Day 2: Real or Fake?

OK, back to my story of the wedding weekend in South Florida. Day 2 was Saturday. The previous night, we had tentative plans to so to South Beach and see college buddy Steven R and his wife Joan who were staying at a hotel there prior to migrating North for the wedding. South Beach was an hour away, and we had directions scrawled on a napkin from the night before.

They went something like: take 95S to 195 West, take this exit, turn on this street, stay right, and look for this place, and then call me when you don't know where the **** you are.

Thank goodness the directions were spot on so we could avoid all the wacked-out drivers on the way down. I can't stress how white-knuckled I became whilst in Florida. I must be getting old.

We meet up with Steve, Scott, and companions, which make 6 of us. After standing with them for 10 minutes at Starbucks, I assure that I would be much more talkative over two aspirin and a bloody Mary than a frozen-frappa-whatever-china.

We spend a few hours at Van Dyke Cafe on a plaza-like area of South Beach. The food was OK, but the wine and the people watching was fantastic. Joanie came up with a game called R or F, standing for real or fake (you can figure it out). I suggested that maybe we call it X or Y instead of a group of us chanting F-F-F whenever someone walks by.

After leaving that place, we lost Scott and Ali to the rehearsal dinner and the 4 of us proceeded to look for cheezy souvenirs and a place to get drinks by the beach. We end up at a bar at the Ritz Carlton, which as implied, has an expensive Pinot Grigio price per gallon. I never complain about gas prices, only the local Pinot Index....hmm, sounds dirty.

We down at least 5 bottles of the stuff soaking up the sea air, the Xs, the Ys, and the company. At darkfall, equipped with a double-latte, we embrace the Death Race 2000 back to Deerfield Beach.

On the way back, we tried to go to the Hollywood Hard Rock Cafe Casino, which is somewhat on the way back. The place was a madhouse trying to get in, but we soon realized that there was no way of getting out. It was like being at a football stadium where all they wanted to do was direct you to parking. So, being the Pinot Fueled Death Racer that I am, I barrel through empty lanes reserved for non-existing reverse traffic to look for an exit. With the window down, no one seemed to respond to us, but a very loud shot of O-U-T-DONDE? yielded arm motions down dark gravely paths toward either a bayou or an exit. What a racket; this place had 10 entrances and one exit pointed in the opposite direction than the highway.

Nearing the hotel, we hooked up with the rehearsal group finishing dinner at the Cove for a few drinks and then hours by the pool on Dan's last night before his wedding.