I'm on pace to crank out a few of these in February, so thanks again to those of you that have joined me in this series. As I work my way through the 700s and into page 100, I'm trying to keep in mind how monotonous some of these might sound, and in doing so I find myself trying to figure out for whom I should feel sorry for the most: me the person for having such an apparent lack of diversity in my life or you the reader who keeps coming back to read about my lameness.
It's a tossup, I tell ya'.
Anyway: six down; 34 to go.
Seriously, though: Thank you for reading.
Eight Hundred
Seventy-Five: Miami
South
Florida may have many mysteries. It may. I’ll include Miami in that mix.
I suppose
things always feel that way away from home, though. Navigating streets,
participating in public transportation, clutching maps, punching in GPS
locations, arrivals and departures. I also suppose that the size of a city
either magnifies or shrinks the sensation, and Miami -- the Shaquille O’Neal of
cities -- looms over Kansas City, more of a Steven Nash or a Chris Paul.
