Okay, this makes three days in a row for lifeguard stations, but this one looks like home — sort of. More than the others, anyway. And it's appropriate, since that's where we're headed: home to Newport on New Year's Eve. But before I go (to the airport, minutes from now), have I said even one word about the rest of the South Beach architecture? Could Art Deco be any more different from Colonial if it tried? And what about the way the most familiar, uninteresting things become interesting in their unfamiliarity when you're elsewhere? Like pink sidewalks? Shells in the concrete? A Jetson-worthy Gap? How about the hotel paint colors? The mere lettering? The wild blue of the sea? And sky? And the relentless throbbing techno beat that drives me crazy after a while hammering out from stores and restaurants and cars and convertibles and blacked-out windows and the only place to escape the beat is the beach? How about the great grilled grouper (that's a fish) on Ocean Drive? And did I mention that our primary reason for being here was to see Phish (that's a band) last night with a group of 20,000 other fans swaying not so unlike seaweed to the comparatively mellow beat? Our kids were so jealous; we received repeated text messages and sent them incessant images via cellphone during the show. Neither child (child? who's the child here?) will be home when we get there. They're both in NYC for New Year's. So even when we get home, to the most familiar place of all, it'll feel unfamiliar. And the sad — or not-to-sad — part of it all is growing accustomed to the blue, and pink, and whatever beat presents itself, until it's hard to remember it any other way ...
