Miami is my native land, a city that feels like an autonomous territory, complete with its own tongue, rhythm, and collective consciousness. Miami is an amalgam of flavors. It is roast pork bathed in Cuban mojo and peppered with sundry spices from islands and highlands around the globe. Miami looks like sunshine and wish-you-were-here postcards and telenovelas. At once it feels sopping and sticky and sunburned and sexy. It is sand in shoes and luxurious pearls of perspiration around golden-brown necks. Miami sounds like mambo beats and traffic jams and the clutter of noisy conversations. In Miami, nothing is whispered.
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