Miami: Iris Comes to Town

G's mom Iris flew over from London in late May and we needed a place where she could stay with us that wasn't our apartment (love Iris, love our apartment, love both more when there's space between them). We booked an Airbnb on the 22nd floor of the Hyde Resort in Hallandale Beach, about 20 minutes south of Fort Lauderdale. One bedroom, ocean view, a kitchen so we could cook instead of eating out every meal, and a balcony where Iris could drink her morning tea while staring at the Atlantic and making comments about the weather being "too perfect."

The Hyde is a condo-hotel on the beach, modern building, pool deck with cabanas, direct beach access. The Airbnb was through a host named Fabiana who was responsive and the unit was clean and well-stocked. We originally booked through June 1st but extended through the 3rd because Iris wasn't ready to leave and neither were we. The beach was right there. The pool was right there. The grocery store was a five-minute drive. There's a simplicity to staying somewhere that has a kitchen and a view and no checkout time pressure.

Hallandale sits between Fort Lauderdale and Miami in that stretch of coast that tourists drive past on I-95 without knowing what they're missing. Hallandale Beach itself is quieter than Fort Lauderdale Beach and significantly calmer than South Beach. The sand is the same. The water is the same. The crowds are a fraction. On weekday mornings we'd walk the beach with Iris and have it almost to ourselves.

We cooked most meals at the apartment because that's what Iris prefers. She'd take over the kitchen around 6 PM and produce dinner from whatever we'd picked up at the market that day. Iris cooks the way a lot of moms cook: no recipe, no measurements, constant tasting, and everything comes out better than it has any right to. One night she made plov, an Uzbek rice pilaf with lamb and carrots and cumin that filled the entire apartment with a smell I'd now recognize anywhere. G would try to help and get gently relocated to the living room. "You're stirring wrong," Iris told her once, which is a sentence that only makes sense if your mom says it. I learned early on to just set the table and stay out of the way.

The mornings were the best part. Iris wakes up early. So do I. G does not. So Iris and I would have tea on the balcony around 6:30 while G was still asleep, watching the ocean turn from grey to blue as the sun came up. Iris doesn't do small talk. She asks direct questions and waits for direct answers. We'd sit in silence for a while, then she'd say something about the water or the light or ask me something about work, and the conversation would go wherever it went. Those mornings were probably when Iris and I actually became close, not as G's mom and G's boyfriend, but as two people who drink tea early and don't need to fill every silence.

But we did go out a few times. The Diplomat Beach Resort in Hollywood (the Florida one, not the California one) is about ten minutes north and has a few restaurants worth the drive. We took Iris to the pool bar one afternoon for lunch and she ordered a glass of rose and a shrimp cocktail and sat there looking at the ocean like she'd solved something. One of those afternoons where nobody's in a rush and the whole point is that there's no point.

We also drove down to Aventura Mall, which is one of the biggest malls in the country and a place where Iris and G can disappear for four hours and come back with opinions about everything and bags from three stores. I sat in the food court with a coffee and answered emails. The mall has an Estiatorio Milos inside it, which is a Greek seafood restaurant that has no business being as good as it is inside a shopping mall. Fresh whole fish, grilled simply, priced by weight. The waiter brought the fish to the table whole before cooking it, which is the Greek way of letting you approve what you're about to eat. Iris inspected it like she was buying it at a market. She approved. We went for dinner one night and Iris was impressed, which is hard to achieve. She asked for the recipe for the taramosalata and the waiter said they don't give recipes. Iris respected that.

Gulfstream Park is walking distance from the Hyde. It's a horse racing track that's been converted into an outdoor shopping and dining complex with a casino. The racing still happens seasonally, but most of the time it's just restaurants, shops, and a bowling alley. We walked over one evening, had dinner at one of the outdoor spots (I had a steak, Iris had fish, G ordered both and tasted mine first, which is her way), and watched people walk their dogs along the track. A band was playing covers somewhere near the casino entrance and you could hear it faintly from the restaurant patio. Iris said it was "very American." She meant it as an observation, not a compliment, but she wasn't wrong.

The week went by in that way weeks go by when there's no agenda. Beach in the morning. Iris cooking at night. A couple of outings in between. G showing her mom the life we'd built in Florida, which is different from telling someone about it over FaceTime. Iris seeing the apartment, meeting the neighbors, understanding the rhythm of the place. It's a different kind of visit than a vacation. It's showing someone your life and hoping they like it. Iris liked it. She told G on the last morning, quietly, while they were having tea on the balcony. G told me after Iris left for the airport. Some things travel through the right channels.