This is not a joke. This is not like the time Larry tried to pull a misguided April-fools move and told everyone he was moving to Knoxville. If you look over on my profile section, you may or may not notice a small change: you remember how it used to say my location was Palmetto Bay, Florida? Look what is says now. No, I am not using the major metropolitan area as my location to make myself sound cooler. Quite the contrary, living in the only White part of Miami kind of furthers the effect. No, the fact is my days of taking the Turnpike everywhere and having to pack three days of clothes with me everywhere I went are over. As of yesterday I am a resident of The City of Miami.
Now, knowing me, one would probably think I have moved to Coconut Grove or Brickell or maybe, if I’m feeling a little bit Hip, the Design District. No, folks. White Dade is now residing on the Miami River. And not than nice new part near Brickell with Finnegan’s and those fancy High-Rise Condos. Most people know my little section of the Miami River as Little Havana. The same little Havana where you are hard pressed to see an English street sign and people protest in the streets whenever someone is sent back to Cuba. Yeah, THAT Little Havana.
Reactions have ranged form “You realize you only have a couple of weeks until they realize you’re White, right?” to “You are just doing this to get more material for your blog, aren’t you?” to “No, seriously, dude, where’d you move?” Don’t think I don’t full well understand the irony of a guy who has made a blogging career of bitching about people in Miami moving to a neighborhood that literally looks like it belongs somewhere in South America. I know what I’m in for. But I wanted a good location and didn’t want to have to pay much more than I was in South Dade. And while certainly not the finest of areas in Dade County, Little Havana is far form the worst the city has to offer.
I am across the street from a shipyard that specializes is boatloads to Haiti. Boatloads of what, I don’t know, but I sure as shit ain’t gonna ask. There is a “Mecanica” on the corner, so if my car breaks I can bring it in and he can pretend to not speak English in order to facilitate some sort of “misunderstanding” in which he overcharges me and doesn’t fix anything. I am steps from more ham and cheese sandwiches than you could shake a roasted pig art. Good thing I’m Jewish. There is a “Taberna” about three blocks away that had not one but three sex workers outside last night. So if things with this girl don’t work out, I won’t be at a loss for action. DCJ is also walking distance, so should one of my friends end up incarcerated I can go and join him for breakfast every morning. And the Orange Bowl is only a mile West, so for those four remaining home games I won’t have to deal with the parking hassles of those sold-out UM home games.
I have been in Little Havana for 24 hours and already I have spent half an hour at Publix finding someone who could understand that I needed weed killer and ice-cube trays. That was after I was misinformed by no less than two separate people as to where the local Fluff-and-Fold was. Blog fodder? Yeah, there might be some. But really, I’m moving to a place named after a Latin-American city. I’m expecting it to be bad. But how bad still remains to be seen. Palmetto Bay, with its English-speaking checkout clerks and convenience stores that carried products not made by Goya, may seem like paradise in a few months. We shall see. But if you thought the bitterness was strong before, you ain’t seen nothing yet. We’re kicking it up a notch for year two. Welcome to White Dade: Little Havana. Let’s see how long I can survive.***Since I am moving this week, Alice will be guest posting over here tomorrow. I may or may not appear on her site, we shall see. Just so no one is shocked when there is a post tomorrow with a phrase like "I was in a room last week with four guys I'd made out with in the past month." Fill in Anonymous comment about me making out with guys here.