One last look for the beautiful and damned dream before handing in the keys

Old Glory flying above Miami's Ocean Drive.

Old Glory flying above Miami’s Ocean Drive.

Piecing together our three nights in Miami is hampered by fact that after nearly a month of the road, though I was certainly present in body, my mind was less tethered to reality. But I’ll try to remember what I can.

We did a bar crawl taking in all the swanky hotels in the Deco District. The interior of one place was decked out like a Greek temple, with billowing white curtains cascading down the sides of columns.

I felt pretty scruffy and incongruous at the bar, watching the hotel’s clientèle gliding about and doing a very good job of looking like significantly superior life forms. It was the sort of place where you wouldn’t want to trapesy in wearing with muddy shoes.

Dinner at one of the restaurants along Ocean drive involved the biggest Caipirinha  I’d ever seen and which was enough to finally untether my mind from reality.

We hit up one the of the major dance clubs which finally broke my Samoan attorney’s will and he headed back to the hotel.

I stayed on, stood for inebriated hours at the sides of the dance floors watching the beautiful and wild youth of Miami, high as hell, dancing as if their lives depended on it.

It had got to the stage where it didn’t really matter whether I had found the American Dream or the American Nightmare–I wouldn’t have been able to tell.

The next day, or it might have been the day after, we drove the Sebring to the airport’s car rental lot and handed the keys in. Pete caught a flight back to London.

I was left gazing at “the high-water mark–that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.”