It has been three years since I was last in Miami Beach, in the exact neighborhoods and blocks that for so long were the backdrop of my life. I could walk these streets with my eyes closed and have stories to share about each one. My family’s early years here were challenging, no doubt, but they were also filled with a joy and warmth I’ve never again experienced outside of my native Argentina. Since my dad passed away in 2016, I’ve very actively avoided Miami Beach, wanting to protect myself from the inevitable sadness bound to wash over me in seeing our old spots – each marked by moments spent with my parents. Without them, that joy and warmth had been stripped from my memory of Miami Beach. ☀️

Yet, here I am today – by what can only be credited to serendipity – sitting just a couple of blocks away from my elementary school, looking out into the Atlantic from my remote office, while I onboard an absolutely lovely new client who just so happens to call my old neighborhood home, too.

Four days in, nostalgia has certainly crept in, but so has gratitude. So have those joyful and warm memories. So has the sunshine sinked into my skin to remind me that Miami Beach still beats deeply inside me. If Buenos Aires gave me roots, this city filled in the colors and watched me bloom.

No matter how long I attempt to stay away, or where in the world I go, the colors of this place will always paint my path home. Below, my ode to Miami.

* * *

The rhythm of your streets,
Your flavors, your colors, your accents,
Your warmth, and yes, even your humidity…

I can still hear my rollerblades on the sidewalk,
Gliding past the temple and around the khaki building,
Back to our yard, the grass peering through the cracks on the pavement –
The same block on which I skinned my knees,
The same one on which I peeled back half of my hand (I still bear those goofy scars on my fingers),
The bike rides with Olga and Sandro and Fabian,
And “monkey in the middle,” simply because we thought it was a silly game that didn’t exist back where we were from.

That narrow kitchen,
The scent of freshly baked after-school snacks (a nod to Mami’s BA tradition),
The boxy TV in front of where so many of my afternoons were spent:
WDZL-Channel 39-Ft Lauderdale and the Palm Beaches. Full House. Saved by the Bell. Clarissa surely did explain it all. I wanted all of her clothes.
The couch, a cushy, plaid-patterned pullout. At night, our bed. 

The brisk four-block walk to the beach,
The 73rd street entrance, by the old Normandy Inn
The pink walls, the shower heads,
The smell of sunscreen and wet sand and hot sidewalks,
The sound of our feet on the sand, of the swaying palm trees,
The giggles, the seaweed.
My mom’s gentle “don’t go too far” nudge,
That pink swimsuit with the polka dots and ruffles, always soaked.

The walks along Collins, Lincoln Road, Washington Ave, Alton Road…
A stop at Eckerd (then, CVS) and the hellos at Surf Med.
The weekend trips to Aventura, aboard the S northbound.

The weekend trips to Haulover Park, 
The rocks, the barbecues.
The smell of my dad’s tobacco pipe after a day’s work at some other Biscayne Bay construction site,
His grout-stained knees.

The humid nights, the safety of home.
The humble, the sweet, the just-right.
The always enough, though there was never much.

How richly you molded me…
It took long to realize I was living among vacationers and elites,
To realize how coveted your shores were,
How much I’d miss them someday,
How storied they’d become:
My most joyful joys mixed with my most devastating heartbreaks – memories all the same.

Deeply, you still beat inside me.
Buenos Aires gave me roots (the strongest), but you filled in the colors (the boldest) and watched me bloom.
No matter where in the world I go, your shades will always shine the brightest.
Yours will always paint my path home.

—

Photos from my early Miami Beach days: the pink polka-dot swimsuit, the plaid pullout, our afternoons of playing-in-the-yard with Olga, that narrow kitchen, my one-of-a-kind parents.