and Words
The Sun goes down, the night rolls in
You can feel it starting all over again
The moon comes up and the music calls
You′re getting tired of staring at the same four walls
You’re out of your room and down on the street
You can feel the crowds in the midnight heat
The traffic roars, the sirens scream
Look at the faces, it′s just like a dream
Nobody knows where you’re going
Nobody cares where you’ve been
Lyric excerpts from Musixmatch.
Miami Vice premiered while I was in high school. They integrated popular music into their television show, being among the first to do so. In fact, some popular music was only released initially on their soundtrack. At least among my age group, this show forced you to watch, even in its Friday night time slot. However, it wasn’t simply about the music. Their themes were uncharacteristically gritty; for instance, they killed Jimmy Smits’s character after one episode. It felt real.
Furthermore, Miami is a few miles from my childhood home of Fort Lauderdale. We buried my dad’s remains in Miami, so we would drive down to visit them regularly. The city maintains that unmistakable Latin flavor from my days in Puerto Rico, albeit with a more pronounced Cuban twist. As I approached my senior year in high school, I spent a summer at the University of Miami studying engineering. Upon finishing high school that year, I decided to continue my education at Miami.
I spent my time at “The U”, bathed by the warmth of the sun. Though honestly, having lived in Florida, I took it all for granted. However, it slowly reeled me in. During my first job in college, I waited tables in Fort Lauderdale on weekends. My boss nicknamed me “Miami Vice” because I attended “The U”.
I traversed Dadeland Mall, a few short miles from the university campus. If someone were to bump into you, they’ll likely respond with “¡Perdón!” instead of “Excuse me.” It wasn’t merely that most people spoke Spanish, but many assumed that you did too.
One cafeteria in Little Havana hosted an open counter that wrapped around a corner. Stools with circular seats, with their bases bolted to the ground. Fluorescent lights lit that counter at night. That cafeteria never closed, save for a weather event; it was open around the clock. It felt like a Spanish ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’. Friends and I would wander to this magical counter in the wee hours of the morning. Quizzically, my ordering a “papa rellena” or a “media noche” as a Chinese man never piqued anyone’s curiosity. Or maybe they were relieved that I spoke Spanish.
My brother-in-law lived in Hialeah for years. He once went to dine at a local family-owned restaurant. After unsuccessfully trying to order food, he walked out in disgust. Neither the wait staff nor the management spoke English; they eventually called a dishwasher out of the kitchen. My brother-in-law walked out in protest. 92% of the residents in Hialeah speak Spanish as their first language.
The language gives the city its flavor. To try to separate the two is sheer madness, much like making pizza without cheese. My command of the language lay dormant in the deep recesses of my brain, where I ‘accidentally’ tried to extricate it from my mind for years. The city reunited me with an old friend; it brought them out of hibernation.
Interstate 95, affectionately called I-95, became my sentimental street. This freeway runs north/south along Florida’s east coast. It runs as narrow as three lanes in places and as wide as a whopping seven lanes in certain portions. I spent many hours and miles traversing that road in my 1966 Ford Mustang. That freeway and its many adjoining highways became the circulatory system of the region. Life in the form of its people flowed from place to place along these long stretches of asphalt.
These roads became my automotive playground. I often drove up and down the coast, ducking in and out of traffic. The suspension was much too sloppy for how I drove it. I played music when I had a stereo in the car, since it had been stolen in college. The wind buffeted and drowned most of the music (and conversation) as I sped down the freeway. On lucky days, I’d also admire the Florida sunset, off to my right or left; its orange or pink hues adorned my drive as the wheels spun over the pavement.
I learned to drive on these roads. This education started early, on the surface streets of Fort Lauderdale; this gave me a taste of what would come when I graduated to the freeway. Though generally, driving on South Florida roads followed one prime directive:
Death before yielding
A simple drive down a common street to your grocery store became a personal battle to gain position. The driver farthest ahead became the clear winner; everyone else was just a different flavor of loser. Naturally, driving on the freeway amplified this sentiment. Even at freeway speeds, I maintained about one car length between myself and the car immediately before me. Leaving any more distance between us would have been a simple invitation for another vehicle to occupy that space. You tacitly dared other drivers to exploit you.
Upon moving to Washington, I discovered that tailgating upset most other drivers. Who knew? It took me years to break these instincts.
Sometimes, I’d drive to South Beach to meet with friends at a club. I drove over either I-195 or I-395, both arterials off I-95, to Miami Beach. That drive over the water sparkled with the reflection of the distant lights over the ripple of the water. As I do, I can almost hear Phil Collins’s In the Air Tonight in my head, a throwback to that Miami Vice premiere.
That neighborhood, saturated with the pastel hues of Art Deco and illuminated more by the neon signs than the street lights, became its own subculture. Honestly, I took it all for granted. I mostly vented while I inched my way to my destination over the dense traffic around the clubs, several per city block. These days, seeing pictures of South Beach overwhelms me with nostalgia.
Occasionally, we’d make it out to the beach at night and look out over the Atlantic. That night sky a stark darkness over the soft glow of Miami. The lights from the distant stars were still mostly unperceivable, since we couldn’t quite escape the lights of the city. I may dip my feet into the salty waters of the ocean, still warm even in the coolness of the night. If I looked casually, I might see others walking along that same shore, though mostly couples. Though I, at the time, had no one to similarly share that moment.
As I hear the familiar voice of Glenn Frey (from The Eagles), as he reminds me that I indeed belong to the City. It doesn’t hurt that this song was originally released on that Miami Vice soundtrack. At this stage in my life, I have lived in Washington far longer than I lived in Florida. I hold an unmistakable comfort and fondness for my home here in the Pacific Northwest.
However, if I had to pick a city to which I belonged, it’d almost undoubtedly be Miami. The rational engineering part of me understands that Miami was a snapshot in time, filled with people and experiences of a mildly misspent youth. It’d be foolish of me to try to catch lightning in a bottle again; the city will certainly feel different decades later.
In this respect, Miami is not a location. It’s a snapshot in time. It embodies the language that still sounds sweet to my ear. It unapologetically demands its own sense of style with the gaudy colors and towering palm trees. It nostalgically reminds me of the joy of just driving and allowing my mind to think of nothing in particular. The location was simply the catalyst.