Right next door is a faux-Art Deco Burger King, which I've shown on Sundries before. Here is its next door neighbour, the neon-lit Maclee Quarters at night.
It is buildings like this in South Beach, that instantly turn on that Miami Vice soundtrack in our minds.
Can you imagine a black man stopping a white cop for directions, and the white cop not only obliging, but holding up traffic a full 2 minutes, as he directed said black man on his way? At the end, exchanging a hearty, "okay man, take care"?
Well, it happened right in front of me the other day.
With all this talk of racism this week, of the nappy-haired ho variety, it's good to remember that not everything in the United States is as Reverend Al Sharpton and his ilk, would have you believe.
The keener-eyed amongst you, like commenter Alcibiades, might have noticed that streak of white in the Getting Along blogpost above.
And I'm sure you've guessed what that means: A biplane hired for advertising purposes, has just streaked by.
I'm not exactly sure who Marisol Nichols is, or what is Gen Art, but I've NEVER seen a weekend in SoBe without one or two planes flying past, constantly overhead.
At least he has a fly ride, unlike these rent-a-bikers below. Full marks for getting a moped this weekend though -- seeing as how half of the world seems to have descended for Spring Break on South Beach.
I bet you these two oldtimers, have some tales to tell.
My guess is that the gentleman at the left is called Otis, and that's his buddy, Ray, having finally decided to pull up stakes from his flophouse, and move in with his daughter in Georgia.
I fancy that Otis was a schoolteacher, but one who dabbled in music once. There he met Ray at Tobacco Road, during the heady days when Duke, Ella and Count Basie still made Overtown jumpin', after hours.
I am reminded that commenter, Benning, ragged on the Metro-Dade transit colours on our busses, saying that they looked as if sprayed with Sherwin-Williams half-price paint.
Well, how about our local South Beach shuttle, buster!
Pinks, greens, baby blues, and a liberal splash of magenta, simply gobbed on.
But since the price is right, we locals certainly aren't complaining. I mean, what else can you get for a quarter these days, eh?
As you can imagine, one of the most heartstopping sights in Miami/Miami Beach, is what is known as cruise ship alley -- next to frequently-blogged-about, Macarthur Causeway.
For it is, no matter how jaded or sophisticated you may be, that when you see these waterbound behemoths so CLOSE to your car, as you drive past, that you could almost touch them, that you never fail to slow down your automobile a touch, to take a good long look at them.
As you can see, this is Miami Heat owner, Mickey Aronson's Carnival Cruise Lines' Valor about to set sail into Government Cut.
Now, having outted myself as a snob in the post below, I'm sure you'll snigger to know that I wouldn't set foot on a Carnival cruiseship, if you paid me to.
That's not to say that it's only the QEII or QMII for me.
But you know, at least Royal Caribbean, or the Norwegian Cruise Line, for Pete's sakes.
Carnival is known to locals as the Projects-On-The-Sea, because of its low-rent quality to its passengers (which include many of my visiting relatives, by the way). You've never seen more tattoos, more low-rider pants and bare midriffs than on a Carnival liner, and I have been to Don Carter Bowling Alleys, believe you me.
Seriously, though, I like ships in general.
It's a pity I never really blogged about that Titanic exhibit which I had promised you during my King Tut Exhibit post, because it encapsulated a lot of my love of the sea, and of sea vessels in its enthusiastic travellogueness (is this a word? It is now!).
I have it there for you, perhaps one day, to reveal it when the time is suitable.
But not now. Today, we gape.
Just as if you were on the Macarthur Causeway, cheek-by-jowl to the biggest "Fun Ship" on the seven seas.
Don't you love how the people look so small up there? And yes, I waved.
I swore to myself I wouldn't blog about this, but I can't help it, it's just TOO good to pass up.
So, we had two of my dad's colleagues over to our home, for a Super Bowl get-together, since these two gentlemen are Latin American physicians who don't know from pigskin -- thus were rather lost about this other All-American celebration.
(The other quintessential American one, of course, being Thanksgiving, although you can make a case for the Fourth of July, I guess)
But before our shindig began, my mother went to get our hors d'oeuvres tray we had pre-ordered from a "high-end" market, in South Beach.
High-end is currently my mother's favourite phrase, by the way. It recently replaced "old guard".
And before that, "bling-bling", but I digress.
Well, she was gone a little longer than we had anticipated, so I decided to call her on the mobile. All I heard, when she answered, was the most outrageous loud talking, and the thump-thump of a DJ spinning in the background.
Where did this woman get to??
"I'm at the yes party!"
"The wha-??"
"A party for the Super Bowl by sports people."
(Suddenly, it dawned on me)
"Um, you're at the S.I. Party?? Sports Illustrated??"
"Oh, it stands for Sports Illustrated, oh yes, I remember seeing the sign now."
"Wait, no, back up. How on earth did you get inside the most happening party for the Super Bowl, on the whole of South Beach??"
(Well, next to the ESPN Party, the CBS Party, the Playstation Party, the Paris Hilton Party, etc. etc.)
"There was this huge man at the door."
(Obviously, she was a little unclear about the door policy regarding bouncers)
"And since I wanted to see what was happening, I went inside. Well, this man who looks like Simon [a neighbour of ours, who works out like a mofo at Gold's Gym every day] put his hand nearly on my face, and said I couldn't go in."
"No kidding..."
(Translation, "Of course you can't go in, you crazy German woman!")
"He said, 'I'm sorry, ma'am, but this is for important people only.' I said, 'But I AM an important person.' And then I was inside."
"Whoa."
"It's all right, but I've seen better bling-bling in Palm Beach. People are actually wearing t-shirts and shorts. Yech."
(Obviously, 'bling-bling' had made a mini-comeback)
With that, we hung up, after she promised to get home lickety-split, since our guests were surely on their way over.
Oh, and she did see famous people, she later told me when I pumped her for more info -- well, you would.
The only problem is, not being a sports fan, they meant nothing to her.
Now, if she had seen Paris Hilton, that's another story. She would've bowled over any beefy guard to get to see her bling-bling.
Here is the "more later" followup promised in yesterday's International Holocaust Remembrance Day post.
Miami Beach used to be the retirement mecca for seemingly millions of little old Jewish men and women, back in the 1960s to 1980s.
Droves of elderly babushki came from all over the United States -- content to spend out their years rocking in front of hotel porches, all along Collins and Washington Avenues.
This is the Miami Beach long-time residents of South Florida recall, more than the flamingo pastels of Miami Vice, or the wild hedonism of the Versace Era.
But the problem with the elderly is that they don't last, and South Beach has nearly drained itself of the Jewish pensioner, and thereto, even more distressingly, of the Jewish Holocaust survivor.
I recall, as a teenager when I came to visit my parents in Florida, that we would rent a lovely room at the Winterhaven Hotel on Ocean Drive, for a fortnight every summer.
And as long as I live, I'll never forget the check-in clerk at the front desk, an elderly man whose hand shook with age, as he handed me the room keys whenever I came back from the beach. One day, when he was extending the keys to me, I saw some lettering or some such, on his wrist.
With all the innocence of the child I still was, I exclaimed, "Oh, you have a tattoo!". Like a sailor, I thought.
Drawing himself up as if slapped, he drew back his shirt cuff, and turned to me, nodding.
No words. But a look of such heart-numbing pain, that I can never erase it from my memory as long as I live.
In front of me, stood a man of indeterminate age, originally from Poland, now working in exchange for his lodging in the top floor at a Miami Beach hotel, but once when he had been exactly my age, he survived Auschwitz.
Auschwitz. The Holocaust. Gas chambers. Nazis. Extermination Camps...
A litany of such 20th century monstrosity that it beggars the modern mind, to say it out loud.
Being half-German, I have a special duty, an earnest consciousness, and an overwhelming desire to remember what can never be forgotten by Man.
And though my travellogues are expeditions into South Florida wonderlands, where nothing is gloomy, today allow me to take you to the Miami Beach Jewish Holocaust Memorial...
...because certain moments cannot be jollied up.
They cannot be trivialised, if they are to mean SOMETHING.
Oh, maybe they do, in the way one knows there is a Miami Seaquarium or Monkey Jungle -- tourist destinations you somehow push to the back of your mind, far removed from your daily life, unless you live near it, and thus, one of the most moving sights of Miami/Miami Beach, is completely unknown to millions of its residents.
How can you miss it? As you pull into Meridian Avenue, there it is, immense, imposing, unforgettable.
I went there at night, and not the daytime, because in my humble opinion, this Michelangeloesque upraised hand in cast bronze, is at its most awe-inspiring with the setting sun behind it.
And when the skies have been threatening to open all day long, with menacing clouds above, I can't even explain to you the shades of inky blue that form a backdrop behind it.
Even this startling photograph, does not do the scene justice.
As you approach the memorial, one of the first sculptures you will see in this park, is that of a mother gathering within the folds of her skirts, her two young children.
I need not tell you that this is precisely what happened, a million times over, during the Holocaust, as parents and children faced the ultimate fear -- fear of the gathering storm of hate.
But inscribed on the wall just behind Mother and Children, are the words of Anne Frank.
They say, with the convinced heart of a child wise beyond her years:
"That in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart."
And no matter what horrors I have read, witnessed, or experienced myself, so do I, so do I, Anne...
When Stendahl went to Naples, back in the mid-1800s, he was overwhelmed by the statuary, the monuments and reliquaries to be seen in such abundance in Italy. His pulse raced, he became dizzy, and he often observed others in exactly the same predicament.
I almost fainted when I approached the David statue, and though I was told by my parents it's a common enough occurence (a psychological reaction to seeing a well-known face or work of art, right in front of you, which can overwhelm a person), I didn't want to tell them that I was just scared of David's enormous proportions.
And guess what?
I had the exact same reaction to this towering hand, which as you can see, is well over 20 feet in size.
But I bit my lips, and carried on, cognisant that I was taking photographs of The Sculpture of Love and Anguish, as it's properly called, not just for me, but for all of you.
So, thanks Sundries readers, for making me face, and conquer at least this one fear.
After all, when you think of what the statue represents, how absolutely ridiculous are any of our niggly fears compared to it.
I think the architects who designed this pond-framed statue, understood instinctively that it was a powerful, perhaps too powerful monument, and consequently, sealed it off by a moat, and surrounded it by an open-air walkway called The Garden of Meditation.
I cannot tell you how pretty, how inviting, and peaceful it is.
You have to come down here, and see it yourself one day.
Jerusalem has Yad Vashem. I've been told by many friends who have been there, that the experience is almost claustrophobic in intensity.
But our flowery trellis path here in the Miami Beach version liberates the spirit, free to gulp the horrible significance of its gorgeous black granite slabs -- that which contains the visual and historical memories of the Holocaust.
As you continue walking along its reflecting testimonials, you begin to prepare yourself for something a little more sombre, a little more emotional, than the peeping flowers and moonlit sky offer above.
Perhaps the JFK grave in Arlington has made all Eternal Flames mere copy-cats, but when you see this flame, licked by the cheery Florida wind right and left, you know it's absolutely fitting to see it there.
I shot the Eternal Flame without flash, just as you would see it were you to approach it yourself.
But the images of the Holocaust are also imprinted on our collective memories in black and white, so here is a Youtube link, with the flame flickering to the sound of children's voices.
Now, turning to your left, you can see the opening to the Dome of Contemplation -- in the sunlight, its many crevices craftily reveal hidden messages...
...like this stark, horrible image of the JUDE inside a Magen David, above.
The yellow cloth Star of David, a new kind of brand for a new-old kind of genocide.
The long, narrow road to the concentration camps, to the open pits, to the firing squads, to the cattle cars, and finally, into the gas chambers were walked by each person who died there.
It is called The Lonely Path, and I knew I had to come at night, to see it. In the sunlight, it's almost cheery Jerusalem pink stone walls give it a different feel entirely.
But at night, with the songs of children representing innocent life about to die, well, let's just say, there is a reason my hand was unsteady as I shot the footage below.
And here it is, just a few feet away.
What does the structure represent, you ask?
It is said that every memorial visitor has a different interpretation. On face value, it represents the hand of a Holocaust victim -- with number tattoo near the wrist -- lifting itself to the heavens, being weighted by dozens of figures of men, women and children, all around it.
I don't know.
Would you be offended if I told you that to me, it represents the hand of God?
Many Holocaust survivors and those who read of it, believe that such incidents as the Showa are proof positive that there is no such entity as God.
How can there be a God, when He allows such unbelievable evil to exist?
I don't know. I can only tell you what is in my heart.
That to me, the Holocaust and other incidents like it, represent a reaching out of God, to try to make human beings understand...
...that they must NEVER FORGET ITS LESSONS.
That to forget is to allow evil a chance in the world. That we do forget, time and time again, is our real human tragedy.
God bless all those who perished in this and other Holocausts.
May we be strong to face hate, and to fight it wherever it raises a hand to smite us.
