8 am. We walk half a block up to the Hilton, order our croissants in French to the Belgian manager, and lounge on cushions with free ocean view, not entirely ruined by the massive boulevard in between. Dad looks positively content, in his best Sheherazade impersonation.
Yes, it's a daddy and me trip. What are we doing, here, you ask. Well, one day I called in to support my local jazz radio station - there is really no audible radio here, so you've got to help the two that you can bear to listen to (that's one thing I miss from France!). I called in at the right moment, and won a passage for two on the first Playboy Jazz Cruise, with an out-there line up and dream ports-of-call (I'm not telling who or where just yet; gotta keep ya readin' da blog, don't I...). So here we are, just 40 kms north of Miami, ready to begin our adventures.
After breakfast, we hit the sand. The beach goes on forever, the water is turquoise, and the sea gulls friendly. The air is warm, even if the water is too cold for a swim. The horizon is dotted with tankers. The ten blocks of ocean front alternate gigantic hotels under construction or renovation, and souvenir shops stuck in time. It's just odd.
Fort Lauderdale is called the Venice of America. Of course, after living for so long in the US, you get used to their ridicule-defying grand statements but, still, we must be missing something. There's supposed to be a lively river walk, with shops and restaurants - must be somewhere else, along the canals. On se croirait coincés à visiter le quartier de la stazione ferroviara à Mestre sans jamais arriver jusqu'à l'Accademia ou la Piazza San Marco...
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