Our couple vocabulary now includes the phrase "Remember Miami." These words are not meant to be a tribute but rather to provide some semblance of solace when travel becomes annoying, frustrating, or exhausting. Yes, we have found the nadir (or so we hope) of airports. It is located in a physically beautiful part of the country, especially desirable during cold winter months. We, too, enjoy Miami but in the future will likely find alternative destinations when traveling to south Florida.
In 1996 we flew to the area with me recovering from a broken kneecap, wearing a removable cast and walking gingerly with a cane.
A few days into our visit, Henry's battling a nasty upper respiratory infection. Though it was December, we experienced primarily cold days and relentless rain.
Those memories recede significantly when compared with this year's experience at MIA. The terminal is poorly designed with gates positioned far from the baggage claim area and even further from car rental lots. We certainly recognize our senior status but having spryly triumphed earlier this year on a spirited trip across Europe, there's little doubt about our energy level. After nearly an hour of attempting to master the intricacies of Miami International, we gratefully settle into our black Impala, turn on our GPS and head north on the Interstate. No need to ponder the difficulty of returning the car in a week and then trying to locate our departure gate.
On a warm and humid Florida night in September, the Turnberry Isle Resort is a splendid oasis replete with abundant tropical foliage. The multicultural staff epitomizes the very best in customer service and quite soon we are shown to spacious accommodations.
The next day we join two special people who've known Henry much of his life as we watch the Marlins baseball team flounder in their magnificent new (nearly empty) ball park.
Classmates in Westchester County, New York decades ago, the trio exhibits a collective youthful spirit, an abiding passion for all things political, and an absolute devotion to family and friends. I've been lucky enough to include Bill and Sue in my own life in recent years. Each time we are together, I am more impressed by their thoughtful generosity, consistent ability to triumph over adversity, and very evident wit and wisdom.
The days that follow are a congenial mixture of conversation, dining, and shopping. We gaze in wonder as Bill shares his latest hobby, the crafting of artful walking sticks from found wood. With his own Native American heritage as a template, he's creating impressive works that have a timeless quality. A published author, outstanding high school teacher and counselor to troubled youth, Bill has impacted the lives of countless young people. He's persistently modest about his accomplishments but get him talking about some of his 'kids' and the pride he exhibits is palatable.
Sue is an Earth Mother with panache. She's a lady who embraces bling whether associated with clothing or accessories. Maybe even both. Sue's interior decorating skills are a manifestation of her charming personality. Her absolute commitment to feral cats keeps her busy with efforts to neuter and feed the many felines that roam the nearby beaches. Deeply involved in fund-raising efforts for this cause, she's constantly planning events, storing donations and staying in touch with like minded associates. Entering her home is like being transported backwards to a time when food and fellowship were hallmarks of living.
Across Alligator Alley, heading toward Tampa, we're disappointed that not a single reptile is spotted behind the tall wire fences alongside the highway. In previous years, we've seen alligators of varying sizes lounging near the waterway, perhaps curious about us as we whizz past.
We're happy to traverse the architecturally interesting Sunshine Bridge near the end of our journey.
I've often wondered why there are not more hotels sharing space with major shopping malls. Such a juxtaposition seems so obvious. Well, somebody capitalized on that idea when selecting a location for Tampa's Renaissance Hotel. I'm elated. This may be nirvana. There's not much time to wander the extensive mall before we must leave for a Tampa Bay Rays baseball game but I'm quite satisfied with a quick survey of the stores.
Watching the Rays play the Texas Rangers is a totally different experience from the ball game a few days earlier. These teams are contenders. Excited fans arrive in colorful regalia, ready to cheer. Sitting near the ball field, we soon recall the game a few years ago in this very location during which I barely missed being beaned by an errant ball. Munching on a slightly mediocre Cuban sandwich, I'm certain there'll be no repeat incident.
The next day we attend the Tampa Bay Buccaneers' season opening game in which they're hosting the Carolina Cougars. (It is much more relaxing to attend ball games when your favorite team isn't playing and the final score matters very little.) With thunder, lightning and rain predicted during the game, I've brought along two umbrellas. As we park the car, I glance at a rather long list of "Fan Behaviors" that is given to each driver. Yikes. No umbrellas allowed. Towels aren't prohibited so I stuff one, purloined from the hotel and returned promptly,in a nylon bag as we walk toward the stadium.
We're hours early for the mid-afternoon kick-off and are able to observe the near frenzy of the hometown crowd as the stands morph into an almost uninterrupted wash of red clothing, hats, banners, and beads. Here and there, a few brave Carolina fans proudly display their team colors. One young man has a cougar painted on the back of his scalp.
Security is very serious throughout the stadium and it almost seems as if the TSA folks are lurking nearby. Fan deportment has deteriorated significantly across the country and new rules seem increasingly ineffective in reversing this frightening trend. Though we witness no fights, we certainly were subjected to crude language,(directed toward the opposing team but also including unsavory remarks about the home team's cheerleaders), exceedingly loud voices and nearly drunk fans.
Combining tradition with theatricality, the game is a show, a spectacle. As the ball advances down the field, the huge pirate ship's cannons boom.
Plumes of smoke accompany the Bucs as they race out to greet their jubilant fans. There's a carnival atmosphere and the heat, humidity and menacing clouds are ignored in the quest for early glory.
The much touted Cam Newton, Cougars quarterback, warms up beautifully, performs pitifully. Bucs fans taunt him and rejoice in his inability to lead his team effectively.
Sweltering and slightly sunburned from the intensive UV rays, we hear ominous thunder that is not more than a mile distant. It's halftime and the players have already left the field. Soon there's an announcement to vacate the stadium immediately. Then it begins to rain heavily. For twenty minutes, we huddle under the soon soaked towel as we slowly make our way to shelter. The game's already very one sided and we're not invested in the outcome. It's time for us to exit.
In seven days, we explored south Florida, traveled to Tampa (post Republican Convention and Isaac's brief visit), saw three ball games, shopped successfully, slept in ample beds, and relished many hours with cherished friends.
I observed my very first white rabbit (enormous in size) being paraded through a high end mall in a baby carriage. (His/her name was 'Fluffy.') The pure joy of gelato became a minor obsession as we tasted flavors ranging from coconut to wild berry and hazelnut to delectable chocolate.
We ate pizza on the beach with waves just beyond our shoulders and then walked to an outdoor concert where music washed away the years and for just a little while, we were much younger. Sometimes sunshine seems so right.
