Postcard from Miami

   Half an hour until dinner with my partner at eight, which is “early” for dinner here.  I head for the bar at our restaurant, Novocentro, which appears to have Guinness on tap.  A pleasant surprise.  Or so it seemed. 

   One of the bartenders comes over to take my order.  A thin girl with bleached blond hair and a skimpy black tank top, which barely restrains false breasts of science fiction proportions. 

   “Hola,” she says. 

   “A Guinness, please.”

    “Guinness?  Would you like Stella Artois?  It is a special for happy hour.”

   “No thanks.  Guinness please.”

   She retrieves a tall, frosted pilsner glass, into which she dispenses the Guinness in the same three seconds it would take to pull a Coors Light.  No head.  No foaming carmel tides surging from the dark depths.  It tastes like Guinness soda.

   "Nine dollars." 

   Welcome to Miami.