FLASHBACK: Miami White Party (Thanksgiving 2003)

As circuit seniors who'd had a fabulous time at another White Party in Palm Springs over Easter, Dan and I were determined to dance our asses off whenever and wherever we could even if it meant blowing off our annual Thanksgiving ABC travel.  We flew to Miami instead, staying in South Beach at the Royal Palm Hotel.

To say I was enchanted with our hotel is an understatement.  Even though I'd recently turned 50, I had never paid for nicer lodgings.  It was a definite upgrade from the Holiday Inns where I had stayed with my parents in the Sixties.

Even the floors had style!

The neighboring hotels weren't too shabby, either.  Developers finally had caught up to the South Beach scene.

I couldn't get over seeing Christmas decorations while wearing shorts.  That would change, big time, 17 years later.

Chilly, overcast weather prevented us from tanning our first full day in town.  We shopped for outfits instead.  Or at least I did.  It seemed ridiculous to have to buy a white shirt at Banana Republic that I would wrap around my waist as soon as I hit the dance floor.

Whenever visiting Florida, I had a rule:  ALWAYS rent a convertible.  Too bad no Karmann Ghias like this one parked on Ocean Avenue were available.  My father bought his first, a hard top, in Munich nearly 50 years before.

Our Chrysler Sebring took us to the Norton Museum of Art, now completely re-modeled.

I miss the spiral staircase.

A visit to the Miami Zoo provided the only continuity with our ABC trips.

An intimidating bus, full of chattering hunks who had taken the dress code far more seriously than I drove us to Vizcaya for the White Party where, if memory serves, Deborah Cox performed "Absolutely Not" early in the evening for a crowd that knew every word.

Right or wrong, you judge the same

My picture never fits your frame

What you thought, you'll never know

You can't see me with your mind closed

Should I wear my hair in a ponytail?

Should I dress myself up in Chanel?

Do I measure me by what you think?

Absolutely not, absolutely not

Wanna bet?

No incriminating pics exist to document the dance-floor debauchery, although I do dimly recall that we appeared in online photos with other high, sweaty circuit boys.   In those pre-selfie days, it felt like a new kind of validation:  yes, we WERE there, in a fantastic, intoxicating environment that existed purely for pleasure.  Clicking on the link, long vanished, triggered a new rush of serotonin.

We had glimpsed the future.