• This was the first, last and only trip I will ever chalk up on my list of visits past with my now associate, Nadine.* When I said that keeping a level head was part of the new and improved approach to mending fences, this heifer found new ways to push my nerves to the breaking point. If you know that airport security is tighter than a Jewish mother's pursestrings, why in Jehovah would you put on every piece of jewelry you own just to get singled out at the metal detector when the flight's on schedule and we're running 20 minutes behind? Why not take out the money you'll need to cover the bare necessities ahead of time instead of dragging my ass to the ATM every 5 minutes? Why give your mom the damn number to the hotel so keeping tabs like a chaperone would be inevitable and you're pushing 30? Were it not for cheap cigarettes and runs to the liquor store a mere block away, this could've easily turned into Mutiny Over Miami.
• SoBe's club scene is hella overrated. With a capital O. The death of NYC as the preeminent nightlife capital in America has been grossly exaggerated. It has the kind of frenetic pace that a city girl like me craves, but it's gonna take much more than a propensity for bare-if-you-dare ensembles and pleasant weather to snatch the crown. Since everyone I polled before leaving about which places were must-see's added up to a general consensus for the hot spots in town, I checked off a few names on my itinerary to see what the buzz was about. Needless to say, I felt like an old Deana Carter song after slipping past the velvet ropes. I shaved my legs for this? Doormen cut out of the Marc Benecke school of ruthlessness (how Studio 54 of them), laughably outdated music, watered-down drinks and Laguna Beach pinups far too enamored with their own reflection. The oft-praised Mansion? Should be retitled Shoebox. Literally looks like the place where closeout Pier 1 Imports furniture comes to die. I've been in studio apartments on the fringe of Alphabet City that had more square footage. A slurred proposition courtesy from one of Michael Jordan's entourage lackeys (who was holed up with a bevy of bottle blondes as a sidenote. Even after getting his card pulled in the Karla Knafel debacle, it was proof that jungle fever doesn't die, it merely multiplies) was the red flag that it was time to bounce.
• On the recommendation from a colleague to check out the Front Porch Cafe, I'm a believer. Best. brunch. EVER. Mimosas and bellinis toasting another born day never tasted so good.
• Stayed right next door to Casa Casuarina (a.k.a Gianni Versace's old digs) and I can't understand why tourists choose to strut their best America's Next Top Model pose in the same spot where he was murdered. Morbid fascination, much?
• Although the leisurely stroll on the sand with seashells that felt more like syringes off Coney Island made me leery, getting lost in a sea of oceanic indigo made all but made me forget the grit in my flip flops. The water was sub zero on first splash, though. A topless frolic into the blue on the menu? Not the kid!

The magnetic pull of Espanola Way at night is still dancing through my brain. As is the hunk of man candy I couldn't help ogling at Mango's. I can now file Wet Willie's into the "devised by Satan" pile along with Target. Loved the reaction I got from the locals when I answered them in Spanish. Ditto for the charmingly retro Art Deco architecture. Strolling up and down Collins was responsible for the 8.9 damage estimation on the Richter scale to my wallet. Gloria Estefan summed it up in the catchiest of phrases: "the rhythm's gonna get you."

Time for an inventory check on my remaining days off.