‘Trust me on this, it’ll be worth it.’
‘It’s so expensive; what if we got a hotel?’
‘We don’t want a hotel. We’re staying here.’
He relents. Then it’s on to flights. The ones with the most flexible timing, of course, are more expensive. Eventually I declare I’m paying for flights with credit card points so they’re effectively free. Ryan is always grateful for this, but he has not yet learned to have the foresight to forego this step in travelling together.
Ryan has, however, learned this valuable lesson in life: Trust me. I know how to have fun. In a way that aims to be maximally considerate of each of the individuals involved.
So that’s how we end up back at Two Schmucks for a second time, because I want to once again taste the best cocktail I have ever had in my life, and I don’t care what the Lyft costs to get there.
Thursday
Returning to Miami feels familiar. I know the airport, where to go to wait for your ride. That you should do it from the Departures level because there will be less traffic. We arrive in the evening. We chat up our driver. Ryan ogles the palm trees out the window, and I try to explain that he can’t even understand because he’s seeing them at dusk and not in sunshine. There’s AC instead of windows down. There’s always AC in Florida. I want to feel the sun and the hot, humid air, but I must wait.
We are down in Miami because of Ryan, and a text message he sent me while I was still down here in January.
‘I know you’ll be back this way but this looks fun! A takeover by one of the Spanish bar teams that left before we got there because of management issues’
‘Should we go’ I declare
And so we do. We land, and pick up the keys to our Airbnb. Normally Dani would meet us in person, but she has soccer practice pickup, and we know each other, so she leaves them at the front gate of her neighbourhood and we walk to get them, me giving Ryan a brief tour of the Grove as we walk along. We return to our Airbnb so I can shower the travel off myself, then we change. I beat Ryan to the Bar Brutal t-shirt. He wants to wear his, too. I tell him he should, but he thinks it’s too kitschy to be wearing matching t-shirts.
By 9pm we are at the Two Schmucks pop-up in Miami Beach. It is still early for here, so we find a prime seat easily. There’s a disco ball projecting rainbow-coloured lights around the otherwise pretty dark room. You have to catch them to properly read the menu.
Everything looks amazing, and it’s difficult to decide what to order. Without saying anything, we both decide we’ll order different cocktails, so we can try as much as possible. Ryan orders the Martini Vice and I the Beets, Cheese & Thyme.
It is the best cocktail I have ever had in my entire life.
It is creative, yet balanced. The beets are sweet and earthy, the cheese component goat cheese foam on top, like a good beer head, but cheesy. We snack on pub mix and soak it in.
One of the owners, Moe, walks over to us to chat us up. He notices my shirt and I get to exchange an I-told-you-so face with Ryan. Ryan gets to tell Moe how we travelled to Miami just to sit at his bar, how we had hoped to visit in Spain but they had closed. Moe makes sure we have everything we need, and invites us to have a seat at the bar for our second round.
We continue tasting our way down the menu. I’m having a hard time deciding what to get. What could be better than Beets, Cheese & Thyme? Should I just order another? No, I couldn’t do that. Ryan orders the Bullet Raja and I order the Bread con Tomatoes.
It is the best cocktail I have ever had in my entire life.
No, seriously. It is. It is transcendent. It is a tease. It is making fun of me, lovingly, while loving me and loving me loving it. It is a story. It is clarified. It is fresh.
The Bread con Tomatoes is playful, a play on the ever-present tapas pan con tomate (or pa amb tomaquet in Catalan), bread with tomatoes: Toasted sourdough spread with a mix of tomatoes, really good olive oil, garlic, salt, and maybe a splash of vinegar or pinch of pepper. I basically subsisted off pan con tomate and Spanish tortilla when I was a student studying abroad in Spain. I have won bar arguments with argumentative men who insisted that ‘bread with tomatoes’ could not possibly be a thing, until a Spanish woman turned around from the opposite end of a couch and assured him it was. I make it all the time in the summer, such a simple way to enjoy really good food along with a glass of wine or a beer.
I cannot believe I am in love with a vodka drink. Somehow the Bread con Tomatoes knows this, knows I cannot hate it nor resent it. Knocks my socks off. Laughs at me. Laughs with me. Yes, this is a metaphor, and no, it is not.
They are kind enough to send Ryan the recipe when he asks:
The water
- 400 g tomatoes
- 100 g water
- 80 g burn bread
- 35 olive brine
- 15 g sugar
The spec
- 120 tomatoes water
- 40 vodka
- 20 dolin dry
I finish with the Absolutely Corny, but it’s not the same. I am not one for vodka drinks. Ryan gets the Bread con Tomatoes and I keep wanting to steal sips of his. I think we split a mushroom quesadilla somewhere in here, but I can’t remember. I am too in love with the Bread con Tomatoes.
Afterwards we walk along the beach. Ryan famously hates the beach.
‘There’s too much sand,’ he will protest, and he is right.
I love the beach. Tonight it is a silver-blue, the moon’s silvery rays shining down upon the sea. Ryan is lit up with the pink neon lights of Miami Beach behind us. I walk along the water, lamenting not having taken my camera.
We walk to my favourite secret spot, Pretty Swell, tucked away in a South Beach side street. We sit and we must have a night cap, based upon my Lyft ride history. (It’s hard writing these posts so far in the future, and I am working on being better at that.) And with that, Ryan has seen all of Miami Beach that I want to show him.
Friday
Friday morning Ryan wants coffee, and I uncharacteristically offer to walk over to my favourite coffee place to get us some. (It’s uncharacteristic because usually Ryan is the one who goes and gets us coffee, while I put the place to sorts and go through my morning routine, readying myself for the day ahead.) Somehow today I’m out the door first. I know where I’m going and I’m happy to be back somewhere familiar.
We start the day by walking around the Grove. I give Ryan the full tour as opposed to the brief one we had carrying backpacks in the dark last night. I point out all of the places Dani said were worthwhile, and the places I have enjoyed. I want to have brunch at my favourite café, Bazaar Project, and we do. I take pictures of the creepy chairs I love and find so comfortable, and resolve to buy some for my hypothetical future house.
‘I can see why you like it here,’ he tells me.
‘Why do I like it here?’
‘It’s a warm, comfortable, happy place.’
I nod. It is. Miami is home, away from home. Here I am warm, comfortable, happy.
He adds, ‘As much as I dislike the sun because it, like, burns you and stuff.’ Indeed it does. I’ll take the burn, please. ‘It’s important for your circadian rhythm.’ It certainly is mine. ‘Bright light.’ Yes. ‘Before you even get up and do stuff.’
So we soak up some sun.
We decide to head to Calle Ocho today, the heart of Little Havana. I had not checked it out in January—only Miami Beach, Mid Beach, Wynwood, and Brickell. A couple hours later we are touching down at one end of the street. It reminds me of when we had pintxos in Bilbao, the day I discovered marianitos. We start at the east end and walk our way west.
We get smoothies batidos at acclaimed, cash-only Los Pinareños Fruteria and sip them as we walk. The fresh fruit juice is so, so good. It is hot, and Ryan laments his lack of a hat, and sunscreen. So we walk on the shady side of the street.
We walk all the way to the far end, to Sanguich, where the best cubanos are supposed to be. We think they are. They even have a vegetarian one, and while I am full from breakfast and the batido, I manage to finish it, while washing it down with a Jai Alai. It is so much sandwich. Two sandwiches’ worth, if you ask me.
After lunch we head back the way we came, wondering where we’ll wander.
In the heat Ryan remarks, ‘I’m ready to winter again.’
I stare daggers at him.
‘I’m melting,’ he protests.
‘Do you want to go to that beer place we saw?’
Union Beer Store had looked closed, but the ‘Good beer here!’ message spray painted over the awning called to us. It is dark on the outside, and dark on the inside as well, dark and cool. That Florida AC again. Ryan is happy not to be melting anymore and I am wondering whether I should get some wine to warm myself up.
But it’s a beer store at the end of the day, so we get beer and take in the décor, which is all luchador-themed. I send a picture to Ryan, who would love this place.
We chat up the bartender, talk about craft beer and Boston, what else we should explore in little Havana. Yes, we went to Los Pinareños. Yes, we had cubanos at Sangwich. Yes, even the vegetarian. Apparently we have done this right. The bartender had been excitedly chatting with someone down the end of the bar, and what was that about? We want to know.
‘If a guy comes in off the street and he’s peddling flan,’ she says, the dramatic pause having its desired effect, ‘Get it.’
It seems like the only thing we haven’t done is dessert, which is in keeping with my tradition. I’d rather have beer, thank you. We ask where a good place to get dessert is anyway. Our bartender recommends La Colada, and not just because it is kitty-cornered across the street. We wait to see whether a guy will come in off the street peddling flan, but he never does, so we head out in search of our own.
I am so stuffed full of food and beer and bubbles that I cannot possibly imagine eating anything more than a cortadito—for whatever reason the local term for a cortado even though it is the same size as the ones in Spain—and that is what I get. Ryan gets as espresso and some guava pastry for us, whatever comes recommended. We delight in ordering in our terribly accented Spanish. We are out of practice, but they are patient with us.
After coffee and pastries, we head home to decamp before figuring out our plans for the evening.
I want to take Ryan on my walk, the long one, the one I love so much, all the way along the bay, the boardwalks, the mangroves, the walking beers from Monty’s that we can take into the park with the squishy rubber paths that feel so good on my joints. So we do.
We see the birds soaring above us that I am convinced are vultures. We walk the full walk, starting in the park at my tree, along the first boardwalk. We watch the sun start to set over the marina and the bay. I point out all of my favourite make-out spots, where I have never made out with anyone. I point out the path where I saw the baby driving a Mercedes. The reasonable yacht is yet again parked (moored?) on its own on the back side of this mangrove island in the bay.
‘This really does feel like a different place,’ Ryan remarks, sipping beer from his plastic cup.
‘That’s because it is,’ I affirm, unhelpfully. I know what he means, though.
‘I think the thing about this experiment,’ he notes, ‘Is how easy it is to go to a different place. And then exist in a different place.’
I know what he means here, too. When I’m feeling sad, when it’s cloudy or overcast or dark, I remember that somewhere it is sunny. When you get in a plane, it is always sunny above the clouds. When it is dark, it is always sunny on the other side of the planet. The sun always rises. It will rise again tomorrow.
‘What a long day!’ Ryan says it has been.
‘It is equally as long as all of the other days under the sun,’ I correct him, again unhelpfully.
‘Coconut!’ he laughs, pointing. We giggle at the coconuts scattered like litter under the trees. There are no coconuts back home.
We walk back and I invite him to Vicky’s, to the vermuteria. ‘It’s across town,’ I add, and he pauses, not liking walking as much I do, ‘But town is only an eight-minute walk across, so it’s not far.’
D’Angelo is behind the bar, and remembers me. I give him a minute to place me.
‘Were you blonde?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I confirm, wondering what it was about me that made me seem blonde.
‘Last I saw you,’ he starts, remembering, ‘We were trying to convince you to come out dancing with us.’ I smile. He is correct. It was a Thursday. He mocks me, playfully doing an impersonation of my protestations, ‘No, I have work in the morning!’ you said. We laugh. ‘Work can wait!’ he insists. He’s not wrong, but I knew better than to go out dancing with them on a school night. I think was three or four in the morning before they got home. I have a picture from that night, from when Alan hopped behind the bar to pour us all vermouth flights because he ‘wanted us to taste them all.’ And taste them all we did.
D sets us up with some nice vermouths and we settle into the cushiony chairs in the alcove behind the bar. I hadn’t sat here before, having always opted for the bar instead. It’s cozy and I peruse what else on the menu we might like.
‘This place has sultry vibes,’ Ryan notes, ‘I feel like the kind of people who would come here are more my people. Like Liar’s Bench,’ his local, back home, ‘I somewhat relate to the kind of people here.’
I try not to make fun of Ryan too much. He’s not wrong, either. Miami is not his place like it is my place.
He likes how I look perusing the menu, sipping my vermouth. He pauses to take pictures of me. I pose, grinning over an orange, pointing up at the red ‘I love you!’ neon sign behind me. It’s true.
‘What are you thinking?’ Ryan asks me. ‘You have a glimmer in your eye like you are thinking mischievous thoughts.’
I grin even wider back at him. I am indeed thinking mischievous thoughts.
Saturday
It was a good thing I got coffee yesterday. Ryan goes this morning, and returns incredulous. ‘Everything here is so expensive?’ he questions.
‘Yeah a pour-over is like $10. Want me to Venmo you for it?’ but he balks. He just wants to complain. It is indeed expensive, but what do you expect? You get what you pay for.
Ryan doesn’t want to repeat brunch at Bazaar Project (another expensive place), so we wander around the Grove trying to find a suitable spot to eat, until we end up back across the street from Bazaar Project at B Bistro.
We try to figure out what to do with our day. Ryan feels like we’ve already done everything we could do, and I insist this is impossible in an international city the size of Miami. It’s barely even possible here in the Grove. We are maybe meeting up with Alan for brunch, lunch, or what have you, or maybe not, depending on his state of being. I am waiting to hear back from him.
‘It’s Saturday,’ I point out. ‘There a farmers’ market; we could walk over there.’
So we do, wandering amongst the stalls. The Saturday farmers’ market is pretty Coconut Grove-y, which is to say there are lots of organic and vegan prepared food options, several tarot stations, places to get Thai massages, some crystals and candles and soaps, and a big open-air market with lots of both fresh and dried fruit and vegetable provisions. It’s fun to walk around, and we indulge in some local orange juice, a novelty for two New Englanders.
By 11am we have walked it through, so I suggest we head back to the Grove for a glass of wine and a regroup.
We sit outside at Glass & Vine, and while it is a little chilly in the shade, it is much warmer here than back home where the people I am sending pictures to are.
We continue this trend, bar hopping, carefully pacing ourselves, indulging in a vacation day that has no itinerary besides walking, stopping for a round, and walking on again.
We end up at the grocery store, where we get a six-pack of beer, so we can continue more of the same in our underwear from the balcony of our Airbnb.
Alan is apparently barely back amongst the living, so we nix meet-up plans and resolve to figure something out tomorrow.
‘Let’s go back to Schmucks,’ I suggest.
‘We already went there.’
‘We came here to go to Schmucks; why not twice?’
Ryan hesitates. He is impervious to my logic.
‘I want that cocktail again,’ I whine, ‘It was so good… I can’t live a life without that cocktail in it and if it’s in this same city, I’m going to get it again, damnit.’
Continued hesitation.
‘I’ll pay for the Lyft! Come on!’
Ryan relents, and we wash up to head back over to Schmucks.
I suggest we start at Sweet Liberty first, where we can get more substantial food than a mushroom quesadilla, so we do.
When we step back outside, we notice it has rained. The rain has past, but the streets are damp, the cars covered in dew. As we walk along this side street towards the main drag, we pass a red Miata.
‘Right path!’ I gloat.
We see some other ridiculous cars along the way, and I unabashedly film them driving along. They know what they’re doing, and I don’t mind giving them this presumed ego boost.
We sit back at the bar, where we are welcomed, remembered. It’s fitting that today Ryan is wearing his Bar Brutal shirt. We get to talking about cocktails and life, as one is wont to do at a bar.
I don’t want the day to end. I don’t want our Miami trip to end. We’re heading home tomorrow, but we still have time tonight, so I try to drag it on.
Bellies full of Bread con Tomatoes, having made our peace with parting ways with the cocktail and with Schmucks (for now), I suggest we head to Unseen Creatures to surprise Alan. It’s yet again still early for Miami—before 9pm—but Ryan hesitates. It’s far, it will be expensive, etc. He does not, however, have a better idea, and that’s how we end up back in a Lyft heading out to see Alan.
‘I might be drunk,’ I disclose, ‘Or I definitely will be going to a brewery where I’m friends with the bartender. Alan will take care of us, but I’m just giving you a heads-up…’
‘It’s OK,’ Ryan assures me. It’s nice to be able to communicate this openly, to be travelling with someone who will take care of me (and be patient with me), to be heading somewhere with someone who will be ecstatic to see us and do the same.
We arrive at the brewery, my suspicions confirmed. Alan is ecstatic, and I introduce him and Ryan. We sit and I tell Alan how we’ve been hopping from round to round all day, but that I wanted to see him, and that I don’t want to end up too drunk so please play nice with me. He more or less obliges. In a down period he hops out from behind the bar to take some silly pictures with us. Alan loves taking silly pictures.
Sunday
I thank Ryan Sunday morning, for many things. I thank myself for having booked an afternoon flight. We can take our time getting to the airport, and I’m going to need it. I lay in bed a little while, indulging.
We had pencilled in a Calle Ocho festival for today, but having already been there, and not wanting to attend a festival having to carry our bags the whole time, we decide to keep it low-key. We get ready for the day and check out of our Airbnb. We debate whether to leave our bags at the hotel front desk for later, but decide to go get a coffee and take off for the airport from there. We’ll have a couple hours to kill, but we won’t have to worry or rush, and we can get all the cortaditos and guava pastries we can eat while watching each other’s stuff.
So we walk back to Panther one last time, where I pay so Ryan doesn’t have to complain about how expensive it is. I call a Lyft and we wait for it to arrive. We pull our masks on as we hop into the car, trying to be courteous. I hold my coffee, but then glance over at Ryan and sneak my hand across the seat to hold his. I can’t tell whether it’s just me, but I keep feeling like I’m going to be sick. The driver feels like he must be pressing either the accelerator or the brake at all times, and we buck forward and back as his foot moves between the pedals. I grip Ryan’s hand. I crack my window in hopes that fresh air will help. I can’t say anything, and I just stare outside at the sunshine and palm tries, praying for my stomach to settle.
When we get out of the Lyft, Ryan confirms it isn’t just me. ‘That has to be the worst Lyft driver I have ever had,’ he says, and I agree. I am glad just to be standing on my own two feet, breathing fresh air again. I take a moment to catch my breath. All the motion sickness bands and lozenges hadn’t helped, but I no longer need to pull out my smelling salts now that we’re out of the car. We made it without incident, thankfully.
We fly through security and find ourselves back at the gate. I happily hop over to Café Versailles to get us those coffees and pastries. I am feeling elated and relaxed, indulging in the small pleasures of good food and good drink, grateful to have a travel partner to make doing so that much easier.