
Telling someone I live in Miami will, without fail, elicit an opinion of the city based on either South Beach or the airport — neither of which, of course, is actually in Miami, and at least one of ‘em’s in hell. “It’s beautiful!” I’ll hear back, just as often as receiving a complaint there’s no English to be heard on the winged way out.
Any one-dimensional opinion is correct, in its way — Miami is gorgeous and horrible and expensive and cheap and stabby and friendly — but it isn’t just gorgeous or just horrible, expensive, cheap, stabby or friendly. (It’s also wearing something amazingly, mind-bogglingly short.) The fascinating thing about Miami is that it has so many more faces, so many communities unlike the last one, so much in contrast to any snap judgment on hand, and even many, many more tongues.
The forces that shaped this very Magic City — revolution, flight, drugs, riot, riches, greed — left scars that fragment its population, making it possible for those outsiders to experience the Miami that boasts the fourth richest population in the world in purchasing power and rarely the Miami in which fraying safety-net programs are all that stand between a mangled American dream and starving to death in a cramped apartment near the airport