Miami

Ah, Miami. She's the Jewel of the Everglades, the Paris of the Caribbean, the Gateway to South America. Thinking of her leads to daydreams of beaches and bikinis, shopping and sophistication, blow and, well, blow-jobs.

If only there weren't so much traffic, I could actually get there to see for myself.

A trip to the other side (how we Gulf-Coasters refer to *tilts head to the east* the Atlantic side of Florida) makes one realize how good we have it here. It's orders of magnitude less busy and commensurately calmer. It is with good reason I call the Suncoast The Tropical Midwest. We are Indiana with palms, or Michigan with sun, at least in the way people behave.

When Alligator Alley ends and the spectre of Miami-Dade County appears, a professional driver adopts a different attitude. I shift higher in my seat, make sure the sunnies are polished, and set my jaw.

The danger is that a local driver (aka: duelista) will sniff your weakness, because the hindmost of the herd are dealt with mercilessly. If you're too slow, they'll pass in flurry. If you leave too much room between you and the car ahead, they'll nonchalantly fill the gap, brake, lose forty mph and dial their mother before you can blink. And heaven forfend you fail to interpret the traffic signs correctly (was that NW 167th Street or just 167th Street?), because hesitation will have you run over by a Waste Management truck before you can say "Shit!"

In short, if I-95 (or any surface street for that matter) isn't at a dead stop for an hour it's holding an impromptu Formula One qualifying session.

But if you do reach your destination on the same day, it's got great buttocks. I'm sorry, I mean it's a great place, and my goodness the women are attractive.