In recent years, Adam has taken his grandmother, Marilyn, somewhere warm in the winter. This year, we went back to Miami, but instead of Miami Beach, we stayed in Miami proper—at the Mandarin Oriental, which is on a little manmade island downtown. It was a boring (but luxurious) business hotel, and I loved it. South Beach has never floated my boat.
Adam, however, promptly came down with the flu. He managed to make it to dinner the first night; instead of going somewhere fabulous, we dined at the hotel's casual restaurant. It was OK, though. To paraphrase Kate Moss, nothing tastes as good as alfresco feels.
I'm no fan of colored lights, but the red spot in the clouds, created by a building downtown, was kind of neat. (Two nights later, when we were back at the same restaurant, the light changed colors constantly. A case of trying too hard.)
On Saturday, Adam decided to spend his energy on the morning's activity—walking around the early 20th-century mansion Vizcaya and its gardens—and crash in the afternoon. Vizcaya, built to look old, was a refreshing contrast to downtown's newness.
There was one section, behind a fence, that was awaiting restoration—it offered a tantalizing glimpse of the fabulous decay that once enveloped the whole property.
Me being me, I was fascinated by this sign in the unisex restroom. Is Vizcaya a place where abused women reliably visit?
On the way back from a misguided dim sum lunch in North Miami, we stopped at a gelateria with a flavor that I might have tried if it wasn't blue.
Afternoons were spent by the pool or on the faked beach, a bayside sandbox.
In late afternoon, birds came to drink from the pool.
But a bit later, the birds really arrived—thousands of them roosting in the palm trees and on railings, always spaced six or so inches apart, and swooping about in huge flocks. The chirping was so loud we had to go inside.
The "beach" had its own fauna: iguanas that occasionally charged each other—and, once, Adam.
I had made dinner reservations for each of our three nights in Miami, and we canceled them all at the last minute. (I had used Adam's OpenTable account, so his reputation took the blame.) Marilyn wanted to have stone crabs while in Miami, and no one relished the line at Joe's, so on Saturday night, she and I went over the bridge to Truluck's. She was handed this menu, which made us laugh.
On Sunday, I insisted that Adam stay in bed and rest.
Marilyn and I drove into Miami Beach to go to the Books & Books store on Lincoln Road—I was at risk of finishing Bring Up the Bodies too quickly—and then on to the Wolfsonian Museum, where we saw a fantastic exhibit called "Postcards from the Wiener Werkstatte."
I don't think she was making a grab. Although that reminds me of a funny story. In the gift shop afterward, she was drawn to a bowl, near the cash register, that was filled with little boxes. "These have Keith Haring drawings on them," she said. "But I can't tell what they are." She's a little hard of hearing, so I had to say louder than I might have: "Those are CONDOMS!" Not that she was necessarily embarrassed. When we took the monorail the next day, just for kicks, and I asked to take her photo, she said, "I'll do some pole dancing!" (We had passed a pole-dancing fitness studio the day before, so it was top of mind.)
She was so pleased with the photo that she said she might make it her Christmas card.
All in all, we had a lovely visit. Hopefully, Adam can join us next time.
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