Palm Trees and Proposals

“Is this normal?” is a question I find myself asking roughly once a week; to myself, to my therapist, to the cashier at the grocery store. I’m currently asking it to Theresa, the woman at the front desk of my Miami Beach hotel. I’m inquiring about the weather, which my weather app has simply described as “windy” all week.

“It’s the fall,” Theresa replies while she scans a new room key for me, my fourth in as many days because I keep forgetting mine in the room, realizing my mistake only after the heavy door slams shut behind me.

“Oh,” I say as she hands a fresh card to me over the narrow counter. “So it’s always windy in the fall here?”

“It can be,” she responds, concluding our conversation with another observation and a polite smile.

“Thank you!” I chirp, hoping this will be the last time I’ll need another keycard made before I check out, but knowing it probably won’t be.

I haven’t minded the wind all week, mostly because I’ve been working inside the city’s cavernous convention center where my company has been hosting its annual conference. The days have been long, but most nights I’ve managed to go for a run along the beach path that snakes its way along the edge of this tiny island.

On my first night I run by a wedding proposal, or perhaps the aftermath of one. All I know is there is a large, heart-shaped trellis of flowers set up with a neon sign that reads “Will You Marry Me?” fixed at the top, casting a soft glow on the sand below.

I smile as I jog by, wondering how well the surprise had gone, wondering if it was a surprise at all.

Maybe whoever was being proposed to had suspected it; maybe they’d been dropping hints for months and were finally vindicated when they spotted the setup on the beach, feigning delight but feeling mostly relief.  Or maybe this was the culmination of a brief, whirlwind romance that all their friends and family were worried about, but you have to let Becca be Becca, and this was the most Becca moment of all.

Or maybe it was a promotional photo shoot for a new business venture renting out an engagement setup for a hefty fee and no one got engaged at all, except for the couples in my mind.

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Most mornings I choose to walk from the hotel to the convention center, skipping the air conditioned shuttle even though it means I will arrive slightly soggy from the humidity. The walk clears my head before the day starts, and also gives me a chance to see who else is out before the sun comes up and why.

There’s usually a small group of people standing outside a tour office whose windows advertise various boat rides and deep sea fishing excursions. I weave through couples and families huddling together waiting for their transportation to arrive, gathered but not yet a group. I occasionally pass a club goer or two stumbling home in various stages of disrepair.

And then there are the gyms.

I walk by no less than three along my short ten-minute trip, all more crowded than most churches on Sunday mornings. My favorite of the three has floor to ceiling windows and is named GYMAGE. Every morning as I walk by this word emblazoned on the side of the building in chunky, square font, I consider what exactly the intention was.

Gymage. Like homage? Or tonnage?

My route is dotted with palm trees, their slim trunks shooting out of the ground like forgotten arrows, somehow able to withstand the gale-force winds sweeping through. The faded brown bases barely budge while their bright green fronds whip from side to side high above us, looking like the fuzzy tops on those fun gel-pens everyone had in elementary school but I was too nervous to ask for, fearing their pinks and purples would give away my gayness.

I decide a palm tree’s stability must come from having deep roots and make a mental note to investigate this further, which I promptly forget each night when I return to the hotel and collapse into my bed.

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Jogging south down the beach path from my hotel takes me along Ocean Drive, a street name I didn’t know I knew, popping up in my mind like a fragment of French I forgot I had learned.

Ocean Drive! That’s something I’ve heard before! Mon Dieu!

Just past the outdoor gyms and sand volleyball courts filled with impossibly fit bodies tossing themselves around, I see a large house that looks vaguely familiar.

That’s the Versace mansion, a voice somewhere deep in the dark hallways of my brain tells me. And those are the steps where Darren Criss shot him in that Ryan Murphy show.

There’s a valet stand located just next to the entrance and as I run by I realize they’ve turned the murder scene into an event space. Who wants to dance the night away where a man died?

The next day I find out my company will be holding an awards ceremony there, so apparently we do.

Maybe this is what he would have wanted, I rationalize as I watch a stream of glittery dresses and pressed suits pile into the buses that evening.

Maybe he’s still there, enjoying the party.

I run on, past Ocean Drive and farther down the path where the buildings start to get smaller and the sky feels bigger. The wind picks up at my back, pushing me forward just as Defying Gravity comes on my headphones.

I know I’ll have to turn around eventually and fight my way back, but for now the palm trees are holding on and the waves are pounding the sand and I am Elphaba; strong and unbounded and singing, loudly.