Club Starbucks

I never thought I would say this but I was ecstatic to learn that the Starbucks in my neighborhood was open from 5 AM until midnight every day. Being a coffee shop snob, the thought of going to Starbucks for anything besides the rare java chip frappucino was unthinkable to me. Let me explain why. For six years, I lived in a quaint New England college town with more coffee shops than gas stations. Chain stores were banned from our town, and in their place were a whole gaggle of independent book stores, hippie coffee shops, an anarchist bike repair store, and even a cooperatively owned print shop.

I’m a writer, and coffee shops are essential for my creative soul. In order for me to get productive, be it with school assignments or my own writing projects, everything needs to be perfect. The perfect pen, the perfect paper, the perfect place. The first two are easy enough, but finding a perfect place is not so evident. Perfect for me is a place where I can be anonymous and yet be surrounded by people – hopefully people who are also working towards the pursuit of creative genius. Also, what is perfect one day might not be perfect the next; sometimes I want to work in the midst of a busy cafe, and other times I’d like to write in a dimly lit dungeon. It all depends on what I’m writing and how I’m feeling at the time.

In the Pioneer Valley of western Massachusetts, I had my pick of the lot. There was a coffee shop to fit my many moods and desires. Let’s say it was a Sunday and I had a long day of reading ahead of me. I would probably head over to the Book Mill, a gorgeous renovated paper mill perched precariously over the Mill River a few towns away from my college. The winding drive would be worth it on its own, as we passed foggy fishponds and sleepy farmhouses overgrown with forest.

The coffee shop was attached to a bookstore, each whimsical in their own way. The only way to get oriented around the maze of strange corridors, walls of dusty books and tiny staircases was with the various bay windows that looked down to the fast-moving water below. Often, that was all I ended up doing at the Book Mill: staring hopelessly out the window at the surrounding beauty, musing about the direction of my life (or lack thereof) over a cup of hot chocolate. Sometimes, this is all you really need to be doing on a Sunday afternoon, with the sun glowing on snow-dusted trees and a river rushing under your feet.

But let’s say I was in a bit of a rush; it’s the middle of the week and I need to get downright productive. Rao’s would be my place. Industrious, but not overly so, Rao’s was always buzzing with energy, whether from the baristas shouting orders behind the counter, or from the chess game going on in the corner. There you could find students discussing linguistics or a professor editing their latest book. There was an academic air about the place, without the pomp and circumstance. The seats were mismatched but comfortable, the bathroom walls were covered in layers of colorful philosophical manifestos, and the muffins were vegan but delicious. They always played the right music, too - relevant but never mainstream. It was all a girl could ask for in a coffee shop.

If Rao’s was full or the ambience was just too crazy for my mood, I knew to head over to Amherst Coffee. The more serious of the lot, AmCof, as we affectionately called it, had a hoity-toity tea menu and an elegant happy hour. But they also had long wooden tables where I could spread out and the most charming folk band playing on Sunday morning, so Rao’s quickly became part of my weekend routine.  There is nothing more beautiful than watching the snow fall outside the window from a cozy spot with a cup of fancy loose tea to the sweet sounds of Tom Waits being covered by an angel voice.

But back to Miami, where my coffee shop selection is less than ideal. Books & Books, being the most obvious choice as a writer hang-out, has nary a workspace in sight. Unless you are there to have a meal, it’s nearly impossible to find a table to spread out and get to work. Public libraries have shrunk their hours considerably over the last few years, making it an unreliable place for me and my schedule. So, all this to say, I was amazed to learn that the Starbucks a few blocks from my house was open almost around the clock. I could already envision early mornings, hunched over my notebook, steaming coffee at hand. A late night craving for some peaceful writing time? I knew where to go. Or so I though. I started going sporadically, whenever I had a free hour to write here and there. Then one evening, I decided to get some writing done after dinner. It was already around 8 o’clock, but that meant I still had FOUR solid hours before Starbucks closed. It was perfect.

I stationed myself at one of the tables outside with my notebook-sized Acer laptop. I had a big jar of tea and a beanie on my head to ward off the wind coming from the ocean nearby. The table was a bit shaky, but I barely noticed in my enthusiasm to get finally get some words onto the page. As I got to work on a piece I had been writing in my head for weeks, I tried to ignore the bustling commotion all around me. For starters, visitors kept coming up – they must have been tourists – to pose for a photograph in front of the coffee shop, usually just a few feet from where I sat with my computer. This baffled me. There was a pretty fountain nearby, but this was not the backdrop that people chose for their pictures. They wanted the Starbucks. I didn’t get it, but I shook my head and got back to work. This wasn’t going to derail me.

More distracting than the tourists were the conversations of the people sitting around me. I tried hard not to eavesdrop, but the conversations were just too juicy to ignore. A discussion between a man and a woman about the many merits and disadvantages of fake breasts. A group of metrosexual hipsters trying to one up each other with their knowledge about high art. A cocky Guido trying his best suave moves on a new chick. I sighed, and made a mental note to bring earplugs next time.

As the night grew later, the crowd got zanier. People were crisscrossing the plaza on their way from one bar to another, the guys shouting obnoxiously and the girls clutching one another drunkenly as they tried to make it up the stairs in their ridiculous high heels. It wasn’t even the weekend! Once the bar upstairs turned up their music in preparation for a night of dancing and debauchery, I took this as my cue to move. I hauled all of my belongings inside Starbucks, eager for some peace and quiet.

Unfortunately, the employees at Starbucks had other plans. Soon after I settled into my new spot, the music coming out of the speakers switched unceremoniously from soothing Bob Dylan to head-splitting electronic beats. I felt like I was smack in the middle of Ultra Music Fest! Now, I’m not one to diss club music, but there is a time and a place for it, and Starbucks Coffee is not one of them. One by one, my neighbors began closing up their laptops and gathering their paperwork, shooting dagger eyes at the employee in an apron who was breaking into dance moves while attempting to mop the floor. He did not seem to notice, and just kept right on dancing.

I tried with all of my might to hold tight and fixate on the words floating on the screen in front of me but my attempts proved futile. The boom boom boom noises were drumming themselves into my subconscious, suffocating any intelligible thought that tried to surface in my brain.  I finally gave up the fight. You can take the girl out of the club, but you can’t take the club out of Miami, and this was a truth that I had to learn to accept.

Florida Oranges

For some reason, I was always adamant about getting out of South Florida for college. “OK, so where do you want to go? FSU, UF, UCF?” my family asked. But I was looking a bit farther afield than Gainesville. I had my sights set on the wilds of western Massachusetts.

“Pero porque?” my Cuban family cried. “Florida has great colleges! Why do you need to leave?” They could not fathom how I could possibly leave this place, this city that they had inhabited with such gusto after leaving Cuba as political exiles decades before. Miami was their home, and they had no intention of ever leaving. Well, maybe to visit some relatives in Hialeah…

I, on the other hand, was enamored with the idea of New England and all that it stood for. The ivory tower of academia, afternoon rambles through forested hills, sipping apple cider and watching the leaves fall. I soaked it in, attending as many lectures as humanly possible and jumping into giant leaf piles. I was one of those silly kids running out of my dorm in my pajamas to catch the first taste of snow on my tongue, along with Texans and Californians. After heavy snowfalls, I gleefully stole a plastic tray from the dining hall, along with the rest of the student body, to use as a sliding device on the biggest hill in town.

Needless to say, I never minded coming home for the holidays. Christmas break always came with impeccable timing, just when winter was beginning to wear down my soul, when the snow had begun to look like cold mud, when I could count the number of daylight hours on one hand. As soon as my exams were through, I had the good fortune of spending six blissful weeks soaking up the sunshine and swimming in the sea, chastising my family whenever they complained that 60 degrees was “cold.”

Of course, it was never hard to convince visitors to come down for a visit. One spring break, my friends and I boarded the last plane leaving Hartford airport before shutting down for a snow storm. Within two hours, we went from a barren frozen tundra to a sun-soaked paradise. When I introduced my friends to my family, my great aunt exclaimed – “No nos dijistes que tus amigas eran asiaticas!” You didn’t tell us your friends were Asians! I … didn’t know I had to?

During that visit, one of these Asian ladies struck up friendly conversation with my dad about Florida oranges.

“Florida oranges are mainly for the juice,” my foreign father explained.

My friend gave him a quizzical expression. “I know there are a lot of Jews in Florida, but why do they need all the oranges?” she asked.

Now it was my father’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “You need oranges to make juice,” he pressed, the confusion showing in his voice.

This went on for a little while, until the hilarity of the situation dawned on my friend and she backed away slowly. “Carmella,” she whispered to me, mortified. “Your dad thinks I’m crazy!”

Back in the Pioneer Valley, I started getting fanatical about the inadequacies of our national food system. Luckily, the region I was living in was a hotbed of local foods and organic farming. But every time I came home, I always got a healthy dose of reality.

At the Winn-Dixie down the street from my parent’s house, I was aghast to find South African oranges for sale. I asked the guy stacking potatoes to please fetch his manager.

“What can I help you with, senorita?” he asked.

“This orange is from South Africa!” I said to him, waving the offending orange in his face.

“ But what’s wrong with it, Miss?” he asked, genuinely perplexed, trying his best to understand my concern.

“We live in Florida!” I yelled at him, before stomping away without buying anything.

Another time, I passed a roadside stand with a man selling mamoncillos. I pulled over eagerly.

“Did you grow these in your garden?” I asked him in Spanish, unable to contain my excitement. Again, another look of confusion.

“No, I got them off a barge in the port of Miami,” he told me, unapologetically. “I’ve got no idea who grew them.”

I drove away, dejection welling up inside of me. What was wrong with these people?

Back in New England, people spoke my language. I could use the term “post-petroleum society” without having to explain it. Potlucks were extravagant affairs of over-the-top foodie dishes comprised of as much locally-grown produce as possible. I bartered with friends for anything and everything, trading baked goods for massages or Asian pear jam for fresh goat cheese. I knew the farmer who raised the beef I consumed, and I’d walked the pastures where they had spent their days before becoming my dinner.

But then something happened. It started as a strange whisper, a small inkling that maybe something was not right. Reggaeton blasting from a passing car made me feel a pang of nostalgia. Frequent calls home made me realize that I was actually missing my nagging, nosy relatives who always knew what was going on in everyone’s lives and, of course, had an opinion about everything.

As it turns out, I was tired of sautéing wild-harvested fiddleheads in local garlic scapes and making jerky out of roadkill. I missed the warmth of my hometown and the straightforward way of my people that could be called ignorance or maybe just blatant political incorrectness. I missed the looks of wild confusion from the store clerk when I’d refuse a plastic bag. My grandfather would tell me to “Take the bag, Carmella. It’s free!” Could it be that I was tired of being one in thousands of life-minded foodie freaks living in an increasingly tiny valley?

After a particularly painful early-season snow storm, I packed my car with all the vestiges of my New England life – jars of home-grown fruit and vegetable preserves, bags of dried plants harvested from the woods, a feather from a rooster I had killed to make soup – and headed south.

One of the first things I did when I settled into my new old home was plant a garden in my front lawn. With my New England seeds in hand, I applied what I had learned up north to this new land. Much to my dismay, my plants did not fare well that first season. The spinach bolted, the cucumbers withered, and the garlic wouldn’t bulb. It was the wrong season, the wrong varieties, the wrong timing, the wrong crops altogether.

Over time, I found locals who were willing to share their knowledge of growing food in South Florida with me. Little by little, I found the right varieties for zone 10b. I began to notice what time of year the jasmine plants flowered and when the loquat trees would drip with fruit. I knew where to stop for a banana snack on my morning walk, and which star fruit tree yielded the sweetest specimen.

Next thing you know, I’m trading fresh sourdough for hand-whipped body products and bundles of rosemary appear on my front porch, a gift from a gardener friend passing through the neighborhood. These days, my dehydrator is filled with mangos and papayas, and I feel blessed to live in this land of exotic oranges and crazy drivers.

Morning Bread

New piece published here to go along with my new micro-bakery business.

Enjoy, friends. May you eat fresh bread every day, read poetry before bed, and be merry always.

wild city

As I waited in a line of blinking taillights to turn onto 72^nd avenue, I noticed the park caddy-corner from where I idled. It was so close to my house- I must pass by it a thousand times in a week- and yet I barely ever stop. This time, instead of driving by it, I jerked my wheel to the right and made my way into the shady parking lot. I found a spot underneath a tree, mine being the only car in the lot, and headed towards the trail I knew lay beyond the brush. I’d been on this trail a few times before, and I’d been delighted the first time I came upon it. This time, though, I was less enchanted. The trees seemed sparser; I could see through the leaves to the uninspired cement buildings that stood stoically across the street. The traffic roared through what should have been a peaceful and quiet space, drowning out the chirps of grasshoppers and the songs of birds that I knew were there.

Signposts decorated the trail, abandoned and useless in their emptiness. One of them announced a butterfly garden, but as I walked through the tangled mess of broken branches and vines choking out once verdant bushes, there wasn’t a single butterfly wing to be seen. In another part of the “wilderness”, I came across a shirtless man sitting mysteriously at a picnic table so hidden by foliage that I didn’t spot him until I was just a few feet from where he sat. Taken by surprise, I jumped back and managed a faux-cheery ‘hello’ before bounding away into the brush.

Desperately I searched for some sign of healthy wildlife, remaining hopeful that a swath of vibrant green life lay just around the bend. Instead, images of other emerald forests that I had known and loved swirled through my mind, making me dizzy with longing. I collapsed on a bench as tears clouded my vision, my heart in my throat, car horns squawking in the near distance. I longed for unadulterated rainforest, life pulsating brazenly from every sacred stream, every vine-tangled tree, every mossy stone. It wasn't just my mind and memories that longed for this; it was my body that viscerally wanted to feel a part of it's surroundings in that magical way that I know is possible.

I realized that I’d been convincing myself that I was happy to be here, in the city of my childhood, and, in many ways, I am. I can never be unhappy when I’m surrounded by my all-consuming family and all-knowing friends. It’s important for me to maintain these roots, to nurture them, but I don’t know how much growing I can do here. There certainly is growing to be done- for this city, at least. But I’m not sure if I can play a part in it. The movement is sincere, but it still feels forced to me. Forcing people to plant seeds, forcing people to see the beauty in nature, forcing myself to find peace and beauty in tiny contained squares of greenery surrounded by busy roads and high-rises on all sides. I’m not sure I can do it, especially when I know how life can be, so raw and so real that it seeps into your bones and infuses you with the wisdom of your elders- the trees, the streams, and the stones. 

published pieces on the web

Hello! I am writing this to inform my tiny readership that a few of my pieces have been published elsewhere on the interweb. You can find my tips for hitch-hiking at the Dirty Vagrant travel blog and a memoir piece about my unlikely connection to the pressure cooker at The New School's Inquisitive Eater magazine. I hope you enjoy them and please feel free to drop me a line if you have any comments or suggestions about my writing. I'd love to hear from you. Cheers!

Late-night wander round sleepy hollow

The bus driver shouts the name of my stop and I stumble off the bus bewildered, having just woken up from a short nap. It’s nearly one in the morning in London and I’m exhausted from six hours of traveling. Although theoretically it’s only a quick hop from the continent to the Queen’s land by plane, it involves so much waiting, sitting and standing for hours in a succession of blank rooms with cardboard walls and florescent snack machines; it’s exhausting. But, I have finally made it to my destination and I will soon be reunited with my good friend in her warm and cozy flat – or so I hope.

“This bag weighs about two tons,” the bus driver informs me darkly. I laugh nervously and take it from her. “Thanks, have a great night.” I wait for the bus to pull away before heaving my giant backpack onto my shoulders, wobbling slightly as I try to steady myself. Once I’ve gained my balance, I take in my surroundings. The street is lit up with neon signs as far as the eye can see; that’s a good sign. Unfortunately, there isn’t a single person out. I see a map at the bus stop so I amble over to check it out. Peering at the map, I try to make sense of where I am and search desperately for my friend’s street name. My heart sinks a little; I don’t recognize a single street name or underground station in the area.

I spot a few men doing road work on the other side of the street so I cross over, nearly getting run over by an oncoming car driving speedily on the right side of the road. “Right, London,” I think to myself, making a mental note to be more careful about street crossings. I tell the construction worker where I’m trying to go and he takes a moment to think, scratching his chin unreassuringly. He looks up and down the street, a bit befuddled. “Well, the tube stopped running a few minutes ago… How long can you walk with that thing?” he asks me in a thick British accent, pointing at my bag towering an extra foot over my head.

My heart sinks a bit further. “I think I’m just going to give my friend a call. But thanks for your help.” I start off down the road in search of a pay phone. I spot one on a side street and jostle into the tiny glass box, my enormous backpack sticking out into the street. I slide in my credit card and follow the directions. “This is a credit card call,” the woman’s voice on the line informs me. “The cost is three pounds per minute. Press one if you accept the charges.” I nearly choke when I hear the price rate. Six dollars a minute!? That is insanity. But, I’m in a new city, I have no idea where I am, and it’s the middle of the night. I hesitate for a minute before pressing number one with defeat.

Jackie picks up cheerily. I don’t let her get a word in and immediately begin talking at her very fast, explaining my situation. She springs into action to find me directions on her computer. “Hmmm… That looks like a bit of a hike,” she informs me, much to my dismay. Of course, the telephone doesn’t have a chronometer so I have no idea how much time (and therefore, money) is being spent. I give her the number stamped in the pay phone and she promises to call back in a minute. I hang up with relief, hoping not to have done too much damage to my bank account. With conversion fees and hidden credit card charges, you never know.

I keep my hand on the receiver expectantly, but a minute turns into two and the phone still hasn’t rung. I begin to worry. Thankfully, I see a couple walking across the street so I pop outside the box, being sure to keep the door open in case the phone rings. “Hey, which way is Kilburn?” I shout into the night.

“The tube stop?” the woman replies. “Yeah, I’m trying to get there but the underground stopped running.” I explain. “Whoa, that’ll take forever,” her boyfriend says matter-of-factly, adding to my mounting panic.“No, it’s not so bad,” the girlfriend tries to reassure me. “It’s that way, maybe ten minutes walking,” she points down a dark road that twists out of sight. “Thanks,” I mutter half-heartedly. 

They hurry home and I turn my attention back to the phone, willing for it to ring. My efforts are unrewarded and I resign myself to the reality of the situation. It looks like I have no choice. I begin to walk hesitantly down the street in the direction she pointed. There’s not a soul in sight. I see a movement to my left and jerk my head to check it out. Skulking in the shadows across the street, a reedy golden fox makes its way shiftily down the sidewalk, ignoring my presence. A fox in the middle of the city? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in the woods! I gape at it in shock for a moment before continuing on my journey; we both have places to go.   

As I walk down the deserted street, I crane my neck to see if I can make out any sign of life in the distance. The night is still. An almost full moon peers down at me eerily from behind a streak of gossamer clouds. A cold wind rustles the trees furiously; streetlight shadows dance all around me. I shudder as fear creeps up on me from behind. I shake it off resolutely and march forward, pushing away all thoughts of scary movies to the farthest reaches of my mind.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, I see movement up ahead, car beams crossing the street; my heart perks up. “I must be getting to a major road,” I think to myself happily. Finally, I make it to the cross street to find it’s not a major intersection at all, just a one-way lane with the occasional car streaking by in the night. Another bus stop map informs me that I am nearing my destination, but I still have a while to go. I leave the comfort of the well-lit road and plunge into the darkness once again. As I take in the neat facades on both sides of the street, I think about the families behind the brick walls; most of them are probably asleep for the night, and I am envious. It’s strange to be surrounded by such a sleepy neighborhood when I myself feel completely on edge, my body buzzing with nervous energy.

At last, I make it to a proper intersection. Cars rush by in a blur and blinking lights colorfully advertise kebabs and haircuts. The sign on the street reads “Kilburn High Road” and I rejoice. The tube stop is somewhere on this street, I’m sure of that- but which direction? My intuition says right, but I have no idea why. I cross the street and ask a hoodied chap standing in line for a sandwich. He points me to the left and away I go. My fear dissipates and is replaced with a wave of joy; I feel light on my feet even with my mammoth backpack pulling down on my shoulders.

I see a red circle in the distance and assume it’s the tube stop. Another wave of happiness. As I approach, though, I realize that it’s just a sign designating a one-way street. Hmm, it’s probably on the next block, I try to convince myself. A bus stop map doesn’t prove to be helpful in my pursuit. In fact, it only confuses me further; it seems as if there are multiple Kilburn stations in the area. Oh no. I begin to panic.

I accost a white-haired woman coming off a bus. “Kilburn station? I’m looking for the Kilburn tube station,” I ask her urgently. “Well, up ahead is the Kilburn Park station,” she responds cautiously. Heart starts sinking fast. “I need Kilburn, just Kilburn.” She points down the street behind me from where I came. My heart is in my shoes. I knew I should have followed my intuition. “Anyway, the tube won’t be running this late, dear,” she says kindly, obviously a bit concerned for this confused traveler. “I know… My friend lives right next to it, though,” I explain dejectedly as I fall into step with her. “Well, tell your friend to come here and get you!”, she says with a laugh. I mumble something about pay phones costing a fortune in this country and we part ways. She wishes me good luck as she turns down a side street and I start the arduous task of retracing my steps. (This seems to be a theme in my travel stories!)

My joy has vanished. Instead, I dream up scenarios where I see the stupid guy who sent me in the wrong direction and tell him off. I have no idea what time it is and I’m sure that Jackie is worried sick about me. I quicken my pace and send her telepathic messages, hoping she receives them soon. I pass by the sandwich shop where I first asked for directions; my hoodied friend isn’t there. My body aches all over, and I wish so badly that I could take a break and drop my bag, but I press on.

Finally, finally, finally, I make it to the Kilburn underground station glowing warmly in the cold night. I’m too exhausted to react; no more joy or anger, nothing. The following street is Jackie’s; I turn down it and search for her house number. The upstairs light in her building is on. “Jackie!”, I call out quietly into the night, looking for her buzzer in the darkened doorway. She sticks her curly head out the window. “Carmella! Thank God! Stay there, I’m coming down!” I allow myself a small smile of satisfaction; I made it. She throws open the door and squeezes me in a hug. The exasperation of the last few hours fades away as I follow my friend up the stairs and into her warm, cozy room. The tea kettle wails on the stovetop and I collapse on the bed. Another day in the life of a vagabond.

Berlin: for the people, by the people

Arriving in Berlin, I was immediately struck by the sheer livability of this city. Even as a foreigner, it is apparent to me how easy it is to function here. Everything from transportation to drinking laws is designed FOR the people, not against them. The entire city is constructed with its inhabitants in mind, and although that should be standard procedure, in most cities, this is not the case.

Take, for example, an empty lot. Rather than allowing the highest bidder to take the land and run (and build yet another empty high rise, as they would surely do in Miami), they open up the space to design students all over the city. They turn it into a contest for them to come up with the best designs and uses of space for the lot. Once they have chosen a few of the best, they will present them to the inhabitants of the neighborhood for them to decide which they prefer. The people have a say, because they live there and their happiness matters to the city of Berlin. This kind of thing would be virtually unheard of in the States, or at least in South Florida where I live. In the U.S., money matters more than people. It’s as simple as that.

My lovely host Benjamin brought me to a giant abandoned airfield just south of the city on Sunday afternoon. Although the airport itself, Flughafen Berlin-Tempelhof, is still considered “the mother of all airports” because of it's enormous size, the city shut it down one year ago. The airport no longer abides by certain national codes and the city has since replaced it with a new airport. What is to come of the space? It’s been handed to the people, of course. For now, you can roller blade down the enormous runway, picnic anywhere on the massive airfield, or fly your kite to your heart’s delight. In a few years, there will be a new library in the park, and a few additional water features for beautification. But for the most part, it will remain as it is: a huge space accessible to the Berlin public.

Yet, the city has given Berliners the chance to make their mark on the land. In one corner of the airfield, hundreds of people have built their own garden plots out of whatever used materials they can find: bath tubs, grocery carts, cardboard boxes, pallets, scrap wood, and anything else you can imagine. I even saw one garden constructed completely out of old shoes! To participate, all one has to do is sign up online. Oh, and there’s one other tenet to abide by: the gardeners must be sure to make a seated space for two people to enjoy their plot. The result is simply magical: a jerry-rigged mishmash of plants spilling out of drainage tube and cowboy boots! 

Walking around the community garden, I was in heaven. Tons of children were running around, climbing on structures set up just for that reason. Some plots had bee hives tucked away amidst raised beds full of flowering nasturtiums and overripe tomatoes having reached the end of their days. And everywhere I ventured, every corner I explored, I found people –people sitting and reading in solitude, or picnicking and laughing with friends; but everyone I came across was simply enjoying this special space.

I can’t think of a place in Miami where I could go for a similar experience. Any place with any culture or beauty, usually comes at a price. And even so, the accessible natural beauty in our city is highly limited. Unless you want to brave the parking madness on Miami Beach, or trek to Oleta River State Park 14 miles outside of the city, you’re pretty much out of luck. I think about my own neighborhood of Coconut Grove, which I love dearly. We’re probably one of the only places with a sense of community and open park space to be enjoyed by all. And yet, Kennedy Park is a joke compared to most other city parks. Today, I went for an uninterrupted 7km run through beautiful parkland in the  middle of the city. I ask you: where, oh where, would that be possible in our city? Nowhere.