it wasn't what I thought

it wasn't what I thought

Stephanie Venedicto

03/10/2023

When I was a child, my mom would make me wear two shirts on days like these. I hated it because I would get too hot from running around. Now I pick what I deem as weather appropriate. And Today is one of those rare two-shirt days. The coldest I have been was in the car as the wind chewed through the layers. The sun warms me up, and two shirts are now a mistake. I have been to a few Farmer’s Markets around town, each serving a different purpose. The one in the courtyard of Miami Children’s Hospital was small, but there was an abundance of vendors. It was open for most of the morning, mostly doing business during the lunch rush. There were tables of nuts, smoothies and acai bowls, fresh meats, and a place to sit and eat. It was for the families, patients, and staff so they could have a healthy option for lunch that wasn’t in a depressing cafeteria. My favorite Farmer’s Market is the one in Pinecrest Library’s parking lot, not far from here. The Market is the length of the parking lot and has the freshest herbs and fresh popcorn. The vendors are excited to show off their wares, hoping you will buy something. It is a Market for local business owners and farmers to provide high-quality items to the community at reasonable prices.
The leaves crunch under my brown boots as I walk through the parking lot to the Farmer’s Market in Village Vizcaya. I notice a bus is partially blocking the entrance to the Market, already different from what I am used to at a Farmer’s Market. The smell of gas mixes with the scent of brisket. The market is small, with maybe fifteen vendors lined up behind a building in the parking lot, one booth selling fresh produce, a few having fresh food, and most selling clothes and soaps. It is not what I thought when they said Farmer’s Market. Where are the farmers? This Market is just another way to profit, like a water delivery service offering bottled sparkling water. There is only one produce booth here and no fresh popcorn or hot coffee. The vendors are talkative, trying to get you to buy their overpriced items, and successful sales happen between the locals and tourists who don’t know any better. Families crowd the small aisle space, leaving empty-handed; they were disappointed by the lackluster market. We follow suit.
Across the street from the parking lot is a path that takes you to Vizcaya. The second parking lot is for those who didn’t get there early enough to find on-site parking. It is long and heavily shaded, and tree roots make the ground uneven. Every so often, you’ll pass a statue of a Greek myth and wonder what its purpose was before the path and parking lots. Was it always meant to be a greeter? Or did they not know where else it should be? I doubt anyone can appreciate a statue on this walking path. In front of me is a family, all adults, and all wearing sandals. It baffles me. Not only is it inappropriate footwear for the ornate location, but it’s also a poor choice for the amount of walking you have to do. Why you would wear slides to a forty-three-acre property is beyond me. The path takes you to the main entrance, where the ticket booths are. On either side of it are two statues of colonizers, setting the house in the middle, completing the homage to land stealers. There is a small line of people by the ticket booths, couples in groups on their phones waiting for the email with their tickets. Gone are the days of physical tickets; it is all online now. Even the brochures and maps are on the website. Any information about the property, designs, and curators now comes from outside sources. The ability to have something of your own, a physical representation of where you’ve been, is no more. Behind me is a man holding a “top one-hundred and ten places to see in Miami” pamphlet. He is wearing a light blue and white striped long sleeve with shorts; he must be a snowbird.
Walking up the driveway, I see the inspiration behind the features. Everything in front of the house is oversized, an overachiever in building form. In the center of the driveway is a fountain, a wide staircase, and a small front door. The front door leads to an entryway much smaller than the rest of the house that it's almost comical. Inside, the walkways are cramped with all the tourists. People come in just to stand in the middle of the room and look around. The number of people makes it hard to appreciate and take in everything, so I look for a way to another room. Finally, there is a sliver of space in the doorway to the library; I squeeze in just to be in another small room. There are at least six walkable feet in the library. The walls in the library are lined with books that haven’t been open for decades, literally collecting dust behind the glass. Their purpose is moot. I follow the line of people through a tiny doorway into the dining room. People treat the room as a hallway nobody stops to look in there, so I stand close to the rope to let other people move through. I am admiring the chandelier when a man wearing a barbershop hat starts talking loudly to his group. His voice echoes off the wall, taking me out of my thoughts. I look away from the chandelier and turn my attention to the mirror on the wall. There are two long candles on the shelf in front of it, and in a whisper, I point out to my group the smoke stain. The man in the barbershop hat corrects my observation of smoke, saying it’s the silver backing instead. It was both. As I walk through to the next room, he asks me where I’m visiting from; I tell him I’m native to Miami. He says it’s rare. How could it be rare to be born and raised in the place you’re visiting? Has he only come into contact with tourists? I wonder this as I walk into the next room, and the beauty of it stops me.
I have been here once before when I was a child. Then I was a tourist. Everything was new and exciting. I had never seen anything like it, but now I feel like I misremembered it. Maybe it was because the world felt bigger as a child, but I remember this house very differently. I remember big open rooms, more rooms. I remember seeing giant bathrooms and a staircase with enough room for two people to walk through. It felt unreal like someone wished on a shooting star.
I thought it was the most luxurious thing. However, as I shuffle through cramped spaces, I find it hard to be in awe. I want to romanticize it again, but it’s like fitting a square into a circle peg. My once-deep admiration has been replaced with slight annoyance. Though mainly towards the people who stand in the center of the aisle looking at their phones. I just can’t fathom being in one of the most carefully designed homes and choosing to look at Instagram instead. There are hand-painted ceilings, gorgeous house palms, and hand-carved wooden cabinets, and every room has its take on the theme. Some rooms are blush and muted, while others are more extravagant.
Outside is a mint green Tea Room that faces the bay, like something out of a painting. In the doorframe, a woman poses for pictures. Her photographer tells her not to block the other people she says it's okay. I move on to the gardens.
I read about these magnificent gardens and a hedge maze in a book about Miami architecture. The gardens are similar to the ones described in the book, multiple ponds, an island, and a rose garden. However, the statues that once resided here are now on the path. The famed hedge maze is nowhere to be seen, and the secret garden is just another part of the garden. I was most disappointed at this. Deering had spent so much time and effort in the gardens, though he didn’t personally plant or desire anything within the gardens; he barely got to enjoy them when he was alive. As a conservationist, he made them with future generations in mind. As a part of the future generation, I felt let down. The rose bushes were sparse, and the grass and bushes were kept short like a lawn. When disappointment turned into dismay, I knew it was time to go home.