THE SUMMER OF ME

09/18/26

Finally, summer has returned to Miami, and for the first time in almost five years, I’m about to do something unusual.
Nothing.
Well, not exactly.
Almost nothing.
I’m about to start a new adventure: procrastination.
First, because I’ve always liked the sound of the word, so allow me to be proud of myself to put the word somewhere.
Second, because after five years on the row of working like a fucking maniac and cooking nonstop like the possessed motherfucker that I am in kitchens with only one day off a week, no holidays, and then writing, rewriting, editing, translating, correcting, deleting, rewriting again, and arguing with commas, and going berserk with the website, I think I’ve earned the right to find out what it feels like.

And honestly, there is no better time to do it than summer in Miami.
A blessed period—if there is such a thing in this fucking town—of the year when the city empties out and traffic becomes almost bearable and parking spots suddenly reappear. The streets breathe. We don't, thanks to the excruciating heat and the humidity.
Reservations in restaurants are suddenly possible in every restaurant, and hostesses sound friendly again.
And you have… Miami Spice. Ahhhh, my favorite—I am sarcastic; I can’t fucking stand it. But guests love it. Accountants love it. Restaurant owners love it too because summer isn’t quite as brutal anymore.
Kitchen staff? Let’s just say our enthusiasm is… more nuanced. Because for two months, perfectly reasonable adults discover an irresistible urge to redesign, deconstruct, and destroy the menu from their table with unlikely requests and every substitution imaginable. They split appetizers, swap sides, negotiate desserts, order one cocktail with two straws, and ask for a single glass of wine to be poured into two glasses with one ice cube each.

But not for me this year; for the first time in years, I skip this goddamn clusterfuck, and I have to admit, that’s a pretty good feeling. For once, I won’t be in the middle of the chaos in my kitchen, losing the few ounces of sanity I have left in me, so thank God—or whoever the hell is in charge up there. I won’t have to spend my days trying to explain to the boss why, after discounting half the menu, the food cost is suddenly collapsing… duh.

What else is there in summer?
Ah yes, going to the beach on a Saturday or Sunday no longer feels like joining a wagon train on the Oregon Trail.
We all meet like survival lunatics to spend the weekly grocery budget on canned food, batteries, and toilet paper at the slightest weather alert.
You finally get to meet polite people; well, tourists are in town, and a lot of Miamians are away on vacation.
You hear the birds instead of the constant honking from psychopaths behind their wheels leaning on their horns like contestants on some deranged game show.

Now the bad side—what do you think? You have to pay for that. Nobody rides for free, motherfucker.
Your teenagers, whom you have no clue what to do with for two months, wake up at two in the afternoon and somehow manage to ravage the kitchen fifteen minutes after you’ve finished cleaning it. Then spend the rest of the day challenging your patience, leaving trails of chaos in every room, demonstrating a profound inability to close a container or a door, and an even more inexplicable refusal to switch off a light in the middle of the afternoon.

So far, I kept my promise to myself, and I haven't done much except make a few corrections I wanted in both of my books; I added a little bit there and removed things that I didn’t like anymore and changed the cover. So now I am happy, and I can say out loud with “some” assurance, I won’t touch them ever again.
After that I’m closing my laptop for a while; I will eventually do an article or a post here and there. But I am done rattling my brain for what’s next.
I’ll see when it gets here.
During the day, I’ll play guitar. I’ll take long walks with my dog and argue with my wife because I still hate salad and avocado and I categorically refuse to eat kale or quinoa.
Maybe I’ll work on the podcast.

But no fucking deadlines. No goddamn chapters. No rewrites that keep me up at night, with my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like a zombie. No staring at the same paragraph for three hours wondering if a comma belongs there.
Just six strings, a microphone, and a bit of peace and quiet.
The rest can wait.
And if something shows up, I’ll do it tomorrow even if I can probably do it today.
It’s not going anywhere. Neither am I.
Yet.

PS: A little nod to all the Seinfeld fans out there. I just couldn't resist.

For everyone else… Do yourself a favor and go watch the show as fast as you can.
You can thank me later.

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