Moving in Miami

So a few weeks back, I moved out of my cute little apartment in the Gables to South Miami. And after two years, I have apparently amassed quite a bit of stuff. So after getting rid of/donating a bunch of things to the Salvation Army and Goodwill, I elected to rent my first uhaul. Let me tell you, that was an experience to remember! Oh.My.Lord.

So I booked online, and my reservation was made at this shady little gas station across from the airport. So el hombre and I went to pick it up (in the rain, thanks Tropical Storm Hanna!) We park and a man in a scooter is trying to talk to us in some strange mix of English, Spanish and who knows what. So we try to explain we are picking up the uhaul and he just stairs at us..... right.

So we walk into this tiny place, which probably should be condemned and are greeted by two older Cuban ladies with skin like Magda from Something About Mary. One woman was wearing a light pink v-neck shirt (with no bra) tucked into elastic pants from the 80s and the other with some really strange 50s horror movie outfit on.

So el hombre was relegated to speaking to them. Did I mention that this place should be condemned, by the way? ok. In addition to the structurally unsound and extremely dirty facilities, it also appeared to be a haven for Santeria, with dried roses, vases of dried flowers everywhere and multiple shrines to Jesus, Mary and other unidentifiable things, including a huge picture of a glaring Jesus with an unusually thick mustache staring at you from behind the counter.

Scary. So we get the truck (which of course was probably a death trap, complete with "check engine" light) and move all my stuff in a couple hours. Upon getting rid of the truck that same day, one of the ladies opened the back of the truck to inspect it and says to el hombre, "parece que ya botaron el cuerpo" (I guess you got rid of the body already) and he joked, "si, lo botamo en la esquina" (yeah, I left it on the corner.) Meanwhile, back in the shop, some people couldn't get their credit card to go through and the gentleman behind the counter (complete with big hair and thick mustache, big belly, skinny arms and legs, 80s jogging shorts, tight tank top and gold trimmed glasses) was not having it. As I pointed out on the way home, the lady probably wasn't joking. I'm just glad my credit card worked else they would have dumped us in the Miami River, a place from which nobody returns.

But at least I didn't have a bum sleeping in the back of my truck like one of el hombre's friends, which, ironically was the same day.

Did I take pictures? No, I was too scared.