![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZOITiqfBwvM-CPmNCQB9thsBLGDCXZEPRUr1zYcQ2vIVjKC9385Q0Ouaieu9dW7AcC9gcH6HQpWHZvFyNv_Nn0LjKDS8xKlXGHCwgtmm0K_EsN9d8ZxV1GqhGHgXVsRHjNpWiXjZGdHdY/s320/DietCoke_12oz.png)
In the 1970s, I read Go Ask Alice
and started to drink Tab.
This was before Diet Coke.
In the 1980s, I wore terrycloth rompers
that long weekend at Turnberry in Miami Beach.
I had worked hard to lose weight,
get fit;
Jane Fonda in the morning,
and Diet Coke in the afternoon.
I wore mostly red and white that
weekend. Except for the rompers.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgulRjmVuR-zhCJ3x5CmUfBQXVtw8OoEijGo3ZBZhyPhuMZtphfmVagNq93Q4X9lSwJ441E-X-1byxv0MPmgWgCdAzyLB5jfbZyfUorzF7zG0tsFd__Pk-yYyIMlkAKp3Cv64YTDhjL1WVZ/s320/IMG_1774.jpg)
I saw Gloria Vanderbilt in a white terry
robe at the Turnberry Spa, no make-up,
her entourage surrounding her.
And Stephanie Powers at dinner.
Tried hard not to stare.
It was when I dined on stone crabs
for the first time,
and saw the beat-up buildings
that were to become South Beach.
1985. I was turning 30-years-old.
The world was opening up.
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