This blog was supposed to be well articulated, creatively thought out, transporting the reader to a Conde Nast–esque literary experience. All I can do is slap you in the face with all the non-sequitur flashbacks that I’m having of my first day in Miami. Rushing around a flooded sidewalk heading straight into early morning causeway traffic. Domino aficionados of Little Havana, the rhythmic staccato of dominoes being impatiently tapped when a turn is taking too long, or slapped into place on the board. Obviating any Trip Advisor’s bad reviews of Metromover, the helpful lesbian couple and the homeless guy that guided us off the wrong-bound train to get us headed in the right direction. The toothless gentleman that, regardless of my obviously not understanding a word he said, made sure via hand gestures, a borrowed bus schedule, and shouted instructions to the bus driver that we got off on the right stop. The pastry shop in the back of Cuban Supermarket #2 that sent me into a sugar-high at the cost of only $1.20 for 2 blood-sugar decimators. Entering Cuban Supermarket #1 and, as if our whiteness didn’t mark us as out of place, whipping out my camera to take shots of bananas piled 8 feet high, my sister holding avocadoes the size of personal watermelons, of produce signs listing countries of origin from Nicaragua, Dominican Republic, Cuba, Puerto Rico. Cuban Supermarket #3 – actually a fruteria – that had even more foreign-grown fruit that I’ve not seen in decades (grafted mangoes like I used to sell in Africa, complete with dried sap streaking from the stem), and a shop owner that hurried us to his back yard to show us his prize pot-belly big, purportedly the mascot & good luck charm that brought the Miami Heat the last 2 NBA championships. Eating lunch at a Salvadorian restaurant where, again, we were the whitest faces at the counter. I haven’t felt so lost in translation since Marrakech at midnight. Pointing to pictures to place my order, nodding at questions I had no hope in understanding, and crossing my fingers that my plate held anything but tripe. It didn’t, which was good. It was carne asada, which was excellent. Not to mention the plantains on which I gorged. And the café cubano that powered us through the rest of the afternoon. The varieties of palms – wind, date, Royal, ornamental, fan, none of which are native –brought in from all over the world, speaking to that fragile tightrope immigrants navigate longing for Home left behind while leaning forward into the hopes inspired by this land of opportunity. The hop on-hop off bus tour looping through Coconut Grove (with as many coconut trees as peach trees in Peachtree City – ie, none), Coral Gables (Google the Coral Castle, I don’t have enough time to explain), the Biltmore Hotel, Beaches South, North, and Mid, so many more historically and culturally rich areas that I wanted to call the mayor of Miami personally to apologize for my ignorance of Miami’s heritage.