An Afternoon in Miami’s Calle Ocho

My flight touched down in Miami two mornings ago and several of the passengers broke into loud clapping. “That’s a Spanish thing,” my seatmate said, as we clapped along heartily. This flight to Florida was certainly not the first time I’ve experienced plane applause. I have a policy of always joining in.

I mean, the pilot just flew us through the sky at 500 mph and then landed us with two bounces on solid concrete. Tiny wheels on a 30-ton aircraft? It’s the engineering equivalent of T-Rex. I have zero idea how we don’t die. Every. Single. Time. The least we can do is clap. We should probably go one step farther and call each pilot’s mother. Thank her for having sex in the first place and producing that guy.

However, while I adore plane clappage, I will fess up that I never do it unless other people are already making a racket. Would I start the round of applause? No. Probably not. And that’s an American thing.

As I started writing this piece, a woman was singing in Spanish outside my hotel door. I’m pretty sure she was the housekeeper. I’m pretty sure the song was religious. Her voice beautiful … calming, yet invigorating at the same time. Sometimes I think it would be nice to just let go and worship something with a fanatical passion that made me want to sing about it … loudly … in a hotel hallway.

What I’m getting at is, sometimes I want to start the round of applause on a flight. Sometimes, I want to burst into songs about Jesus. I want to take heed the inward hiss of God’s microphone and make the hallway my personal karaoke bar.

These things are at the core of what I love about visiting Latin American and Caribbean countries versus ‘boring old ‘Merica.’ Hispanic culture embraces any reason to get excited. Singing and dancing in the street? Hell yes. Painting your house a hue most Americans immediately associate with Pepto Bismol? Done. Wearing leopard print, skin-tight pants with a sequin top and giant gold hoop earrings to lunch on a Tuesday? That’s hot!

The last several times I’ve been in Miami, I’ve wanted to go and wander around in the Calle Ocho neighborhood. Little Havana, as they call it, earned its name back in the 1960s, when Cubans fleeing the revolution began settling here.

I’ve been to Cuba, and Cuba is a magical place where people clap a lot and generally err on the side of festive and garish. I figured any neighborhood called Little Havana right in my own country deserved a visit. However, the Calle Ocho has taken me three trips to Miami to accomplish.

The first time I attempted to see this Havana-in-my-homeland was when I had a seven-hour layover at MIA. My dad was with me. I suggested we go. It was met with no applause. We ate lunch instead.

The second time, I came down to cover a party hosted by Kim Kardashian. Yeah, that really happened. And I really saw her. And, to be honest, with all the heels and lipstick and hair and botox … she looked a little insane close-up. Like a caricature of what she should be?

But I digress. After covering the Kardashian shindig for a travel publication, I was again thwarted in my adventurous desire to photograph Miami’s most colorful neighborhood. The woman at the hotel reservation desk at the Mondrian told me that the Calle Ocho wasn’t a safe place to go and take photos. Then there was that damn infectious trifecta of blue beyond the front desk – pool water, perfect sky, giant ocean. I said “screw it,” forgot all about the ferocious Calle Ocho and got tan instead. Afterall, if I believed the Mondrian reservationist, this Calle Ocho place was home to violent thugs. They would no doubt steal my camera, kick me in the shin and then mark me with a gang sign in orange spray paint. 

After these Dad and desk-girl delays, you can understand why this trip, I swore the Calle Ocho would be mine. I dropped my luggage at The Freehand Hostel (which is a fantastic place to stay, fyi) and immediately called a cab. From South Beach, a taxi will run you around $30. (Note: cabs in Miami are like New York apartments – i.e. smelly, old, and they cost a fortune.)

My driver was Dominican. My Spanglish was rusty. He pulled to a curb with the meter reading $36.50, turned and said, “Yes. You here.”

Unable to argue, unsure of what I had even hoped to find, I simply got out. The street sign read 6^th Ave. The perpendicular announcement was 37^th Street. He pulled away and I stood alone in a neighborhood filled with tiny bungalow houses, painted happy colors, with succulent-filled lawns and busted sidewalks. In front of each home, there were rusty metal fences. Several had large signs proclaiming “Beware of Dog.” Pitbulls napped in the shade of banana trees and … yes … there was a general, overall “Havana-ness” afoot.

I scanned my surroundings, fished out my iPhone and had a chat with Siri. She informed me I was no smarter than the Mondrian front desk girl and I currently stood 3.1 miles from the heart of the Calle Ocho. No way was I paying another $30 to go 3 miles, so I started walking.

Here are a few people, places and things (nouns!) I encountered on my long walk to 15^th and 8^th Avenue. That is where you, dear reader, should ask to be dropped off if you want the main sites of the district.

The average annual income in Little Havana hovers around $15,000 and 98% of the population that calls this ‘hood home is Hispanic. It’s where you will find the annual Calle Ocho Festival and Viernes Cultural Fridays, which occur the last Friday of every month and feature songs, dancing, arts and food.

I was there on a Tuesday. On any Tuesday, you can have an incredible bowl of tamale soup at El Exquisito, directly adjacent to the famous Tower Theater – built in the ‘20s. Thick and hearty, the soup is made from cornmeal with warming spices and thick chunks of perfectly braised pork for only $5.95. Note: It’s only served on Tuesday.

Along the street outside, there is also a great costume shop, a smattering of Cuban trinket and art stores, a cigar shop/museum and four or five places that beg you to stop and have a cold beer.

Cuban coffees are hoisted out of walk-up windows to keep you going, but you might have to wait longer if you choose to walk-up rather than go inside. Locals poke their heads through these to-go holes and have lengthy conversations with friends inside.

So in conclusion, I’d say the Calle Ocho beats the pants off laying by the Mondrian pool any day. Is it dangerous to trek here with an expensive Nikon? Let me put it this way … I had lunch next to two police officers. They didn’t seem to be in any hurry to stop all this rampant crime that the Mondrian desk girl was so horrified by. They did, however, polish off the rest of my soup when I was full.