At the airport, my husband keeps forgetting we’re headed to Miami, Florida, not Miami, France.
He keeps grabbing my arm and whispering, “Shit, I forgot my passport.” I unhook him and remind him we don’t need passports for Miami, Florida.
“Miami, Florida?” he asks. “Are you sure? I’ve spent all of May practicing my je ne sais quoi’s.”
I understand his confusion.
People always mix up Miami, Florida, and Miami, Florida. They both smell like croissants, people don’t pick up their dog shit, and they’re both deeply Republican.