February 4, 2008--Old Dixie Highway

My first visit to Florida was back in the late 1950s. My Aunt Fannie and Uncle Harry had moved to Miami from New York, like so many others who headed south, to seek a new beginning. He had struggled with his business up north and had heard that opportunities abounded down here.

I came on my own. It was also my first plane flight. You can only imagine my excitement! My world centered around the neighborhood in Brooklyn where I grew up, surrounded by my extended family and my friends from school who lived on our block. I had never been further west than New Jersey and had only once made it south as far as Washington, DC on a school trip.

My aunt had learned to drive and was eager to show me around while Uncle Harry was at work. With a friend of the family he had bought a gas station and auto repair shop. He had been trained as an accountant and I had no idea what he knew about repairing cars. Pumping gas was another matter. But from all reports he was making a decent living.

She said, “Would you like to see Miami Beach? It’s beautiful there. It’s on the ocean but not t all like Coney Island.” She made a face at that reference. “There are restaurants and hotels and wonderful parks with palm trees and all kinds of tropical plants. One day I saw a parrot in a tree. We have exotic birds like that here. Not like the ones in New York.” Again, she scrunched up her nose as if she had smelled something noxious.

I of course was eager to see the beach and the hotels; and, especially, if there was any chance of seeing that parrot, well that would be something to write home about. Can you imagine, a parrot not in a cage!

We crossed the MacArthur Causeway—a seamless road that hopped the many islands that spanned Biscayne Bay, connecting the city of Miami with the radiant strip on land that formed the fabled Miami Beach.

It was a glorious day. Warm and sunny and full of color. It resembled nothing I had left behind in New York the previous day where everything was gray and raw and cold.

When we arrived at the Beach we drove up Collins Avenue where a progression of one fantasy of a hotel surpassed the one that had been built the previous year. My aunt told me how the developers did that—wanting to outdo the competition by building the “latest” place, where anyone who was anyone, would clamor to get a reservation. So the first hotels in South Miami Beach were no more than four or five stories tall whereas the succeeding ones became towers of delight. “Wait,” she said, as she saw me with my mouth literally agape, “Wait until we get to the Fontainebleau. That one you will not believe. It is like something out of the Arabian Nights.”

And it was. And she was right: I had never seen anything like it. Not even the Eden Roc or the Versailles which were just a few streets south and thus the confections of the previous two years. This had to be the ultimate hotel. There was no way that even an architect as imaginative as Morris Lapidus, who had designed most of the more recent hotels, famous for having said, “More is not enough,” not even he could top himself next year. At the Fontainebleau, we had reached the ultimate pleasure palace.

“Would you like to have lunch here?” I had the car door half open even before Aunt Fannie had brought the car to a halt. I was that overwhelmed and excited.

It was a magnificent lunch which lasted more than two hours. When we had more than fully satisfied ourselves—it was a Morris Lapidus kind of lunch of more and then even more—my aunt said we could drive a little further north to that park I told you about. The one where I saw the parrot.” And sure enough, when we got there and found a place to park, it was still to be seen busy making a nest for his mate. I was already in my head composing my letter to my parents: “You’ll never know what I saw this afternoon . . . ”

The sun was beginning to lower in the sky and Aunt Fannie said it was time to head back to Miami. She was a new driver and did not want to be out after dark.

We retraced our route back down Collins, passing the string of hotel which were now etched in my memory. I was sorry I didn’t have a camera with me. I sensed none of my friends would believe what I had to report without the hard evidence of photographs.

Then I began to notice something very different. On the left side of the car were the hotels, even more resplendent in the flat light of the setting sun. But on the right, at bus stops I hadn’t noticed earlier, were gathering crowds of workers from these hotels. I assumed their shift was over and they were heading home.

This in itself was not unexpected. What was was that all who were queued up were Negroes. “Aunt Fannie, isn’t it strange who’s waiting for the bus?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean all the people are black. Everyone is. Isn’t that strange.”

“I guess you’re old enough now to know about these things.”

“What do you mean?” I was truly puzzled and anxious because of the ominous tone of her voice.”

“You see, darling, it’s a terrible thing and very different than up north; but down here in the south Negroes are treated very differently.”

“I understand that,” I said, “We did study about slavery in school. But President Lincoln freed the slaves.”

“He did. That is true, but still here Negroes are not allowed to be on Miami Beach after dark. They have to be bused back to the mainland.” Her voice trailed off. “It’s a terrible thing,” she repeated, but this time as if to herself.

“Look at that,” she said a bit later as we were recrossing the Causeway. She pointed to something on her left. Though the light had faded, I could see a small beach that fronted on the bay, and its sign--For Coloreds.

That was then. Much of course has changed. But of course not everything. Or enough.

Yesterday afternoon we drove to Troy’s Barbeque, a roadside place we had heard about that was supposed to have the best ribs in Florida. Perfect food for when watching the Super Bowl. On Old Dixie Highway. As we got closer we realized it was in the center of one of many the African-American neighborhoods in the area. This boded well for the potential authenticity of the food.

As we got deeper into the neighborhood, what I had so naively seen back in the 50s was not so different than what we were seeing just yesterday. We were back in time with men listlessly standing around on street corners, boarded-up shops, run down bungalows, all permeated with deep feelings of hopelessness and despair. For certain there was also evidence of community pride, many houses were well maintained with carefully planted gardens, and younger kids, all smiles, were rampaging joyously on their bicycles. Things did feel safe to us—clearly outsiders who were a little lost as we searched for Troy’s.

At one corner, where we stopped for help, when they heard where we were headed, a couple of the men were eager to tell us about other places where good southern food is available. “If you like Troy’s you’ll also like Parkers back in Delray; and also, don’t forget to go to Wilson’s. They make a mean slow-cooked chicken. But if you want the best ribs, you’re heading in the right direction. Just go down two more streets and make a right. Troy’ll be waitin’ for you.”

And he was. And his ribs were the best ever. And then there were our Giants!