Miami, they say, is constantly reinventing itself. When all that reinvention gets your head spinning, take a contemplative walk around the cloisters of this twelfth-century monastery -- the oldest structure around by a long shot. Like most things in South Florida, it's a transplant. It was originally built in Segovia, Spain, and served as a spiritual home to Cistercian monks there for almost 700 years. In 1925, William Randolph Hearst purchased the monastery and had it shipped -- block by block -- to the United States. Fate brought the disassembled building to Miami, where it was resurrected in 1952. Nowadays the monastery's pretty gardens are the backdrop for many a wedding, and its worn stone walkways give some perspective to the probable life span of that new South Beach nightclub. The Ancient Spanish Monastery is open Monday to Saturday from 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. and Sundays from 2:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m. Admission is $5 for adults, $2 for children under twelve, and $2.50 for seniors.

Two words: Uh huh. WMC men -- and some who are just boys, really -- are cute and smart. They are adorable, shaggy-haired DJs who wear hipster sunglasses, vintage shirts, and classic sneakers. They are intelligent and talented musicians -- basically hot geeks. Of course, they know their music (a big bonus in our book). And speaking of books ... they also read. And they watch independent and documentary films. Some are also into photography, while others do volunteer work. They aren't looking for fake boobs and spray-on tans. They want a real girl, one who gets pop-culture references, has actually read Moby Dick, and also thinks dancing to a live Sasha & Digweed set with 300 cool people, all while sailing on a private yacht, would be the best party ever. (It was the best party ever.) We know WMC (and M3 and Remix Hotel and the rest of the conference activities) comes but once a year, but you must make the most of those ten days or so. Get every pass you can, go to all the cool parties, and drink as much Red Bull as you do water. It is worth the time invested -- and the hours of sleep you will forfeit -- to have a vacation from all the dull, vacant men who prefer playing with plastic toys to engaging in an animated discussion about why you both hated the movie Crash so much. You've been wondering where they all are; we found them.

A tender-voiced woman with snow-white locks, Raquel Regalado looks like she belongs on the cover of a grandmotherly greeting card. But don't let her geriatric appearance fool you. She is the tenacious, sharp radio show host of Lo Que Otros No Dicen, a title that literally means "what others won't say." That's Regalado's way of letting her audience know that no subject is off-limits on her morning program. Monday through Friday, beginning at 10:00 a.m., on 670 AM La Poderosa, Regalado tackles the social ills afflicting the Magic City -- from the poor condition of public housing for the elderly to the arrogant indifference of Miami's elected leaders.

In this stimulating series of readings, Florida International University alumni and creative writing students read their work to an audience often underserved in South Florida -- those still interested in language. The readings can be hit-or-miss, with prose that is sometimes blowzy, sometimes brilliant, but they feature luminaries such as The Nation's Victor Navasky, poet Ray Gonzalez, and short-story writer Kelly Cherry. These dynamic writers stop in at locations all over town and are gaining a following. If you like your women literate and community-minded, you just might find Ms. Perfect here.
http://w3.fiu.edu/CRWRITING/Writers%20on%20the%20Bay%202005<\m>2006.htm

Mike Inglis is the opposite of a homer. Unlike his TV counterpart, the unctuous Eric Reid, Inglis calls it like he sees it -- through a half-empty glass, pessimistically. His stoic sidekick, former Heat guard John Crotty, is often left to pick up the pieces after Inglis drops a despairing on-air monologue: "I don't know about you, John, but as glad as I am that the Heat are up by 30 going into the half, I can just feel disaster coming if these guys don't start making their free throws. Maybe not now, but soon. It's just pathetic to watch these guys at the line." (It's not all doom and gloom, though -- Dwyane Wade's acrobatics often have Inglis rejoicing.) Miami Herald sports columnist and 790 AM sports talk host Dan LeBatard is an Inglis fan. "I want truth undistilled, even if I don't like what I'm hearing, instead of sugar-coated crud from propagandists who don't utter a syllable without remembering who pays them for said syllable," LeBatard rants in an e-mail about Inglis. "I don't want to be lied to by people paid to pull out the peppy pompoms."

You will probably walk past this tiny bar three times before noticing it, but once you finally slip inside, you'll find cozy seating, a comfy bar, and a totally different vibe than you've ever experienced. This wonderful little hole is filled with the cutest boys we have ever seen in South Beach. If you've been wondering where they've been hiding, wonder no more. You won't find annoying spring-breakers or have to compete with those chicas in their South Beach slutwear, but you will have to decide between the guy with the awesome hair who looks like he should be on tour with My Chemical Romance and the hipster with a soul-patch, black-rim glasses, and vintage shirt. And these beautiful boys are not afraid to approach pretty girls wearing Anthropologie skirts and "Reading Is Sexy" T-shirts. With candles all around, alternative and indie-rock tunes that are never too loud, and a great selection of wines and beers (including one of our faves, Chimay), this is a place where you'll want to hunker down and stay for the night. The excellent specials (like $3 pints) are just right for putting everyone in that feel-good, love-is-all-around mood.

Don't even get us started.

Realistically the way to meet single women in Miami circa 2006 is to go online and start cruising Match.com, JDate, Craigslist, eHarmony, et cetera. Send e-mails. Exchange photos. Then date. Let's say you're different, though -- a traditionalist, who longs for the ways of the shagadelic Seventies. You appreciate the art of the one-liner. You love the quest for a freshly written phone number. The place for you, my old-school friend, is Novecento on Brickell. It's a sleek, stylish Italian-Argentine restaurant that has branches in New York, Buenos Aires, and Punta del Este, Uruguay. Not surprisingly, Novecento is popular with Latin American financiers hunting for señoritas. It's a particularly swinging scene after work, between 5:30 and 8:00 p.m. You can capitalize on happy hour (4:00 to 7:00 p.m. daily, beer $3, wine $4, mojitos $5, martinis $6) to build up some liquid courage. Then assess the crowd. Your targets: 24- to 30-year-old, largely Latina, young professionals. And yes, most important, they are single -- and attractive. Bring your A-game. If things don't work out at the bar, then relax and try Novecento's Argentine-style skirt steak ($12.95).

Few things are as entertaining as watching a talented actor having a ball with a bunch of roles at once. That is what Erik Fabregat did, with relish, in Mad Cat's Painted Alice by William Donnelly. With accent after outrageous accent and a chameleon's way with physical transformations, Fabregat took little bits in this little play and piled them up into a pig-out of acting exuberance. The man is shameless, not exactly a matinee idol, but definitely the sort of actor by whom you find yourself riveted no matter who else is onstage. That raises the bar for everyone, incidentally, which makes for good theater.

All you have to do is watch an episode of The Sopranos to see how the nouveau riche have, tragically, trampled upon all that once was the province of old money from the Old World. Tony Soprano and Paulie Walnuts might chomp cigars, swig Jameson, and tote copies of the Robb Report while profanely clomping across Pine Valley Golf Club's pristine eighteen holes. Yet there is one world that so far has escaped the grubby attentions of the crass-but-moneyed masses, and that is the domain of equestrian sports. Horses are not Porsche Cayennes, and they require a rather high-octane attention span; it takes time to learn to ride, handle, curry, and bond with a flesh-and-blood ride. You can bling out a thoroughbred only so much. And riding horses -- really doing it well -- isn't easy. So steeplechasing, dressage, and quadrilles remain for the moment a very blue-blood pursuit. The queen of these human-horse sports is of course polo, which pairs extraordinary equine athleticism with equal effort from riders, who basically play a wicked form of lacrosse astride 1000-pound thoroughbreds. In April 2005, Reto Gaudenzi, the master of Casa Casuarina who is also, as luck might have it, a professional polo player, thought to bring his beloved sport here and arranged for a three-day series of matches on Miami Beach across from the Casa at Eleventh Street and Ocean Drive. Polo on the sand was a novelty, but more interesting was that the matches -- played in innings called chukkers -- were open to the public. Despite frequent downpours and blowing sands courtesy of some errant April showers, it was successful. This year -- from April 11 to 13 -- the polo matches, still hosted by Gaudenzi, moved south to the beach behind The Setai on Twentieth Street and Collins Avenue, adjacent to the public beach on 21st Street. The weather cooperated. More children were on hand -- more observers in general -- and the ponies that weren't playing were stationed where scores of little equine lovers could get close enough to inhale. Polo ponies are actually the same thoroughbreds whose cousins race in the Triple Crown, but they are gelded and generally composed of a more compact, stocky body type, similar to that of a quarter horse. Yet in their polo finery -- plaited manes, tales coaxed into pompons or sleek braids, colorful saddle blankets -- they appear majestic. And these horses can haul hindquarters, possessing both sprinting speed and endurance. They are able to spin on a hoof and not get their elegant legs entangled in the dozen others seeking the five-inch-diameter orange ball. The party behind the polo is no joke either -- beyond the expected open bar, both years' tournaments have offered snacks above the norm, from a dozen flavors of gelato to fresh salmon rolls to crabcakes and éclairs. At the end of this past April's tourney, Melissa Ganzi, the only female rider, doffed her pink helmet to a cheering crowd as her Team Kreon emerged triumphant. It was a gracious, graceful spectacle. Don't you barons and baronesses of Brickell get any ideas.