Miami and I have a stressful relationship. She tries to get me lost, ding the car and intimidate me. I try to get where I’m going on time, without mishap, and stay safe.

It’s what professionals call a dysfunctional multi-factor cluster-fuck.

What is it about Miami? Why anyone would want to live there is beyond me, and visitors need psychiatric help. Seriously. Miami is a high-crime drainage ditch. The worst drivers in North America add piquancy to the whole mess. Maybe everyone is coked-out there, and I’m the only straight person. That would explain it.

Being a three-hour drive away doesn’t help. By the time we’ve reached the Devil City, it’s time for a bathroom break, a coffee, and a stretch. Unfortunately, finding the outskirts means the fun has just started. Blocked streets are normal. Suicidal driving (fast AND slow) is de rigueur, and there is a simmering low-level malevolence in the air.

And yet I tell The Boss that I like the trips there. For one thing, I’d rather be driving a decent distance than hanging around locally. And for another, I’m up for the challenge of finding my way around an unfamiliar and difficult place. I’m determined not to let her beat me. And one day I’ll have enough time to take some photographs.

For now I’m just happy surviving to tell the stories.