I spent my recent (and glooorious) Christmas break on my parent's sailboat in Miami. (Tough life. I know.)
|View from the boat in Sunset Lake|
A few times, while walking around Ocean Drive or Coconut Grove, I couldn't help but wonder where all the people who looked like J. Lo or Beyonce were. All I could see were geriatric Europeans with fanny packs. Where was the bling? The stilettos? The spray tans with sparkly flecks in them? Rude.
Then I looked around in horror as music from the Twilight Zone played: every man I could see was in cargo shorts. And a tank top.
Was I in the Miami season of the Jersey Shore? Nope. Just Miami.
Needless to say, it didn't happen. Not even close.
Having been pretty removed from all things Florida (minus cheering for the Gators) since I moved away in 2008, I'd forgotten especially how SoFlo is a world all its own. A cargo-short world, apparently. Instead of the blinged-out Beyonces and J. Los, all I saw were a lot of leathery looking people who seemed to be chain smoking like it was their last day on Earth. (Let me tell you: cigarette smoke + scorching heat from the sun is always a pleasant combination for my senses. Always.)
Oh, and as for me? I went jogging in a tank top my first day and got a sports bra tan that would've given any fanny-packed tourist a run for their money. I spent the next week laying out with strategically placed dishtowels over my chest and shoulders to help even it out. (Surprise: it didn't work. I looked like a fool.)
So there you have it. While I had an absolutely fabulous time (like drinking peach mai tais with my friend Mia at Villa Mayfair) the trip also showed me that North Carolina feels much more like home.
|Recap: Ensley...pale with splotches of sunburn, Mia...tan and gorgeous|