Miami Vice

Wow. What a difference a day makes. With all the subtle nuances of a Snoop Dogg pool party, American Airlines plucks me from the misty streets of Quito and repatriates me, swiftly and ceremoniously, in the Shore Club, South Beach, Miami. Florida. US of A. And with that, everything changes.

I embrace my new aspect by getting into the swimmers and heading down to the pool for a couple of beers. Luckily I own mirrored shades. It's also lucky that I have a high pain threshold. Not content with charging $300 a night, these guys take you for everything you've got. 18% service charge added to every conceivable thing they can bill you for, except the Mini-Bar, which is 20%. If anyone can explain the concept of imposing a service charge on something to which you help yourself, I'd love to know. I thought it was supposed to be the Land of the Free.

I distract myself by indulging in all kinds of novelties, like speaking English, drinking tap water and flushing bog paper down the toilet rather than putting it in a small bin.