South Florida: Expat Returns (for a minute)
I went to a sales show in Florida. I spent Saturday through Tuesday in the States. It was my first time in my home country in almost six months – the most time I’ve ever been away. I didn’t know what to expect. I’d become pretty accustomed to Peru so I was curious if the cleanliness, modernness, and bigness of America would surprise me. I wondered what the people would seem like after being among Latinos for so long.
I landed at MIA around 7am, but couldn’t check into my hotel on Marco Island until 3pm. Saturday was my only free day. So I decided to check out South Beach until 1pm before driving a rental across the state. I had breakfast at Jerry’s Famous Deli – four whole wheat pancakes for $9.95 – which was my most expensive meal in months.
I played in the ocean for a couple hours. The water is warm, which is nice, but it’s also filled with floating debris. Not human trash, but marine plantlife. Seaweed and other shit. I may be a sissy but it’s creepy when stuff like that touches you in the ocean. I don’t know if it’s the season or if this is a constant plague of South Beach.
South Beach is a popular destination among Europeans and topless sunbathing is tolerated. I’d read this but forgot, so I was surprised at the first topless woman I saw. Then I saw more. Very cool. After swimming and walking a mile or so up the beach in search of topless women, I had lunch. Roasted chicken pizza: roasted chicken, mixed greens, black olives, hard-boiled eggs with light caesar dressing on whole wheat crust. Delicious.
Miami is a beautiful city, but the beach culture has absolutely NOTHING on Southern California. I’m spoiled for having lived in Orange County for a year, arguably the best beach culture in the world. Around South Beach you see lots of ugly people, fat people, old people, corny Midwesterners, etc. Not so much in SoCal.
Miami has better scenery than LA. The architecure of tall, light colored buildings on the backdrop of water and / or palm trees beats the sprawling, flat concrete that is most of LA.
As opposed to LA corniness, I enjoyed Miami’s excellent radio stations for the drive through the Everglades to the other side of the State. In what may be the biggest swamp in the world, signs line the freeway advertising airboat tours and alligator shows. I knew there were gators and snakes and other nasty animals in the Everglades, but I was surprised to see “Panther Crossing” signs. I didn’t know panthers live in the swamp too.
I got to Marco Island around 3pm and checked into my room. Marco Island is a section of swank isolated from Naples by a thirty-minute drive. There isn’t much of an industry on the island outside of hotels. They’re designed so you never have to leave the grounds. I stayed at the Marco Island Marriott Resort Golf Club and Spa. It was exactly as it sounds. A photo is at the bottom of this post.
After checking in, I went to the beach and played in the water for a while, only because I wanted to say that I played in two different seas in one day (Atlantic Ocean and Gulf of Mexico). Not many people can say that.
While this was my one free day, I still had some errands to take care of. I had to drive to Naples for a Target and I wanted to see the Hispanic sections at some local drug store chains. AI got some more gifts for my Peruvian friends. For Miguel, I bought peanut butter. For my roommates, I bought a six pack of Red Hook ESB and Sierra Nevada Pale Ale to show them that America makes good beer. I bought a book for Karen (English books are hard to find).
I’d planned to have dinner at the beach in Naples, but was disappointed to see it was all residential. Naples has no beachfront scene with bars, shops, and beach culture. A shame. I did find 5th Avenue, which isn’t far from the beach. 5th Avenue is a retail district of posh bistros and high-end shopping. Not what you expect to see at the beach. Lots of people with white hair. 5th Avenue prompted me to dub Naples, FL “Tommy Bahama Land”.
Tommy Bahama is a ridiculous men’s clothing brand with a tropical theme. “Tommy” is about as gringo as names can be and “Bahama” implies beach / tropical. The typical Tommy Bahama garment is a Hawaiian shirt. In my opinion, if you’re going to wear a Hawaiian shirt, it should be a cheap, light cotton piece of shit, preferrably bright red or otherwise loud and ugly. And it should only be worn with shorts and flip flops. While drinking.
Tommy Bahama, on the other hand, puts a high-end spin on the Hawaiian shirt, incorporating fine fabrics and earth tones while retailing for $40 or more. And the sorry bastards wear it with a belt, light khakis or even white pants, and penny loafers. Disgusting. I used to see the Tommy Bahama section in department stores and wonder to myself: Who buys this shit? Answer: Naples, FL.
While the night was young, I realized that tonight was my only chance if I wanted to have a few drinks at my swanky beach resort. At a liquor store, I bought a half gallon of Burnett’s blueberry vodka ($12.99), lemonade to mix, and a bottle of Chartreuse ($49.99). I’d never seen Chartreuse in a liquor store. I love that shit so I decided to bring a bottle to Peru.
At the hotel, I headed down to the pool with my half gallon of vodka, lemonade, glass and bucket of ice. I realized I was in America again and that this strange land has fascist rules. I’d probably be breaking these rules with all the booze so I kind of hid all my stuff as well as I could and gained access to the pool undetected.
There was one other couple in the huge pool, which had islands in it with giant palm trees shooting up and fountains sprinkling water into the pool. The pool staff had a thatched-roof hut next to the pool and I situated my booze out of their sight.
I drank and swam and looked at the stars and the ocean and palm trees. I thought to myself that, for the first time coming back to my country, this was not a bad way to do it. Around the time the pool was to close, I hid from the pool staff. They didn’t see me as they placed “Pool Closed” signs by the entrances, locked the doors, and left. I drank and swam for another hour or so.
At some point after the staff closed the pool, I noticed the “Pool Rules” sign. Again, being an expat who prefers Latin American culture to my own country’s, I marvelled at how many rules there were. The sign was huge and full of bulletpoints and words. I was breaking four rules: No night swimming, no food or drink in pool area, no glass allowed in pool area, and people under the influence of alcohol should not enter the pool. Lame!
The next morning, I headed to a local diner and had a Jalopeño and Cheddar cheeseburger with fries. I prefer fries from Peru, but burgers in Peru are terrible. I don’t know what they put in the patties, but they’re funky. And they’re never a half-pound. So I planned to have a classic American cheeseburger with fries. The Jalopeño and Cheddar burger fixed the craving and then some.
The convention technically started with dinner that night and included meals throughout the duration of the show. That night’s buffet featured steak, chicken, mahi mahi, potatoes, rolls, salads, and a cheesecake spread for dessert. There was an open bar included. What a shame that every night had an open bar but I had to wake up at 6:30am. Plus, I didn’t want to make a drunk idiot out of myself with so many prospective buyers around. So I didn’t drink. The convention organizers also had two masseuses giving complimentary massages, which I did indulge in.
I spent Monday and Tuesday pitching my products to the various buyers attending the show. The registration fee was astronomical, but I had the undivided attention of every attending buyer for twenty minutes each in my own show room. The big draw was the companies attending on the buyer side – many household names of giant chains that any American would know. Ironically, I did very well with those giant companies attending while not generating much interest in the small- to medium-sized chains. All the giants are chasing the exploding Hispanic demographic and jockeying to become their store of choice. All the small to medium chains weren’t interested as the shipping costs of smaller purchases would kill their margin, or because they didn’t have much of a Hispanic clientele and they didn’t feel the products would sell in the general market.
I wouldn’t call it culture shock since this is my culture, but I did notice a difference in American business. It goes along with the cold gringo culture how abrupt and direct people can be. I was scheduled twenty minutes with each and every buyer at the show. Some uninterested buyers left my room inside three minutes. In Latin America, there’s a process which places importance on relationship-building. Even if a buyer can tell he won’t buy anything, he’ll talk with the seller for a while and act interested and be nice and build a rapport. Maybe even leave the window open for a purchase he knows will never happen.
I couldn’t care less and wasn’t insulted at all by the Americans who ended their meetings abruptly, but they probably would be seen as insulting in Latin America. Not all uninterested Americans left that quick. Some wanted to ask me about Peru. Some industry veterans stuck around to give me advice – I was one of the youngest people at the show and the only youngster who came alone.
I didn’t miss American food much, but I got a well-rounded taste that weekend. The Monday lunch buffet was a philly cheesesteak bar with fries and onion rings. Monday dinner was prime rib and roasted turkey with pasta, potatoes, rolls, and a sundae bar. Tuesday lunch was a taco bar with beans and rice. I missed Tuesday dinner’s steak and lobster because I had to drive back for my flight out of Miami. I ate at a Cuban restaurant near the airport. I’m glad to be back with Peruvian food.
Socializing with Americans was OK despite the open bar I didn’t take advantage of. I got along with some people. But for two meals, I found myself choosing to sit with three girls from a Mexican company. I guess I wanted to speak Spanish, and I find Latina women easier to talk to. And they were hot. I made buddies with one guy who was about my age from San Francisco who liked my Tommy Bahama Land analogy.
I don’t own a camera so I have no pictures of all the beautiful scenery of South Florida or my spa resort. All of the images from my solo trip are for my memory banks only. I do have this pic of the hotel from the convention website:
Marco Island Marriott
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