Under the blazing sun, the ocean appears to be topped by a layer of glittering diamonds — fitting for a city that loves its bling. It’s rare to see an item of clothing, phone cover, or dog collar that isn’t diamond-crusted in Miami Beach. At the petrol station, where I go to fill up my mother’s 2005 Maxima, still chugging along nicely despite a trunk that can decapitate you if you’re not careful, we are surrounded by six (!!) Lamborghinis, a Porsche SUV, and a stretch limo. Every car features a vanity plate.
On Christmas Day, we aim to fulfil the American tradition of eating Chinese food. We land on Asiatiko, a swish kosher Asian fusion with absinthe cocktails kept cold with tiger-shaped ice. My kids, meanwhile, beg to try Chick-fil-A and the other endless fast-food options not to be found in England. Three doors down from my mom’s solid if dated building, where I while away the hours playing mahjong and Rummy for 10¢/hand with Holocaust survivors, there is construction on new glass-clad luxury condos with panoramic views of the ocean and intercoastal; prices start at $3.1 million.
Bienvenidos à Miami!
Ever since I was a small child, I’ve been coming to this city, full of high and low, and all things Jewish, every winter break. Moving to the UK made this journey more difficult, so we decided to come every second year; until the pandemic, that worked for us. It’s a trip that always includes abundant sunshine, daily swims in the ocean and pool, runs on the Miami Beach and Hollywood boardwalks, American sporting events, too much (if fantastic) eating, catching up with cousins and old friends and the poolside yachnas, and plenty of ogling of the massive amounts of wealth made manifest in sleek yachts, enormous mansions, and all varieties of plastic surgery.
When my parents retired, they joined thousands of other Jewish snowbirds from Canada and the Northeastern US (and yes, even some Brits) to spend American Thanksgiving through Pesach here; my in-laws, not ready to make such a leap, come for a month.
With the explosion of Omicron, things have been a bit quieter than usual this year. On Lincoln Road, the shopping and see-and-be-seen mecca of South Beach, the Apple store hung a sign on the door apologising for its unplanned closure. Too many staff were isolating. At the basketball game, where the Miami Heat defeated the Detroit Pistons 115-112 in a thrilling last-minute victory, we donned our N95s and were happy to be among rows of empty seats; to sit nearer the court, we would have had to have shown negative Covid tests.
Residents in my mother’s building lamented the cancellation of trips by children and grandchildren.
Still, the overall feeling here is unquestionably positive. “Another day in Paradise,” my mother says every time she steps out onto her balcony to sip her morning coffee. “It is such a privilege to be here,” a man in the elevator tells me. “Be’emet, kahn ze gan eden,” my Israeli Uber driver declares — Truthfully, here is the Garden of Eden.
Every day my kids ask me to check if British schools are going online. Maybe we could stay a little bit longer? Alas, it looks like our time is just about up here. I think I’ll suggest Bournemouth for next winter—I hear it’s the British Miami….
