Midhurst to Miami - newspaper article

(Previously published in the Midhurst and Petworth Gazette) I knew we were no longer living in West Sussex from the moment I laid eyes on the guy coming towards me along Collins Avenue. From the top of his daisy laden hat, past his mini dress and to the soles of his cream knee high lace-up boots, there was something about him that clearly stated “I do not belong in The Home Counties”. Maybe there are areas of England where he might have fitted in perfectly, but over the past four years, I hadn’t come across them. My world of Barbour jackets and ties, tweed skirts and twin sets has vanished and in its place is that incredibly diverse city of Miami; home of the rich and famous, the old and the new, the glitz and glamour and the down-at-heel. To most people in England, the word “Florida” provokes the Pavlovian response of “Orlando”. One cannot be in one without seeing the other and indeed there would be little purpose in travelling all this way were it not to savour everything that the planners and dreamers of Epcot, Disney World and Sea World have come up with. However, living here permanently is a different story and the saying among the elderly retired folks who populate the southern areas of this vast and exceptionally flat State, is that “Nobody goes to Orlando until the grandchildren turn up, and then they have more fun than the kids”. So far we have resisted the temptation to shell out the equivalent of a return air-ticket to England on hotel accommodation and entry fees to these wonders, but no doubt the time will come when the first of my four grandchildren arrives at the airport and takes me firmly by the hand. We have lived in north Miami for a year now and along with learning to drive on the right in a vehicle that could double as a Russian tank in size, I have had to come to grips with a whole new language. Certainly the Americans speak English and in many cases gripe that we have done terrible things to it. Take this morning for instance. I put the trash into the compactor, left the apartment and rode the elevator down to the lobby and fetched the caddy to offload the shopping from the Mall that was in the trunk. I left the caddy next to the “aloominum” railings so that the next SUV that would swing in next to the condo wouldn’t create a fender bender. And that’s just in the normal course of events. After a very short time we discovered that it was going to be a case of “The fit or the fat” and we would have to plump for one side or the other. Were we going to fall foul of Big Macs, Tony Roma’s Rib Joint, The Pizza House and Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream or would we make our virtuous way to “Natural Foods” and “The Fresh Food Market” pausing in only in our progression to call in at the gym and the pool? The golf course adjacent to our condo building has a tree lined walking track that winds for three miles around its circumference and this is where we joined the fit, the not so fit and the “full of good intentions” brigade. From spandex clad lithe figures racing past on roller blades to joggers plugged into their iPods sweating their way around and on to the grandmothers doing duty with the push chairs, all life finds its way around the park at varying speeds. T shirts proclaim a variety of messages; “Save the Whale”, “Save Cuba”, “Save Ten Bucks down at Marty’s Lube Station”. You walk on the right and keep a wary ear for the approaching whirr of wheels as the roller bladers and the bikers overtake you and with sweat pouring into your eyes you march on until the circuit is complete and the welcome security gates of the condo come into view once more. Shopping is a constant search for the ideal object at the best price. Of course there are those who would only place their Manolo Blahniks onto the forecourt of Bal Harbour but for every one of them, there are a hundred who will first choose their outfit from the rails of Bloomingdales and JC Penney, and then go and purchase it for a third of the price down the road at Ross Discount House. The Americans are savvy shoppers and the return policy of all major shops attest to the fickle nature of the purchaser. Having found the ideal item and carried it triumphantly home, it may not rest there for long before being carted back because it fails to go exactly right with the shoes or the top or the jeans. Americans are avid movie goers and heaven help the forgetful patron who leaves his cell phone switched on. Bleeps are met with boos and whistles while the offender scurries from the auditorium in red-faced shame. Moments of high emotion are met with sighs and supportive groans from the audience and the finale of really good film can be met with anything from a round of applause to a standing ovation. No film can possible be watched without a monster box of popcorn, a coke large enough to float a small cabin cruiser in, and assorted pretzels, hot dogs and ice creams. Everyone seems to be possessed of an iron clad bladder and there is seldom a mad rush to exit at the end of the show but instead, people will discuss the pros and cons with their hitherto unknown neighbours and will stand and watch the titles roll quite happily. For the princely sum of seven dollars, one can gain access to the twenty seven screen complex and cheerfully spend the entire afternoon and evening wandering from one film to another if you so desire, and a little careful planning beforehand can ensure that those with “square eye” syndrome can manage at least two, if not three full length features. So if it’s food, culture, theatre, music, sea, sand, sunshine and the occasional brush with a hurricane that you are after, then maybe Miami is the place to start. If you don’t know where to begin, I’ll bet the guy with the daisies in his hat could help you, but you might want to leave your Barbour jacket at home.