I ask this every year, and here I am asking it again. Last night, coming home from a grown-up’s evening out, I was exhausted. And what walking down Lincoln Road after midnight, there are tons of little kids out. Who are these kids and why are they out partying at these ungodly hours!
We’ve made our annual family pilgrimage to the homeland. Florida. I look forward to this trip all year. I come to Miami Beach for my parents, for my friends, for our annual New Year’s eve party at my cousins’ house. I come because my kids love swimming in the pool and hanging out with their California friends who come to visit (T Rex and Pad). I come because Nana paints Pie’s toenails and builds the kids forts. I come for the spa day at the Standard and the stone crabs and ice cream from the Frieze. I come for the sushi boat from Maiko. I come because my kids love Jungle Island and the Seaquarium and being able to run around naked without freezing their tushes off. I come because it’s home.
And Adam? Adam comes to Miami Beach for the cafe con leches. Not just any cafe con leche, but David’s cafe con leche. And that’s pretty much it. No, really. You think I’m exaggerating? The man is a caffeine addict. And his poison of choice is the cafe con leche. He dreams of the cafe con leche during the long Boston winters. He longs for it on the rare occasions he’s forced to resort to Dunkin Donuts coffee. Cafe con leche is his reason for flying 1500 miles, for putting up with Miami allergies and for putting up with the demand for “just five more minutes in the pool, Daddy!”
So you can imagine his absolute utter and total anguish when we passed David’s on Christmas Day and he saw a sign in the window that said the restaurant was closed until January 5. The moaning! The complaints! The frantic search for comparable (no such thing!) cafe con leche! He said the trip was ruined. He thought my father had let him down by not letting him know about this. He felt betrayed by David’s. Adam saw ten days stretched in front of him with no cafe con leches, no Cuban toast, no perico eggs.
Needless to say, as he discovered this morning, it turns out that my “always certain, often wrong” husband, merely can’t read Spanish. Because the cafe is open, alive, and kicking. It’s just the buffet that’s been closed. A buffet none of us have ever eating at. I figure he’s gotten his divine retribution in the form of three cafe con lecheless days.
Other than the near-miss David’s disaster, it’s been a successful trip so far, except for one aborted run for me. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever stopped a run in the middle, but I wisely decided that I had the choice of finishing my run or finishing my trip, and I opted for the trip. Every year on 12/24, our synagogue hosts a blood drive. I was determined to donate blood this year. I wasn’t going to forget. Absolutely not. And of course I forgot. So I was happy to see on Friday a bloodmobile at the end of Lincoln Road. I popped in, donated blood, and walked back to the apartment.
The next morning I suited up for my 14 miler. Fuel belt. Check. iPod. Check. Cash for coffee after. Check. However, a couple of miles in–halfway across the MacArthur causeway–I realized all was not right with the world. I’d pretty much finished my Gatorade and I was sweating bullets and it wasn’t till that moment that I realized running–especially in Miami heat–when my blood levels were literally low was probably not the brightest thing I ever did. I managed to make my way back to the apartment, completing 7 miles running and a whole bunch walking.
But even with a dehydration headache, I managed brunch at Van Dyke’s, Starbucks (because, you know, David’s is closed, or so I hear), and Lincoln Road playtime. And of course the night out with grown-ups (seriously! Who are those kids?). Dinner at Maiko. Sushi boat! A bellinitini at the rooftop lounge at the Tiffany hotel, with glowing ice cubes. Ice cream on the walk home. Babysitters that didn’t charge $15 an hour. Playtime outside in mid-70 degree weather. Brunch with friends we haven’t seen in ages.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow is nirvana. Tomorrow is spa day with the girls! Our house with no walls is a distant memory. Our tiny cramped bologna-smelling apartment is in another lifetime. Rain and sleet and snow don’t exist.
Welcome to Miami. Now pass the martinis.
