Returning from Miami

A few thoughts on returning from a business trip to Miami.

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My first time in Miami (and South Florida generally) gave me the impression of a very wealthy Latin American country – the palm trees and the layout of the streets and the architecture all had the feel of a location more tropical and less concerned with rules.  It was almost like a resort (complete with Policia all over the place).  I think I heard more Spanish spoken than I did in Cuba or Costa Rica.

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The airport was part fashion show, part sad parade, as places of coming & going usually are.  Three soldiers in camouflage walked by and I almost didn`t see them.  Almost beautiful girls on improbable heals wearing impossibly tight clothing tried to catch everyone`s attention inconspicuously.  Old people snored as their grandchildren ran around the terminal.  I tried to focus on the New Yorker article detailing the abuses of US campaign laws, the undisclosed, unidentified monies flooding into the two sides of the Republican stand-off through the SuperPACs – but the coming & the going kept grabbing my attention by the throat. 

The flight was delayed.  I returned my darting eyes to the New Yorker, less than fascinated.

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I got to my seat near the back of the plane.  The residents of the other two seats in my row had conveniently stowed all 3 of their bags in the overhead compartment above our section, leaving no room for mine.  I politely suggested they put one of their bags under one of the seats in front of them.  They feigned an ignorance of English and resumed an aloofness that made me retreat.  I put my bag in someone else`s overhead spot, who in turn complained that they had nowhere to put their bags. 

The row of seats behind mine was empty.  The male steward offered the opportunity to move back a row.  I did so and had all three seats to myself to continue reading my magazine. 

With access to the window, I watched as the plane climbed through cloud cover, Miami and Key Biscayne (with its lavish homes, yachts, a golf course) slowly receding and then eclipsed by a blanket of cloud. 

Soon Miami was just a distant spot on the ground and I was already somewhere else.

*   *   *

We broke cloud cover with a few shudders, and there lay the grid of the GTA; pinpoints of orange and white light spread out in all directions as far as I could see.  Flying into the city at night once again reminded me of the glow that comes from the embers of a campfire.  The same orange pulsating light scattered across a black canvas. 

There was a warmth to the scenery, as if you could hold your hands up and feel the heat, and it matched the mood of returning home.

Within an hour it would start to snow.