Despite the fact that I’ve now moved out of my car and into a bedroom, I still can’t seem to stop driving. Miami’s temperatures have glided gracefully down to where we like them best: the sun keeps us ever so slightly salty, and the gentle breezes of the moon wick off the sweat, blowing at once coolness and warmth, like a lover's whisper. Outside at midnight, in shirtsleeves and sundresses, we count ourselves lucky to live in the tropics in November.
I drove up to Ft. Lauderdale to meet my friend Tom for a drink tonight and then followed him to Plantation’s only authentic Irish pub (!), where Fire in the Kitchen was playing. The band consists of a Chinese fiddler called ShaSha, an Irish keyboardist previously of Dexy’s Midnight Runners (“Come on Eileen”), and a fat man who, throughout the course of the evening, put on and took off a little Irish mandolin, a fiddle, a drum, an Elvis mask, a knit Rasta cap with attached dreads, and a plaid Fat Bastard beret. The less-than-likely trio serenaded and whiplashed, mulled and marched, all to Celtic melodies. They were remarkably...effective. Affective.
Who says I’ve stopped traveling? The Paul Theroux quote above underscores how adventure will only be defined by state of mind; an odyssey can self-contain itself inside one's own backyard.
11,000 miles since we left Rhode Island.