Ferrari-driving villains, beautiful damsels in Brickell high-class dress, dazed yogis, confused real estate agents, suicidal and drunken politicians, cap-toothed publicists, dueling media moguls, sex and her best friend, money.
I love MyAmi.
I love it the way New Yorkers love New York. And I know that kind of love, being the offspring of Nuyoricans who make a yearly pilgrimage just to drink water from the tap. “It’s just not as good heyah – the wawter in New York – it’s so much cleanah!”
I love MyAmi’s sleezy, skeezy, shady, slinky, yet strangely spiritual vibe. The people here are walking hypocrites and they make no apologies about it. It’s a bold statement, it’s a loud statement. It’s reality at its finest. And I’ve never felt more at home.
The search lasted 10 years. I pounded the pavement of 23 cities around the US, Central America, Europe and Asia trying to find a place to hang my emotional baggage.
Who knew I would find the perfect hook in MyAmi, only 232 miles from the place I started: la-la land Orlando.
MyAmi had always beckoned to me, ever since the first time I visited, when I can barely remember. I was less than 10 years old. I think we were visiting my aunt’s sister-in-law (that’s still family according to Latinos).
I remember the condos. They were bright colors and reflected a happy vibe in the summer sun. I squinted up at my father and asked, “If this is MyAmi, what’s your Ami?” He looked at me queerly.
My aunt lived in a condo somewhere on Collins, but I’ll never know the exact location – I think it was demolished. That’s the MyAmi I discovered 20-something years later. An old, rotting wooden house that had its heyday in the 1920s is now in the shadow of a skyscraper in the MyAmi of the 21st century.
It was a city gone real estate wild. It was Boomtown Fever —–>>>>>>>>
