Again, I find myself in Miami Beach (or environs, rather — I am in a place north of MB called Sunny Isles). The tedium that you hear in the reading of that sentence has been building for several decades.
We always came down here for vacations, Easter vacation especially. I went to a catholic girls’ school, so we had Easter vacation instead of spring vacation; we were very non-PC. I remembered these vacations yesterday when our plane was near landing and I could see the palm trees on the ground. As a child, I never thought that the vacation really started until I could sight my first palm tree from the plane.
I started to hate Florida during high school when a vacation away from my friends with my parents was like a prison sentence. This sentiment held for a surprisingly long time: until my mother’s death four years ago.
Up until then, Mom would very forcefully “encourage” us to go only to the handful of places that she recognized/approved of. This included a golf club, a beach club (well, two of those until Dad died), and a couple of restaurants. When I voiced the desire to take the then-young Peter to Parrot Jungle, she looked badly astonished and talked as though I wanted to take him for a day jaunt in the wilds of Borneo.
So we put up with her whims, snuck out to Parrot Jungle or wherever when we could, and gritted our teeth until it was time to go home.
But then she died. And when we flew down here to help tie up the bits of her estate and sell her house, we found out an amazing thing: Miami Beach, and surrounding areas, is quite a wonderful place. Much to see, do, etc.
So it was with a smile yesterday that I found my first set of palm trees from the plane, and walked out into the steam-bath of Florida weather.
Pictures to come.