So, I have a confession: I did nothing of note, of interest, of adventure on this trip. I sat around, read Dirt Music for book group and The Devil Wears Prada for (guilty) pleasure, dipped into Jackie, Ethel, Joan (courtesy Cin) and looked passively thru the week's In Touch. (Dude, who *reads* these rags?! Wow. They're, in a word, stupid.) I slept a lot. I napped at will. I took long walks along the beach and watched the waves roll forever in towards the shore. I lived in my bikini, sunnies, and flips. I ate chips and salsa with an iced tea chaser. I ate very little that contained natural ingredients. In fact, I can count my real, sit-down meals on one hand. I learned how to walk slowly. I was really, really relaxed. I did everything, in fact, in complete opposite of my normal modus operandi. It took 6 days, but it happened; by day 7, I was truly on Southern time.

On the other hand, I went to Bonnet House, Vizcaya, Dania (the city, not the store) and a movie. I drove around SoBe, I killed time at Target while waiting for Cin's plane to arrive, and hit an art fair before we left. Georgette came down for a few days of sun and sand, and there was a storm that threw all sorts of detrius up on the beach, including man o war jellyfish and broken coral. We saw lots of fashion faux pas and nekkid boobies on the beach; we watched foreigners navigate Little Buenos Aires with much more skill than us; we made friends with the hotel staff and HOVed as much as possible. We three came home with new phrases and terminology and a love of the Ocean Surf hotel which is my new favorite place to stay in Miami Beach...and should be yours, too.

And that's all gone, because I walked into a maelstrom of madness on Monday, and it hasn't stopped spinning!