Miami Spice: Enjoying the City's Differences

by Kirsten Cluthe

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Credit: Vizcaya Museum & Gardens

Standing on the coral terrazzo of the opulent Villa Vizcaya, overlooking Biscayne Bay, it's easy to float into a daydream about the good life. The estate and its lyrical 10 acres of gardens lie just south of downtown Miami, exuding an intoxicating mix of beauty and decadence. Vizcaya, a winter retreat built for industrialist James Deering in 1914, is a physical symbol of this sybaritic Southern paradise, a city filled with bronzed beauties, magnificent resorts, and an elite lifestyle.

But there's a noir-like side to this candy-colored city that lives and breathes beyond Vizcaya and the swanky cosmos on Collins Avenue. That is what I was after. I wanted to go beyond Miami's image as a quintessential vacation destination and art deco paradise, and instead discover the more intriguing side that inspired film noir Florida fare such as Miami Vice and Body Heat. I was here to search for an edge that most tourists don't see. I knew it wouldn't be easy.

Credit: www.donmom.com

I'd heard about a place called Jimbo's, a self-proclaimed "state of mind" that has been a Miami institution since the 1950s. I was told that it is located "somewhere over the Rickenbacker Causeway on Virginia Key" and that's as specific as the directions get. After several attempts, I found that you also have to take a left turn at the faded and easy-to-miss "Beach and Picnic Area" sign and head straight into the swampy park, and then all bets are off until you see something that resembles a junkyard on a lagoon. Needless to say, it's best to venture to Jimbo's in full sunlight.

Credit: Getty Images

Proprietor Jimbo Luznar has been selling shrimp and beer for more than a half-century, and Jimbo's, a colorful mixture of tumbledown huts hidden in a pocket of green tropical bramble, looks like it was plucked straight out of a Carl Hiaasen novel. Depending on the day, you might be lucky enough to join in on a bocce ball game, catch a live band, or snack on the freshly caught smoked fish. If you are looking for the bar, don't worry; it's the huge garbage can in the corner overflowing with ice and cans of beer. Grab a cold one for $1, leave the cash on the counter and pull up a plastic chair to chat up a few crusty locals. Jimbo's is a melting pot and the sport of people watching is in full swing. Tourists stumble in and out, as do local politicians, bikers, boaters, and even a model or two, in for a beer on their way home from an evening of South Beach clubbing.

I went to Jimbo's with the intention of staying just long enough to have a look around, but I found that the dilapidated fisherman's enclave echoes the spirit of the city. It is a laid-back, harmonious place that welcomes all visitors and invites them to stay a while. And so I did. Five hours and a good sunburn later, I was back in my genteel hotel room a little awestruck, but satiated. I'd been immersed in the true dirty, pretty Miami.

This article was also published in the November/December 2006 issue of Edutopia magazine.

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