Before bums were getting their faces eaten off in Miami, I was in a hotel bar getting asked if I was a porn star.
Let me back up.
A few weeks ago, myself and the husband embarked on a cruise to the Bahamas. But before the cruise we decided to spend a few days in Miami. The airplane ride boded well as to what was coming. Sitting diagonally from me was a kid, maybe 17 to 20-years-old, cradling a stuffed kangaroo wearing sunglasses.
Staring at it, I kept expecting it to come alive, like some sequel to Kangaroo Jack.
When we landed in Miami I expected glitz. I expected to be intimidated by the money and the clothes and the nightclubs.
When in actuality I was more intimidated by the store window mannequins.
So in a hotel bar such as this—
–my husband and I got a drink. Our lithe, German bartender informed us the porn convention was in town. I began plotting how we would crash it. Maybe steal some black dildos. Sometime during the conversation my husband escaped, leaving me alone at the bar with the bartender and another customer.
Customer turned to me and asked, in all seriousness, “So are you a porn star?”
Torn between wondering if I’m being flattered or mocked, I swiveled on my bar stool. Arched a brow. “What do you think?”
Now I got 10 extra pounds on me, but it’s not on my boobs.
Customer laughed. I asked, “Are you?” and held up my pinky.
Conversation awkwardly turned to politics.
The night ensued. Much drinking was had, causing me to croak this little ditty from a Miami sidewalk.
All kinds of surprises awaited me in Miami. The painting in our hotel hallway where I questioned the creepy decision to hang this photo. Clearly, a rape in progress.
12-year olds drinking Boone’s Farm straight from the glass bottle next to this sign, which gave it a sobering experience.
Walking into Mac’s Double Deuce (a bar I had hoped to drink at but promptly fled) and the first words I hear are, “Well, the first time I got my vasectomy…”
I excelled in ordering Café con Leche. A travel guide I had read prior to the trip warned its readers to never order straight-up American coffee or scorn and mocking would reign. “Order a Café con Leche, Colada or Cafecito or prepare to be shanked,” were the words of counsel.
So at David’s Café I promptly ordered “two café con leches”, even giving a little accent to the “leche” part. Heart pounding in my chest, I waited for the ridicule but the hot Cuban waiter rewarded me a with a wink.
After two long days of staring at double D’s and sweating like Gary Busey on a bender, it was time to go. Miami was good for a few things. The stories. The Cubanos. The hair (I had no idea how much natural curl I had until Miami).
Miami is Vegas on steroids. It wasn’t glitzy or impressive. Sometimes I feared for my life…or my soul. But the one thing I could dig up, the moral of my Miami story is: If you sit and wait for it, someone will seriously ask you if you’re a porn star. And if you stay longer than a week in Miami, you get your fucking face eaten off.