From our sunny sidewalk table, over creamy white pasta, we can see a man across the street. He touches the edge of his girlfriend's short skirt and urges it further up her thighs, while she laughs and poses flirtatiously under the palm trees at the street-edge of the beach. We look at each other, not sure whether to be shocked or amused. Smooth convertibles stroll past us, down the row of pastel hotels, lingering to watch girls in oversized sunglasses and shorts that reveal the crunch of the butt.

There is a different Miami too, a Miami with no fuss, swept into the corners of the clubbing, shopping, tanning city. We go there one evening, gliding in a car through the Cuban neighbourhood, Spanish on its stores and restaurants. Boards hang in windows, screaming low prices. We even cross a dollar store that looks like a warehouse, and I wonder what delightfully cheap discoveries dwell in there. There isn't very much delight outside. The houses look gloomy and unpainted, and a mute raggedness clings to the narrow street. Cars speed through the area, all on their way somewhere else.

We stop for dinner at a small Haitian restaurant in a darkly lit neighbourhood, on whose verandah some elderly couples with floppy hats and beach shirts chat. Inside, the room is a blast of colour. Tropical scenes crowd the walls, and tiny chairs and tables are stuffed into the remaining space. A fan groans, turning this way and that in a hot corner. Conversation circles each closed group of diners, and two Hispanic boys hurry about, bringing dishes and punching numbers on a computer screen. Tossing away familiarity, we take bites to explore the innards of fried mysteries.

Next afternoon, we go up and down several parallel streets, but we don't see it. Then, by an ochre house greeted by tall palms waving gently in the heat, the bookstore appears. It is an alternative bookstore my cousin is fond of. A small courtyard divides two halls of books, and we turn right for no particular reason. In a dark wood, carpeted hush, we step from shelf to shelf, from fiction to Jewish history, philosophy to American politics. I read a little here, a little there, flipping over books to read reviews on the back cover. I am tempted to buy, but I don't, hoping to find them in libraries at college. At the far end, in an enclave detached from the room, I hear someone talking in a speaker's voice. I smile to think, a lecture, probably, far from the extravagant gloss of beach parties, chihuahuas in purses and wine on glorious night streets.