Still above water

Miami Beach, in case you didn't know, is a very bizarre place. The strip where I am, in the Eden Roc resort, next to the Fountainbleu, is in most ways that matter to me a wasteland. There are no stores or restaurants within easy walking distance, and even that's something of an understatement. Seven blocks to the south there is a Subway, a small cafe and grocery store, and a liquor store. That's all for maybe a mile in all directions -- well, there are only 2 1/2 directions available, actually. Five blocks south you can cross Indian Creek and get to an actual urban neighborhood, albeit a slightly odd one.

So you're pretty much a prisoner of the hotel, which is how they want it. $30 for breakfast, $20 for a hamburger. A margarita is $14, although it is big enough to drown in. Across the street, in Indian Creek, there's a marina full of enormous yachts, and, on the other side of the creek, enormous, ostentatious villas, with their own piers. The people don't seem to be home right now, presumably they are only here in the winter.

Anyway, I can't help where they send me. As I contemplate this gobsmacking week, I am here on business, so I'll tell you that this morning I attended a symposium on technology in support of self care in HIV, and HIV prevention. I expect that more and more, you'll be interacting with apps in place of conversations you might have had with your doctor. Or at least they're going to try to make that happen. I'm not convinced that it will. If I hear anything of more immediate interest, I'll let you know.

A final observation for now. If there is one category of human that airline employees hate, it is airline passengers. It would be so much easier for the planes to fly from point A to point B if they just didn't have to put up with fucking customers. So true, it would be.