I went back to my BlackBerry. Ivy was now listening to her iPod, moving to the music. Salsa. I didn’t know she was a fan, but apparently a visit to Miami made her feel more connected to her half-Latin roots.
We exited the expressway and were headed into downtown Miami. The port was all the way east, near a waterfront mall that Saxton Silvers had financed.
“What the hell is that?” Ivy said.
I looked up. Flagler Street was Miami’s east-west version of main street, and we were a block or so north of it. If your principal needs in life were YO MIAMI T-shirts, sugarcane juice, and any kind of electronic device imaginable, this was your little slice of paradise. For me, it was an area I couldn’t get through fast enough—especially today. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon, but the shops had already closed, the doors and windows protected by burglar bars and steel roll-down doors. Something was up.
“Looks like Biscayne Boulevard is closed,” the driver said, stopping at the traffic light.
Biscayne was Miami’s signature north-south boulevard, four lanes in each direction that were divided by an elevated tram and rows of royal palm trees down the middle. Office towers lined the west side of the street, and to the east beautiful Bayfront Park stretched to the waterfront. Over the years it had served as everything from the famous hairpin turn in Miami’s first Grand Prix road race to the televised portion of the Orange Bowl Parade route. These days, the Grand Prix had moved elsewhere, the parade was no more, and Biscayne Boulevard had been swept up in the high-rise construction craze. We had to get east of it to reach the port. But on this sunny Thursday afternoon, all cross streets were a virtual parking lot.
“We’re not moving, mon.”
We sat through a complete light change and still didn’t budge. I got out of the cab to see what was going on. Up ahead, traffic had ground to a halt as far as I could see. I stepped up onto the doorsill for a better view. The one-way street was like a shadowy canyon cutting through tall office buildings. Peering over the endless row of stopped cars in front of us, I got a cross-section view of the intersection at Biscayne and spotted the problem. Barricades appeared to be blocking all vehicular access to the boulevard. Mobs of people were marching down all eight lanes.
I climbed back inside the car and said, “Some kind of protest rally.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Ivy. “FTAA is in Miami this year.”
The Free Trade Area of the Americas was an effort to unite all the economies of the Western Hemisphere, except Cuba, into a single free-trade area that reached from Canada to Chile. Each year since 1994, the leaders of thirty-four democracies met to work toward eliminating barriers to trade and investment. Opposition was passionate, critics fearing the concentration of corporate power and the worst of everything that came with it: layoffs and unemployment, sweatshop labor, loss of family farms, environmental destruction. Thousands of those critics had descended on downtown Miami today to decry the FTAA’s eighth ministerial meeting.
“Not sure where to go,” said our driver.
“Obviously not this way,” said Ivy.
He somehow maneuvered around stopped cars and headed north on Miami Avenue, the plan being to cut east to Biscayne on a higher cross street. It was worse. Not only were the cars immobilized, but pedestrian traffic was also jammed. We saw a sea of young people, most of them wearing bandannas over their noses and mouths, many wearing protective goggles or helmets. A few wore gas masks. Two men had climbed atop lampposts to wave red flags, one with the image of Che Guevara and the other with Mao Tse Tung. Banners and posters dotted the crowd, the messages ranging from GIVE PEACE A CHANCE to SUPPORT THE POLICE: BEAT YOURSELF UP.
“This looks bad,” said Ivy.
I got out of the car and again climbed to my perch on the doorsill, peering out over the roof.
“Michael, get back in the car!”
I heard Ivy’s warning, but I had to look. Never had I seen such a showing of police muscle. Rows of fully armored and helmeted police moved in formation, meeting the crowd of demonstrators with a line of riot shields and control batons. As police advanced, the anti-FTAA chanting intensified.
Greed kills.
Die, Asses of Evil.
Fuck the Aristocratic Assholes.
Anarchy Today, Anarchy Tomorrow, Anarchy Forever!
Demonstrators either yielded to the oncoming wave of police or were