"Miami in the 70s and 80s: A Love Letter to the Good Ol' Days (And A Few Royal Castle Burgers)" by Alex Gutierrez

 "Miami in the 70s and 80s: A Love Letter to the Good Ol' Days (And A Few Royal Castle Burgers)"

Ah, the Miami of the mid-70s and early 80s… a time when the city was a chaotic yet charming mixture of pastel colors, bell-bottoms, and that unmistakable, intoxicating combination of saltwater and gasoline. I find myself driving through it every day on my way to work, and let me tell you—those long drives aren’t just a commute, they’re a nostalgic trip down memory lane that I never knew I needed. It’s like my car is a time machine, and I’m the reluctant captain of a vehicle that takes me right back to when life was simpler, my hair was bigger, and my worries were smaller (but my Royal Castle burger was a lot bigger).

As I roll through Coral Gables, I'm suddenly transported back to Sunday outings with my mom—back when the Gables felt like the epitome of luxury and class, not just the place where the traffic is always bad and you can’t find parking. I remember walking around Miracle Mile, where all the fancy stores smelled like leather and dreams, eating lunch at the counter at Woolworth and going to the Venetian Pool—remember that? A place where you could spend hours swimming, and looking like a lobster for the next week and a half from the sunburn.

Then there was DJing at Alcazaba at the Hyatt Regency in the 80s. Oh, those Wednesday nights... a real Miami institution. The men in sharp suits and the women dressed like they were auditioning for Miami Vice—it was a glamorous parade, and nobody cared if they had to work the next day. There we were, dancing to everything from "Dolorta" to "Romeo and Juliette," well past midnight, our hair perfectly done, our lives completely unscheduled. I swear, the only thing more consistent than the beat was the hangover that followed. But who cared? It was the 80s! The world could wait.

But the real nostalgia kicks in when I drive down Calle Ocho, which takes me all the way back to when I first arrived from Cuba in the mid-60s. Walking to Shenandoah Elementary, my head full of curiosity and confusion, clutching my Halloween costume with a plastic mask that made my face feel like it was about to melt. Ah, the good old days of trick-or-treating in Miami—hundreds of kids fighting for the most coveted of treats: Sugar Daddys and pennies. None of us cared about the candy; it was the competition that mattered. Mom giving me a bath and then letting me go out for an hour before dinner with those Talcom Powder marks all over my body and the fresh scent of Jean Nate or Violetas Rusas in my hair. Dinner was always predictable but so so good ...Fricase, Carne con Papa and some color of Frijoles , red or black it didn't matter !

I can almost smell the Cuban bread as I think about my grandfather and I walking to Los Pinos Nuevos, where every loaf was a little slice of heaven. Then there was shopping with Mom at Pantry Pride—back when grocery stores had those wooden floors that creaked, and produce smelled fresh (before we all got obsessed with organic labels). And how could I forget buying my birthday cake at La Gran Via Bakery? The best cake on Earth, hands down. No one told me that one day I’d miss those cakes like I miss my youth. But, alas, that’s the curse of nostalgia.

Now, let’s talk about Amado Fruteria. You know, the place where you could pick up your guavas, mangoes, and coconuts like you were grabbing coffee at Starbucks. It’s where we learned the true meaning of the word “fresh” before it became another trendy buzzword. If I could walk into that fruteria today, I’d probably kiss the mangoes. Not that I would, because—well, that’s a bit weird—but you get the point.

Then, of course, there was the magic of Royal Castle. Two hamburgers, a milk, and a side of good old-fashioned happiness before being dropped off at the Tower Theatre for a James Bond double feature. Ah, the simplicity of it all! We didn’t need special effects or IMAX screens. All we needed was a little paper ticket, some greasy fries, and the thrill of watching Roger Moore or Sean Connery save the day.

As I continue my drive every morning, I can’t help but marvel at how all of these moments come rushing back, reminding me that every experience, no matter how small, had meaning. The music of the time—Manu Dibango’s “Soul Makossa,” Santana’s “Oye Como Va,” Chicago’s “Color My World”—was the soundtrack of our lives. Every song introduced me to new sounds, new feelings, and a new way of seeing the world. And, let’s be honest, sometimes I still hear those songs in my head while driving down the Palmetto and wish I could go back to those days, if just for a little while.

But here’s the kicker: Maybe the point of all this nostalgia isn’t just to dwell on the past. It’s a reminder that every single moment has meaning. Maybe we should be living like those Wednesday nights at Alcazaba—dressing up, dancing, living in the moment, even if we have to get up and go to work the next day. Because as we get older, we realize something: Time moves fast, and the best moments are fleeting. We may never get those days back, but we can certainly make the most of the ones we have now.

Man, I miss those times. But more importantly, I’ve learned to appreciate the ones I’m living right now. Let’s make the best of them—before we find ourselves in the future, driving through our cities again, wondering where the good ol' days went. And remember................ Everything is Better with Disco.