Traveling again. Now, self is in Miami. There was a brief stop-over in Atlanta, which was warm.
Pale blue scarf, bought two years ago, in San Luis Obispo. Took it off in Atlanta — the airport was WARM.
About Atlanta: From the air, the sight of trees in all their fall riot of color was heart-stopping. The light slanted a certain way (It was mid-afternoon). The land looked lovely, reminding her of some areas of Virginia. Manassas? Alexandria?
Self saw her first “Sean Jean” shop, in the Delta concourse. The clothes were like Gap meets Levis.
She tried the bacon and cheese fries from Nathan’s. It was bigger than a triple decker and was so goo-ey. But the large glass of lemonade (95 cents) was DIVINE.
Now, ensconced in the Doubletree behind the Hilton in downtown Miami, self confesses to wee disappointment: the lobby and restaurants are very swank, but the rooms themselves — well, the corridors run here and there, like a warren, and the carpeting is tacky and old. The color theme is BROWN. Self grabbed a bottle of water, opened it, and then saw (too late, as usual) the sign: Each small bottle of water is $2.95. The wi-fi has to be paid for.
The Man insisted on renting a car, and the hotel charges a parking fee of $29. “Do we REALLY need a car?” self asked the man. “Can’t we just WALK AROUND?” “Well,” The Man said, “We can’t WALK to South Beach, can we?” Self wonders why he always seems to have an arsenal of these quips, which leave her tongue-tied. Of course! South Beach! It would be CRAZY to be in Miami and not experience South Beach!
To add insult to injury, The Man demanded that self trundle along the GPS navigator that brother-in-law gave us in 2008. When he logged the hotel address into the device, it could never “lock on”: It kept trying to give directions to the hotel starting from REDWOOD CITY, CALIFORNIA. Also, he engaged the clerk at Budget Car Rental TOO LONG in conversation, wondering aloud whether he should or should not get insurance.
Also, he went by himself to have dinner and found an Argentinian restaurant somewhere in the hotel that served huge steaks and good Malbeq (Self doesn’t even know how to spell Malbeq. She never even heard of Malbeq until this evening. She doesn’t know how The Man was able to figure out there was an excellent Argentinian restaurant on the premises. She’s getting EXTREMELY hungry just typing this)
Self has just started reading Michael Connelly’s The Lincoln Lawyer, and suddenly it strikes her that this is the PERFECT book to be reading in this hotel, in Miami. The place (what she’s seen of it so far) is so noir. Excellent convergence! Maybe self will even be inspired to write a noir-ish story while she is here.
Isn’t Carl Hiaasen from these parts? Maybe she will bump into Mr. Hiaasen at the Miami Book Fair! Self hurriedly googles the Miami Book Fair Schedule of Author Events. Apparently, highlights occur on Saturday. There are some authors self loves, like Nathaniel Philbrick. Like Sharon Olds. Like Dave Barry. But there is no Carl Hiaasen, boo.
Here’s a picture of the hotel room. She wonders who did the large painting, somewhat reminiscent of an Olazo:
Doubletree Hotel, 1717 N. Bayshore Drive, Miami
She was feeling resigned to the room until she started heating some water in a coffee cup and (too late, again!) saw a black spot at the bottom of the cup. Something like a bug. Hopefully not a spider. Eeeeek!!!
Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.