Here I Am

I recently moved from Utah to Miami, and it was a dramatic change of scenery. So here are my thoughts about what life in Florida is like for an outsider.

[corionthebeachwithpalmtrees-blog]

The DMV

I have complained about this before. I will complain about this again. There will never be a day hereafter forever more, for as long as there are people driving in this city where I will not get into our car, strap myself in with at least three seat belts, brace my hands against the chair, the ceiling, wonder if I shouldn't get that plastic surgery for a third limb to brace against the floor, and wonder aloud, "Dear mother Teresa, who let these people have licenses?" Spoiler alert: Nobody. They're all suspended. ALL of them.

Don't believe me? Think that I'm just taking advantage of every American's God given right to complain about everything in the city where they live? Sit back and listen to the tale of a Florida DMV near you.

"We got all your husband's paper work, but I'm afraid you're going to have to obtain a Florida state driver's license before we can officially consider you a resident on your application."

Obviously the undergraduate admission's counselor was not aware of my terrifying ability to passive aggressively give him the silent treatment until he feels really darn bad about his actions, because he wasn't even vaguely looking like he cared. In fact, he was kind of giving me more of a "Why are you still here?" kind of look.

"Oh." I shot a panicked look at my husband who tried to hide his smug smirk behind an upside down copy of "Getting into FIU, what you should know." He was undoubtedly thinking about how hilarious his day was about to get while his socially awkward and completely communication inept wife tried to navigate a crowded DMV full of people that either hated her for not being stuck in a dead end government job or didn't speak English, or both.

She'll be like, "Um, I need the... The thing." Hahaha. She'll probably forget what a driver's license is called.

"We have to go..." I stood in front of him, looking like a drowned chicken. "To the DMV."

Lightning flashed outside. Carlos went "Mee hee hee!" And giggled to himself all the way to the car.

At the DMV, which was "luckily" located right across the street, I was so busy standing in line wondering how this could have happened on the day that I not only decided that my greasy hair was socially acceptable as long as it was in a ponytail but my lower lip broke out in a cold sore so massive I had received offers to join the circus that I almost missed the conversation in front of me.

"You're license has been suspended. You got into an accident and didn't have insurance."

And then the next person stepped forward.

"Yes, your license is still suspended. You're still pending a DUI case."

No way! What a coincidence.

Then suddenly it seemed I was stuck in the DMV line form Groundhog Day. The word suspended seemed to bounce off the walls like the bowling ball from hell, knocking each member of my line right into the gutter of having to ask your mom for rides to work  when you're 32 years old.

After what seemed like an eternity I reached the front of the line.

"Ma'am I'm afraid your license is still suspended..." The woman in front of my sounded like an answering machine. She didn't even look at me.

"Uh... What? No, I um... I'm from out of state?" I said it like I wasn't even sure. Who was I? Why was I here? Was my license suspended? I didn't even know. "I just moved to Miami. I need a new license."

"Oh." She finally looked up and smiled, though it seemed like the kind of smile a farmer gives his prize pig after it just won the blue ribbon, knowing full well it'll be slaughtered in a week. "Over there."

I'm pretty sure the woman who helped me next had been doing nothing but suspended license cases for the full five years she had been probably been working there, because it took her three tries to get my name correct, and every time she looked at me like I had been born and christened for the sole purpose of making her life a living hell. Finally, when we were sure everything was correct she handed me my third license and gave me a smile that would have made a crocodile shiver.

"Welcome to Miami. Enjoy the roads."

"Um...thanks?" I retreated quickly, desperate to bury myself in my anti social cocoon as soon as possible. Outside I glanced up and noticed there was a traffic school above the DMV. It was so full, people were pressed against the railing of the balcony outside like it was the Black Friday of watching PowerPoint presentations full of gory pictures. 

On the way home a giant green Hummer swerved through lanes like it was a Smartcar, and an eighty year old man tried to park across the right hand lane so he could pick up his dementia prescription from the Walgreen's two cities over.

[corionthebeachwithpalmtrees-blog]

Language Barriers

Most people know Miami is quite the hub of cultures, mostly from Cuba and South America, which is beautiful and fascinating but a huge pain in the butt for a white girl who grew up in a white state, a white city, and a white neighborhood, but now lives in a Hispanic state, in a Hispanic city, and a VERY Hispanic neighborhood.

Every time Carlos manages to drag me out of the house, blinking and hunched over in terror like a vampire, roasting and shriveling under a sun that has no right being so bright in the middle of January, much to my dismay we inevitably end up having to make some sort of human contact. I've been informed that this is generally required when making business transactions here. I inquired after my beloved automated check out systems, but Publix believes in the "warmth" and "light" of social interaction and we clearly can't go anywhere else. (What kind of heathen shops somewhere OTHER than Publix when it's available?! Savages!) These transactions generally go well until we reach the part where I've learned it is customary to engage in an exchange of polite greetings, well wishes, and farewells. This is mostly a meaningless politeness, but to not participate would be unspeakably rude.  Now, one would think said exchange would prove relatively simple. It is, after all, only a few words, a nod, a muffled farewell, and a swift retreat, but apparently I look just Hispanic enough next to my lovely, somewhat Mestizo, Ecuadorian husband that people assume I speak Spanish.

I speak one language other than English. It could be Spanish. After all, it's practically the second operating language of America and probably the most useful language you could study, especially if you grew up in Utah, which is one state up from Mexico and supports a large population of Hispanic people. Especially since 90% of American high school aged children take Spanish in high school. Especially if you decide to get all crazy and marry a Hispanic man and follow him to his Hispanic hometown. It would only make sense for my second language to be Spanish!

Hint: It's not Spanish.

So obviously these conversations never go well. Here's a little sample for you:

Cashier: Hola!

Me: Er........... (Chinese babble runs through my head)

Cachier: Como estas?

Me: Uh...... (More Chinese babble. My tongue is pushed against my lips like an Asian language coated battering ram, threatening to breach the fragile barrier between being able to present myself as a moderately sane if not somewhat socially awkward human being and a raving lunatic.)

Cashier: Seniorita?

Me: XIE XIE! NI HAO! WO XIHUAN WAZI! SHENGRI KUAILE!

Thankfully my husband usually steps in before that last step and replies for me. Presumably he says, "We're great, thanks. Have a good day." like a normal Spanish speaking person, but for all I know he could be saying, "Please excuse this woman. I don't actually know her. I picked her up in an alley and she looked hungry. The poor thing is probably too insane to hold down a job." And then he scoots me quickly out the door while I'm busy trying to figure out why the cashier is cooing at me and wiping a sympathetic tear from her eye.

However, I think the most telling moment of my lingual ineptitude was one that didn't involve human interaction at all. In fact, it was me, a single woman bathroom in a restaurant, and a sign taped to the mirror.

I first saw the proclamation of nightmares out of the corner of my eye as I locked the door behind me. Distracted by the needs of human nature I payed it no heed until I had to wash my hands. All along I had assumed it was some inane sign saying something innocuous like "employees must wash their hands, you freaking nasties" but in fact I had no idea what it said, despite having read it three or four times. It was gibberish, which was really strange. Was this some kind of prank?

Then it dawned on me.

The sign was completely written in Spanish, and there was no courtesy English translation in sight.

The most I could gather from the sign was "no" which, thanks to six weeks of compulsory Spanish class in middle school, I knew meant "dont." And that was it.

The well behaved middle class white girl in me panicked. Don't?! Don't WHAT?! Don't sit on the toilet as it will set an orphanage in Russia on fire?! Don't use the toilet paper, it's been rolled in poison ivy?! WHAT DID IT MEAN?!

Visibly shaken and very confused, all I could do was exit the bathroom, dazed and shaking my head. My husband, sensing that I had slipped into my "Spanish coma," took me gently by the hand and led my out to our car without saying a word and helped me into my seat, setting a hot bag of taquenos (more on those later) on my lap and getting into the driver's side so we could drive home.

Somewhere behind us there was a flash of light and a deep rumbling of thunder. I couldn't look back to see the damage my careless actions had wrought, but deep in the night there was the wailing of a thousand lost souls crying out all at once.

The moral of the story here, kids, is take Spanish in high school when your parents tell you it will be way more useful than Japanese in the future. I don't care HOW "kawaii" your "bishi bae" is. You'll never remember how to say anything but "the blue dog is a lawyer" anyway.

[corionthebeachwithpalmtrees-blog]

Publix

There are two reasons why Publix grocery stores were so important that they warranted the honor of being my very first post ever.

#1: People here in Florida LOVE Publix. No really. There's a reason LOVE is capitalized.

and

#2: It was the first thing I experienced. As soon as we crossed the border into Florida from Alabama my husband was on the lookout for a Publix.

I had heard about Publix several times already from friends, in laws, and the internet before my husband whisked me away to this strange and foreign land. At the time I thought that surely the way they worshiped this grocery store as if it were some form of domestic needs paradise had to be exaggerated. It almost seemed as though you walked through the doors and they handed you the most delicious sub on earth to eat while your intended purchases all floated on little clouds to the checkout where Buddha himself bagged them for you, dispensing valuable wisdom the whole time.

Obviously the real thing is nothing like that, but having been there I can honestly say it probably comes as close as any supermarket can.

I must admit that I have not yet tried the famous Publix subs, nor have I sampled the giant cupcakes filled with something delicious and topped with exorbitant amounts of frosting, though they call my name rather loudly every time we walk past them, clearly determined to sit right inside the warm, fatty confines of my aptly named muffin tops, along with basically every single other baked confectionery on display. I have, however, witnessed just how expansive a grocery store can truly be, and I know now how blind I have been. Like the foolish child who believed Green Lantern was a good super hero movie, then saw Guardians of the Galaxy, my eyes have been opened and I have seen the profound truth.

You do not know selection until you have been to a Publix. It may be a testament to the simple fact that Miami is a cultural kaleidoscope, but there were things in that store that I didn't even know existed before that day. Candies that you would normally only find in an overly priced, tastelessly pink tourist trap of a sweets store in some kitschy shopping center were casually displayed on shelves with arrogant ease.

"Oh yes," the Publix shelves whispered to me, "I have those Airheads Bites you love but can never find and I'm only five minutes from your new home. Come buy a bag anytime you like bonita...."

I never knew a grocery store could be so sexy and yet so terrifyingly threatening to my body weight.

As of now I have barely glanced at the surface of Publix, but believe me, I plan to go deeper very soon. Much, much deeper.