New Years in Miami
- Aaron Schorr
- Jan 4, 2021
- 15 min read
Updated: Jan 14, 2021
I was up bright and early the next morning, catching the last stages of sunrise over the ocean. I had to go to Hialeah, a suburb to the north, to take the theory test for a Florida driver's license. I thought it was going to be a straightforward test, until I found myself facing a driving instructor in a classroom with a high-school-age girl and a Venezuelan woman of around 45. The instruction began in English, but gradually became more and more Spanish-infused, as the woman was struggling with such concepts as the order of colors in a traffic light.
"Que viene después del amarillo en el semáforo? Verde, no?" "En Venezuela, dejamos los carros en la calle después de un accidente." At least I was learning lots of new vocabulary.
I was finally allowed to take the exam but I still had several hours before my appointment at the DMV. I walked a few blocks over to where Google Maps showed a Cuban restaurant. It was a very strange neighborhood, a nightmarish suburban grid of small houses surrounded by patchy grass and inordinate numbers of cars. Everyone was Cuban and there were Trump flags all around. The food was delicious, though, and very cheap, so I was enjoying myself.
After finishing my arroz morro and pineapple juice, I hopped on a bus heading north. The buses were all free, thanks to the progressive Jewish mayor I had helped elect this summer, and social distancing guidelines were followed remarkably well, earning Miami-Dade Transit full marks on my 2020 transit rating scale.
Miami Or Mauritania?
I left Hialeah and crossed into the creatively-named city of Opa-locka. Besides its name, Opa-locka also has plenty of interesting history for a Floridian suburb. The city was founded by aviation pioneer Glenn Curtis and hosted lots of shady CIA operations in the early Cold War. More recently, Opa-locka has been mired in corruption scandals and named the city with the highest violent crime rate in America. The reason I had come here, however, is different.
I got off the bus at the corner of Ali Baba Avenue and Aladdin Street. I had not teleported to some Arabian theme park in Orlando; for reasons that were well beyond my understanding, the city hosts the largest collection of Moorish architecture in the Western Hemisphere. Walking through the town center, which is shaped like a crescent, feels like a fever dream. The street names are all stereotypically Arabian, and most of the buildings are designed the way an American child might have pictured Tangier around the time of the Sykes-Picot Agreement. The community center has spires, the school boasts decorative arches surrounding a palm tree, there's a flea market that looks like something out of Tintin. Juxtaposed with the local populace, which is nearly exclusively Black or Hispanic (with a significant crossover due to the significant Dominican community), and the general poverty, it's a strange walk. The average income per resident is $15,000, less than the GDP per capita in Algeria or Suriname, and with its unpaved roads it would probably fit in better in either.
The cherry on top, without a doubt, was the city hall, a highly elaborate structure designed like a mosque, now shuttered, fenced, and slowly crumbling. It was possibly the saddest place I'd seen since the forgotten towns on the eastern Trans-Siberian Railroad.
"The one came not near the other all the night" (Exodus 14)
It was time to return to Hialeah for my DMV appointment. I caught a bus between Sharazad Boulevard and Sesame Street (yes, as in "Open Sesame") and got off at Northside, a sprawling commercial complex several miles to the south. After passing by a gentlemen's club advertising "free lunch, noon-5 pm", I felt like I had been dropped in sub-Saharan Africa, only with more personal cars. There was a massive flea market which genuinely would not have been out of place in Kigali, Rwanda, and vendors selling cheap plastic goods with handwritten signs around the building (I refrained from taking pictures out of respect). Further contributing to the effect was the fact that almost everyone was Black and most were speaking Haitian creole, which is written like pidgin French - for example, sortie d'urgence becomes soti dijans - but was unintelligible to my ears.
I found the DMV by spotting the line. Owing to COVID safety protocols and the short holiday week, the line was absolutely tremendous, snaking around three sides of the sizable building in which the office was located. To the background of Christmas music blaring over the PA system and a cacophony of phone conversations happening in Spanish, Haitian creole, Russian, and occasionally English, a DMV employee was going around with a megaphone, shouting out appointment times as she went. We were all marched around the plaza in neat rows like soldiers in basic training, with a level of obedience to match. The wait was endless, but I really walked away with an appreciation of the DMV as the last great equalizer in American society. White, Black, or Hispanic, rich or poor, educated or not, immigrant or citizen, everybody had to stand in the same line. Miserable as it was, there was something almost refreshing about the existence of such an institution.
After 2.5 hours waiting, I finally had my learner's permit so I could take a road test. I walked out of the office as the sun was setting and caught a bus back to Miami Beach. The bus traveled in a straight line east along 79th Street, stopping at 47 bus stops and many more unofficial ones when someone at the back would yell "rear door!" if they felt like getting off between stops, which were often literally 400 feet apart. I regretted thinking so highly of Miami-Dade Transit. The laborious route was also making the gradual transition between worlds that sped up as we got closer to the beach. When I got on, 4.5 miles inland, I was by far the lightest person on the bus. By the time we crossed onto the islands between the mainland and Miami Beach, I was one of the darkest. I had arrived at the driving school at 8 am but made it back after 6, completely drained, and was in bed before 10.
Motorist Musings
The following morning, I had to be back at the driving school at the entirely unreasonable hour of 7:30 for my road test, which was in a two-seater Scion about 10 feet long. Compared to an Israeli driving test, this was a cakewalk, essentially checking that I knew how to use turn signals and actually stopped at stop signs. My second DMV appointment was at 9:50, so I walked part of the way there through the monotonous Cuban suburbia ("Gun shop! Rapid fire allowed! Minority owned!"). I arrived well early to a flea market that had yet to wake up and the wait was blissfully much shorter than the previous day, which was made even sweeter by the fact that the license fee was waived. Driver's license in hand, I was an official Florida Man now.
I was going to meet Jake at South Pointe Park, unsurprisingly located at the southern tip of Miami Beach. I got on another bus traveling for miles in a straight line, this time down Harding Avenue. As a native of Jerusalem, I find long, straight roads alien, almost absurd. Much more absurd was the fact that I discovered that there was a system of free buses run by Miami Beach running up and down the length of the island in a dense pattern, a stark contrast to the loose grid of low-frequency buses on the much poorer mainland which ordinarily cost $2.25 to ride. Of course, these buses are called "trolleys" and are appropriately cutely designed with wooden interiors, because non-working-class white people outside New York don't ride buses (I have researched this fairly extensively at Yale). The city of Miami has followed suit and started running a trolley service in the downtown districts as well.
The bus I was on didn't go all the way south and the one that did was stuck in traffic, so I caught a Lyft down to the park (I use Lyft because Jorge from the previous post explained to me that it is both cheaper for me and pays its drivers better than Uber). My driver this time was Omar, and I remarked how lively the city was, with cafés and sidewalks full of people and the pandemic seemingly a distant problem. "The city is dead," he told me. "You should see what it's like during spring break. There are more people out at 5 am than at 5 pm, the police has work 24 hours a day." Someone cut us off in our lane. "This city is loca," I said, and he laughed. "Yesterday I saw a car literally explode on the Palmetto [Expressway] because it was speeding. The other day, 5 cars got into an accident not 20 feet away from me." We arrived at the park. "Cuídate, bro," he said, look after yourself. "You too."
The Wealthiest Zip Code in the US
It was a beautiful day, so naturally everybody had the same idea as us to come to the park. I was 20 minutes late, but Jake still hadn't found parking for his car. I was going to say he should've taken the bus, until I remembered he had never been on one. "I've got an idea where we can go," he said, "but you're going to have to hide in the trunk." Apparently, his dad had a membership to Fisher Island, which I briefly mentioned in the previous post. Fisher Island lies a couple miles off the coast of downtown Miami, just south of Miami Beach. Secluded yet central with unrestricted access to the ocean, this has made it the choicest real estate in Miami, and indeed it boasts the highest-income zip code in the United States, with a famous golf course to boot. The island deliberately has no road connections to other landmasses, meaning the only access is by boat, either private or a car ferry restricted to residents, members, and employees, lending the term "exclusive" a new meaning. The island was embroiled in controversy earlier this year for offering universal COVID testing for residents and employees at a time when infection rates in South Florida were skyrocketing and testing was virtually nonexistent.
We arrived at the ferry terminal and I climbed into the trunk, which was thankfully roomier than other trunks I've ridden in before. A man came around and asked for Jake's member number, then headed to the rear of the car to make a note of our license plate. I froze when I realized he was looking almost directly at me, but thankfully the rear windshield was tinted enough to obscure me from his view. I felt the car turn and then bump along some metal, at which point Jake gave me the all-clear to return to my seat. Disembarking the ferry after the brief crossing, we got our car hosed down on the other end to prevent any sea salt from the journey from sticking on it. We drove to the beach restaurant down the cleanest streets I have ever seen, complete with some of the most immaculately-groomed plants this side of the Atlantic. Bizarrely, the speed limit on the island's roads was 19 mph. Jake's neighborhood was even stranger, with streets limited to 11 mph. I guess rich Floridians just really like prime numbers.
We had lunch at the beach club, where I reflected on the extreme contrasts I had experienced these past few days over a cold Jamaican beer recommended by the waiter, who was a native. A man who was clearly a resident walked past with a shirt emblazoned with the caption "Enjoy Capitalism" (picture attached for reference; I didn't get a photo). Judging by his Latin accent, he was likely Venezuelan or Cuban, which made it so much better. Yes, someone was clearly doing just that.
We walked along the pier where rows of yachts were moored ("none of them have Cyrillic names, that's why they aren't so big today"). We saw a herd of manatees - I checked, that is the correct noun of assemblage - lounging between the boats, almost directly beneath a sign warning boaters to lower their speed because of them. Apparently, they like the sunny, shallow waters of marinas and often get shredded by outboard motors. Jake led the way to an avian enclosure, which was locked, but a quick hop over the fence led us to cages full of colorful parrots, some of which said "hello" to us. One of them could apparently say "Guten Tag", but not to me. We walked around the pristine golf course as the sun crept down and found some golf balls with the Fisher Island logo on them to take as souvenirs. It was time to leave this adult theme park.
Our next stop was Wynwood, a former industrial district of Miami now undergoing rapid gentrification. The district is famous for its extensive graffiti murals, which have been the backdrop for music videos of artists such as Pitbull and Enrique Iglesias, and hosts concerts in the Wynwood Walls compound for big-name reggaeton artists the likes of Anuel AA, Darell, and Residente. Though it was a Tuesday night, the area was packed with people dressed up for a night out, which I guess is proof that a city that has refused to conform to COVID regulations does so anyhow. The gentrification seems long past its apex, to the point where it has become entirely mainstream - the architecture may have been somewhat gritty, but there were plenty of fancy bars, a gourmet ice cream place, and even a selfie museum. Electric mopeds and e-scooters littered the curbsides and new construction was happening all around us.
The final stop on the ritzy Miami tour was the Fashion District, located just to the north of Wynwood. Never before have I seen such a tight concentration of designer stores - not in Paris, Milan, or New York. I feel like Western society has really hit rock bottom with its worship of designer clothing, something that is truly devoid of virtue and whose appeal I don't even understand. People write songs about wearing Balenciaga, Gucci, or Supreme, but my reaction is always "so what?" There was a fenced-off plaza hosting a Louis Vuitton exhibition in shipping containers which was drawing crowds of girls in identical crop tops and jeans. We walked around it but couldn't find the entrance, so with a quick look we hopped the 3-foot fence, only to find ourselves facing a security guard. "Where did you guys come from?" "From there," Jake pointed in a general direction behind us. "You have to go that way," the guard said and indicated the entrance. We quickly shuffled on, and were genuinely surprised that people had to reserve tickets to get in. "People pay money to see this?" We both asked, cracking up.
The Fashion District had a couple of interesting galleries and art installations, but the best part was a parking garage just off one of the main streets. We took the elevator to the top, where I was surprised to see a playground slide and a climbing installation, both in hot pink seven stories above the sidewalk. "I kept seeing this place on girls' Instagrams and had to come check it out for myself." Sure enough, there was a group of girls in heels and fancy tops taking pictures in front of the bright pink wall. How can someone not feel ridiculous dressing up to have their picture taken at the top of a parking garage? I shall never know.
The following day was incredibly windy, so I spent the morning catching up with friends and the afternoon at the beach. It was warm and sunny but the water was surprisingly cold, so when clouds rolled in I came inside and did some work to apply for summer programs. The wind kept picking up, shifting the wooden chairs on the porch and rattling the glass doors. This was only 25 mph wind; hurricanes in Miami must be brutal.
A Touch of Tel Aviv
On New Years Eve I decided to bike down to Miami Beach. I got a different orange bike (this one had inflated tires and handlebars that didn't move) and started riding south. The transitions along the beach promenade are fascinating. I started at 96th Street, and for the first 20 blocks or so it was all newer apartment towers and lots of old people, with probably 1 in 3 observant Jews. In the 70s blocks, the buildings got a lot older, with lots of 1950s and 60s architecture under renovation or designated for demolition. The further south I went, the busier it got. The promenade was under construction in the 30s blocks, forcing me onto the main road. What I saw was utter pandemonium. Everyone had seemingly waited until the afternoon of December 31st to come down to Miami, and there were lines of cars waiting to check in to the larger hotels. Both the promenade and one of only two north-south roads were under construction, so the road was a jumble of cars, buses, and pedestrians all trying to go someplace. This, too, felt like sub-Saharan Africa, but in a very different way.
I was now in South Beach, the quintessential Miami Beach district. The buildings were mostly Art Deco and looked just like Tel Aviv. Just about every movie, TV show, and music video filmed in Miami was filmed here, and truly everything felt very normal. The sun was shining, it was 80 degrees, and people were out en masse. The hotels all had pool parties going and the beach bars were getting started for what was sure to be a long night. The city had shut down Ocean Drive, the avenue running parallel to the beach south of 15th Street, and the restaurants and bars had set up tables and chairs in the street for the throngs of people all around. Masks? Social distancing? Miami Beach had clearly never heard of the pandemic.
An Appropriate End to 2020
Later that evening, I headed back to South Beach for New Years celebrations. The streets and beach promenade were thronged with people having a blast; I truly hadn't seen such crowds on the street since visiting Tokyo or Hanoi back in February. We tried heading down to the beach, but were herded back to the promenade by police on ATVs saying the beach was closed and the fireworks were canceled. The first part was evident; the second seemed rather dubious. I checked the Miami Herald Twitter page and didn't see any announcement, so we chose to believe it was a police ruse to thin out the crowds.
With two bottles of bubbly but no cups, we made a brief stop at CVS. I was next in line when I heard someone yell across the store, "Hey! You're in my math class!" I didn't think it was me, until the same line was repeated much closer with a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and discovered a classmate of mine, maskless and grinning, with a massive cocktail glass in hand. Thankfully, he introduced himself to Jake, since I had never actually seen him in person and had no idea what his name was.
We sat on the beach promenade and drank the first bottle out of red Solo cups; I'm still not used to the idea of a no-open-container rule actually being enforced. As midnight approached, we returned to the beach; there were groups of people on the sand and the police had seemingly given up on removing them. Turns out they hadn't been lying, either - we all counted down to midnight, but there were no fireworks to be seen. Disappointed, we popped the second bottle and went to rent Citi bikes.
We rode up the beach and to Lincoln Road, a normally busy shopping street that was deserted. Jake ran into some people from his high school, so we quickly moved past and returned the bikes. Famished, we ducked into 7-11, where some people were shouting at each other. I whipped my phone out to try and catch some of the action, when a girl in a black dress started yelling at me in a thick British accent. I decided to have some fun and responded in the best (or worst) British accent I could muster, "It's alright, luv. Just 'avin' a look around."
Her eyebrows dropped and she asked me where I was from. "Birmingham." I had just finished rewatching Peaky Blinders, a period drama about a 1920s gang in Birmingham, and thought I could pull off the accent with reasonable success, especially if the other side was intoxicated.
She started quizzing me on where I was from and was quickly joined by 2 friends. The male among them said he was from Stoke and wanted to know which football team I supported; I said I was more of a rugby guy. The way I pronounced "rugby" had them all cracking up (linguists call this the Strut Vowel); "this guy's definitely from Birmingham," the first girl said. "Why would I lie about being from fucking Birmingham?" They couldn't answer that one. We chatted with them for a while and my cover was almost blown when I pulled out my phone and the keyboard was in Hebrew. "Are your from Israel." "My parents are. Why d'you reckon I'm this color?" (or should it be "colour" since I was speaking in a British accent?) Jayde and Mandy, thanks for the comedy.
Laughing, we walked back to the main drag. We were waiting at a crosswalk when we saw a very drunk woman screaming and cursing at a man across the street. Another man was filming until she noticed him and directed her rage at him, getting closer to him and trying to snatch his phone away. He shoved her away, she tried again, and was answered with a mean right hook to the face. She went down like a stone and hit her head on the pavement; two men standing nearby attacked him in response.
I went to offer some help, as the woman was now facedown on the pavement and bleeding from both her lip and head. I made sure her face was tilted to the side so she wouldn't choke on her own blood and tried to call 911 but couldn't get through. She had briefly lost consciousness but was now coming to and was just as aggressive as before, trying to get up and get back at her assailant and freaking out when I said I was calling an ambulance, while her sister was kneeling by her and having a full-fledged breakdown. They don't teach you these things in first aid classes. A man passing by said he was an EMT and tried stopping the bleeding with his shirt; we got her to sit up on a nearby wall and he attempted to calm her down. I spotted some police officers on ATVs and flagged them down, at which point I decided they were better off without me. As I got up to leave, I saw several men surrounding a vehicle, shake it violently, and rip off its windshield wipers. Jake later told me that the man who'd thrown the punch had gotten in that car and tried to flee.
I checked Lyft to see how much it would cost to get home - $60 instead of the normal $20. Uber was no different. Jake and I started walking north to get closer to Bal Harbour, since I figured at some point there would be cars dropping people off from downtown which could take us home. We ended up walking over 40 blocks, which in Miami is more than 3 miles, until we finally managed to get an Uber for $30.
The next day, I spent some time at the beach, trying to soak up the last rays of tropical sunshine before heading north. The beach was full of people who had materialized in the building since the previous day, all curiously facing south on a north-south beach for maximum sun exposure. Jake and I had a celebratory farewell dinner, the last meal of that quality I expected to have for a while, and went to bed early. The road trip begins tomorrow.
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