miami vice

Adam posting from the miami airport:

this morning i woke on the 22nd floor of the marriott biscayne bay hotel, where my room overlooked the sea. from the window, if I looked past the aging stucco of surrounding hotels and squinted toward the horizon, my eyes would accept the cloud cover that collected on the waves as a great blue mountain. as my mountain, that creature which seemed so craggy and climbable at first sight, faded from view, the streetlights of the city slowly drowned in the ticking clock of the morning sun. finally a burst of blinding light splashed into the room as if from an eager bucket-toss of a child. i felt on my skin the warmth and the goodness of beauty.

let me tell you about the romantic aspects of my job. on monday i helped Wilson’s Tour Team facilitate a photo shoot for eleven of the top tennis players in the world. we spent the day at studio 27, a backstreet video/photography studio along Miami’s indifferently cool art district. the hair, the make-up, the accents and the costumed antics of the head photographer. yes, all there. i exchanged scandinavian music recommendations with jaarko niemenen, finland’s top tennis player and genuine good guy, who insisted i slip on his own headphones. i talked “facebook” with dmitry tursunov, the russian bad-boy who has won 3 atp titles in the last 14 months. i chatted with tatiana golovin, top 15 wta and french sex icon. i hailed juan martin del potro, the argentine hopeful, in my limited spanish. later in the week, i crossed paths with james blake, andy roddick, and rafael nadal. i joked around with the charming and lovely ana ivanovic.

in the evenings, i was treated to the finest restaurants in the city. after a late night meal, i visited south beach with my italian and brazilian friends, perusing the wild latin culture and allowing the excitement of the street to explode onto my eyes and ears. i almost disappeared into this second life.

how scary.

there is a sadness rotting this lifestyle from inside of its roots that cannot be observed in the shine of its sinews. but it is felt. as the emptiness of eyes in pain.

run, my friend.

to kiss a child at night and promise to pour his orange juice the next morning. to write a flirting note for a wife’s bathroom mirror. to tell a friend that he can stop by, anytime. to hold hands and walk the neighborhood, thinking of nothing but mailboxes and pinecones, and never stepping on a crack.

how heartbreaking to watch these longings fester and die.

so it was my journal, that great tool of remembrance, that helped me defend. and it was the quiet of the morning, the minutes more possessed of sunlight than of thought, that helped me survive. i am longing for home.

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