Thanks for being awesome
‘Hello, you’re beautiful. Are you married?’ he asks me boldly, stepping across the street.
‘I’m not!’ I answer cheerfully, knowing what’s coming next.
‘Is it all right if I get your number? Sorry, I’m on my lunch break,’ he apologises.
‘No thank you,’ I tell him, ‘But enjoy your lunch break!’
We go our separate ways. The twinge of fear that rose in me subsides. I get frustrated that I had to feel that fear at all, to worry about my own safety when declining advances. Why can’t we just have nice things.
Maybe I can summon him, I think to myself, silently willing Luis, the yoga instructor, to visit me for an adjustment. They’re my favourite part of in-person yoga, and I am hoping not to come out of this class without one.
A few poses later, in a supine twist with my legs to the right, he came comes over.
‘You’re an amazing practicioner.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, eyes still closed.
‘How long have you been practicing?’
‘Twenty years,’ I realise, and add, ‘You’re a great teacher.’
‘Thank you.’
He presses on my left hip, the place where I am feeling the most tension, the place where I focused at the start of class, thought of water, thought of flow, sent healing energy to my stubborn tight hip. How charmed that this would be the pose he comes over for.
Luis had asked at the start of class whther anyone had done anything for the full moon last night, and I was the only one who replied. ‘Be water,’ he encourages us, talking of the relationship between the moon and water, the tides. ‘We are mostly water,’ he reminds us. ‘The full moon is a time for reflection, for looking back and letting go. Emotions run deep. Focus on what you are feeling.’ Look back with the intention of building upon the past, rather than longing for it. Luis encourages us to be present, to play. I do not need a reminder to play, but I appreciate it just the same.
Be here feeling, I set as my intention for class, thinking of the poem my new friend Dani had read me last night.
we lose
– butterflies rising
ourselves
in the wild blush,
and the moment grips
at us to stay. here.
where time is no matter,
and our heartbeats
are everything… so stay. here.
and just feel this.
I focus on playing on my mat, joyfully, throughout the remainder of class. I’m glad I made this time and space for myself.
We are practicing at Mayfair House, and Luis—who is also here for the first time—along with the rest of us is rather awed at how well this huge space seems to fit within the neighbourhood. It’s designed in such a way that it fits in, rather than sticks out. We’re in an atrium of sorts in the hotel, the one you see on their website, with three floors stretching above us, all bedecked with monsteras. Some of the water from all of these tropical plants leaves slippery patches on the stone floor, where signs are propped up to warn us of the wetness.
I’m in the front row, all the way at the left. Throughout class, some of that water snakes its way from a nearby column towards me. I step in it during fallen triangle, wipe my foot off on my leggings. Be here feeling.
In shavasana at the end of class, I rest with my palms face up on the ground. Both the backs of my hands are resting in cool water.
When I go to roll up my borrowed mat, I shake it, and realise that the entire underside is soaked. I stretch it over a chair. ‘Sorry,’ I tell the organiser Myk, ‘I took the water theme too seriously.’
As I walk back from class, the short jaunt down the block and across the street, my car passes me, and I wave. I take Miatas waving to each other to heart, even rather confusingly when I’m not in one. Whenever I see my car elsewhere, I take it as a sign that I’m on the right path. Right path, I remind myself. I’m where I need to be.
Extremely uncharacteristically, I decide to read my horoscope for this full moon. I don’t believe in horoscopes any more than I believe in god, but find that things like this can act as writing prompts from time to time. They’re an invitation to introspect, to react, to ask myself how reading them makes me feel.
Dear Crabbie-cakes, you might have all the answers, solutions, and ideas to improve the world around you. Without buy-in from others, it’s your ideology and great thoughts, and that’s okay. It’s not your responsibility to service the world, even if you want to. This Full Moon is a great time to let go and allow those around you to speak up. Mercury Retrograde will provide context to your inner circle’s behaviors and choices. The less you do, the more you’ll understand.
– r/ShitCosmoSays
The less you do, the more you’ll understand. I try to imagine what doing less would be like. I certainly would like to understand more.
I spend the rest of the day getting ahead on some work so I can have a less busy week, and then I do some writing.
‘What do I want to drink?’ I ask the bartender, Ramón, sunlight flooding through the roof of this speakeasy.
‘Do you like spicy?’ he asks, and I respond enthusiastically. He makes me a spicy margarita with a Tajin rim to go along with the nachos that I order, deciding that the watermelon slice he’s chosen for garnish isn’t good enough, and asking the other bartender to find the prettiest watermelon slice they have so he can replace it.
A banner across Bayshore Drive invites passersby to celebrate Coconut Grove’s 150th anniversary, the oldest neighbourhood in Miami. Another banner advertises the King Mango Strut as the ‘weirdest parade in the universe.’ That sounded like it couldn’t be missed, so from the community events calendar I made plans to switch between NFL Sunday at Bodega and the Strut, which is how I end up with a spicy margarita from Ramón.
As the Strut starts I pop back to my place to drop off my leftovers—try as I might, the nachos defeated me—and back to the main intersection in the neighbourhood, Grand Ave and Main Highway, to watch the parade. ‘On this beautiful winter day…’ the MC begins, and I realise he’s right. It is a beautiful winter day.
The Strutters are a mix of neighbourhood groups—both family-oriented and activist alike—local legends, and just otherwise satirical showings. There are Beatles cover bands, and high school bands. There are floats. The Women’s Club of Coconut Grove, started by the women who founded this neighbourhood. There is an open convertible with skeletons sitting in the back that is Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth (‘What kind of parade makes fun of dead people?’ the MC muses); another Strutter group is Harry & Meghan and their entourage of paparazzi. DeSantis Airlines will give you a one-way ticket to Mass sponsored by Florida taxpayers. There are people on stilts. There are protests of balloons, Bitcoin, overdevelopment, vegans. There is a celebration of the Argentinian football team’s World Cup victory. There is a group of Hare Krishnas; they used to have a temple down the street, ‘They’ve always been here in Coconut Grove. And this is not a joke. Welcome,’ the MC adds, and sort of shrugs as they chant. ‘O thank you Hare Krishna lady. She gave me an apple,’ he adds. I learn about the founding of the neighbourhood, the Munroe family, that the MC has run into Gloria Estefan three times. It’s all very local, and a great way to get a sense of place here. People in the Grove are amusing. Apparently this is the largest crowd at a Strut in over 10 years, 20,000 people or so, no doubt because it’s returning for the first time since COVID.
There are so many people that my phone can’t pick up a signal, which means I can’t check the Patriots score. After about an hour of watching the parade I pack up and head back to Bodega. It’s more crowded, now, but I find a space along the bar and make friends with the Dolphins fans to my left. They’ve left just the one TV on the Pats game, with the rest on the ‘Fins. I watch in various stages of horror and dismay. ‘Sorry, not sorry,’ my new friends console me. I congratulate them in turn on their playoff berth. The DJ keeps playing louder and louder, and I’m taking videos and sending them to all my football friends back home, showing them what a sports bar in Miami is like.
While the Pats loss makes me want to take a shot of tequila in a mocking effort to drown my sorrows, I order a lager instead, find out where my friends are off to, but decide to head home. I call Ryan and we celebrate Catherine’s birthday together by going on a long walk, where I take pictures of the sunset, and send him one of a baby driving a Mercedes. I go to bed excruciatingly early, because I can, and because I am trying to be more intentional about putting myself to bed. I am wondering what this week will bring.
‘You came!’ Alan says, as I walk into Kush, my new local down here. It’s Happy Hour from 5-7 PM, and a little before 6 I get to a good breaking point at work and decide to head over to say hello. Alan and I had met the previous week, as I was talking with another bartender Camille about D&D. ‘You should meet Alan,’ she says, moments before he walks in. I was just heading home, but he said he works Saturdays and Mondays, and I said I’d be back to talk about D&D.
I end up staying later than I would like, and forgive myself for the work I will not get to this evening. I start with a beer, a hoppy IPA while I decide what to drink.
‘I feel like it’s Happy Hour, I should try the sangria,’ I muse with Alan.
‘Let’s be honest,’ he says, ‘I’m not going to charge you for most of what I serve you tonight.’
Alan’s charm and charisma don’t belie the fact that he must be into me. I am not sure what to do with this information, but I remind myself that I don’t need to do anything with it necessarily. The less you do, the more you’ll understand.
‘Did you still want sangria?’
We workshop it. It’s new on the menu, and the recipe is too sweet. We taste it with others, and decide to make another one that’s less sweet. The orange juice is OK, but it needs more lemon. It could use some acid. Ah, a splash of Prosecco. This one is better. I tell Alan about my favourite bartender back home, Ryan, and how he has an excellent nose for beer. I think of Ryan as I describe what I taste, what it needs.
After the sangria, I talk about seeing a vermuteria on the other side of town, and wanting to try it. Alan smiles. ‘I work there Sundays.’ I ask if he knows how to make a marianito, and am surprised to learn he doesn’t. I pull up the recipe and am also surprised to learn that Alan doesn’t speak much Spanish.
I ask what cocktails Alan does like to make, and he makes me a Purple Drank, from their menu. When he describes the ingredients, I ask, ‘An aviation?’ and he pauses for a moment before realising it is essentially an aviation, with some butterfly pea flower extraction for colour. It’s tasty, and I sip it from a lovely Capri-Sun-esque pouch.
As I sip the cocktail and more water, we continue talking. We’ve talked about D&D, about Marvel vs DC, about representation in movies. About Tarot, The Hermit, there’s something significant about the number 9 right now, or will be for D&D later this week. I tell him how I got here, what I do for work. He tells me how he got here, how he achieved his dream of acting in New York City, but that dream’s on pause as he returned back home during COVID. He was too COVID cautious and needed to get out of New York. He waits on the handful of people who come in an out during the evening, and we strike up a comfortable rapport. It’s no Idle Hands, but I’m comfortable here, too. I like that my local down here has cocktails, but I miss Idle Hands. I tell him more about Ryan, about beer recs. Before I say it, Alan brings up Unseen Creatures, once of the breweries Ryan mentioned. (‘Breweries down there are pretty hype (think trillium) but they do make good stuff. J.wakefield, unseen creatures, and tripping animals.’) We decide to go together, and the thought of having company to go with makes me glad.
Another regular comes to finish his soup and wine at the bar, and we share a glass of wine, and I know it’s time to go home. I really know it’s time to go home when the tequila comes out.
At the end of the evening, in lieu of the check, Alan hands me a business card.
