FINAL THOUGHTS ON THE TRIP!!!

Amidst the sun, the sand, and the anachronistic feel of the 1980s, I did get a lot of stories.
After a long drive from Orlando, we arrive at our Miami hotel late Friday night. We decide to take it easy tonight and just go to bed. We'll soak in the scenery and warm temperatures tomorrow. We aim for sweet dreams but it takes a minute. We're just so excited.

I could only imagine what would happen if tomorrow we decide to drive somewhere and we don't know how to get there. Things would probably start to get a little bad right about then, but for now, right thoughts. I want to eat at Little Havana if it's possible. I just love those stupid black beans. I just know that if I go, about five minutes onto the road, the plan would be doomed because I don't know where little Havana is. And so, tension would begin to rise as my crew would hastily bark orders as to where to turn. This would eventually lead the driver (me) to ask for directions in a local neighborhood we would stumble into. As I talk to an older black woman about getting to little Havana, I quickly pick up on her accent and the surrounding location. With our luck, we would find ourself in little Haiti. If you know your Gran Turismo: Vice City like I do, you’ll understand what happens next. I hide in my seat and pray to god. Of course, it's all fictional, there is no race war, and the lady’s Cuban neighbor would give us proper directions. We will still get lost anyway, and end up eating at a place that at least looks authentically Cuban, but that's usually the way a story with me as the driver would end up sounding like, so good luck to Annette and I on this journey.

Saturday, our first official carefree day at the beach. I actually make the mistake of not putting on sunscreen. This traditionally hasn’t been a problem; I occasionally forgot to use sunscreen in Puerto Rico without repercussion. I remembered just in time. I would not have been just red, I would have been red like that character in the movie “Hellboy," and as punishment for my sins, my sunburn would begin shedding and I would leave a damn dustcloud wherever I'd go. While carousing the streets, I should have bought a souvenir of the trip: a large Scarface poster. Nothing says Miami like Tony Montana. We were supposedly sitting in front of the hotel that one of the scenes was shot in. Get it: "SHOT." JAJA, I made a joke, you like?

In Miami, it's all about loud speakers and naked people. I declare war on Lil’ Jon, Usher, and J-Kwon. Ludacris misses the cut because he does not appear in the beginning of the song “Yeah.” You cannot go five minutes without hearing “Yeah” or “Tipsy” on one channel or another. And even if you shut your own radio off, you’ll end up next to some other car full of stupid white people nodding their heads and singing along. So you go to the beach, because you think that is a safe haven. Yet some beachfaring youth has brought a cooler full of beer and a boombox to blast out the same five songs all throughout the sandy shores. You are then doubleteamed by the radios from the shoreside hotels and restaurants blasting the same exact tunes in an attempt to entice beachgoers to stop on by, but all it really leads to is a giant cacophony of “YEAH ... OHHH-KAYYIE!”

Saturday also marked the first day to go to clubs. I don't want any gay clubs please. The last thing I need is a 40-year old gentleman in a Marilyn Monroe dress welcoming us to the club. I double, triple, quadruple check that I have not left my ID back in the hotel room, and then be forced to make a 26 block dash northward. Well, not a dash but a drive... Thank God the Salsa Congress came up...

YES WE DANCED, YES WE HAD FUN, BUT WHAT DID WE ACCOMPLISH, NOTHING, AND THAT'S EXACTLY THE WAY IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE... IT WAS A MINI VACATION, WE'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO HAVE ANY GOALS!!!