Too bad I can’t find anyone to finance my street photography activities. The deal would work like this. A very very nice individual would buy me a plane ticket to a destination outside of Dallas (preferably somewhere I can swim and where no one wields a machete), put me up in a hotel that would not have to be a Mandarin Oriental (see, I’m not asking for the moon), and in return I would provide this extremely endearing person with a photographic slice of life from said tropical destination. This arrangement would work particularly well for someone with a fear of flying and who would want to live vicariously through me. Living is something I do really well. I’m just throwing this idea out there. You never know…
Last day of my South Beach mini-vacation before emigrating to Downtown Miami for a couple of days. Last walk on Ocean Drive.
You can’t make noise on Ocean Drive unless…
Unless you attempt to save the South Beach sinners. South Beach is a great place for sinners.
I think this one is a sinner. If not, I’m volunteering to take him down that path.
The parrot downing shots? Sinner.
Women in total need of atonement.
Not a nun.
South Beach’s idea of day entertainment: Mango’s
It’s good to know that the repentance people are right across the street.
Moving on… This man has been waiting to get paid for three months. It is however unclear whether he has been waiting three months in this chair. Conversation proved difficult due to the bitterness that comes with not getting paid for three months.
South Beach cops get to wear cool beach attire and ride funky lawn-mower looking machines.
I have developed a liking to photographing people and their cell phones. Like here…
and there.
These, I just had to photograph for the hair awesomeness
These guys were totally messing with me, a stark contrast from the very well behaved hair ladies.
The Muscle Beach. Some need it more than others.
Reviewed beach attire, not great for tanning, but definitely beats an SPF 50+
Four days in South Beach and I saw four retirees total. Retiring in Miami must totally be an urban legend. Either that or someone keeps them well-hidden from the general public (or the repentance people got to them and they all moved to Utah.)
I think that when I retire (which is probably never if the markets do not rally to my long and plaintive moans of despair), I would not want to be surrounded by six-packed stud muffins and sixteen year old Brazilian models (photographing these must have slipped my mind – so sorry.) I’d sincerely prefer to live among the arthritic wrinkly folks attached to oxygen tanks who still want to have a good old time (Utah is out.) Wait until I blog about that!
nathalie with an h's Confessional 