Who goes to Florida in July (think hot) for the Fourth of July (think crowded) for a weekend (think crazy)? The pink suitcase came out of mothballs for precisely that purpose; and kindly, it took me along.

“We” flew down to Fort Lauderdale, hoping to avoid the Miami airport. But a menacing storm with wicked winds required our jet to circle cautiously for so long that it ran out of fuel -- well, almost. The pilot announced we’d have to make a run to -- ugh!-- Miami to refuel before heading back to our original destination. Once we glided down, two hours late, a giant rainbow drew a welcoming arc across the sky, while palm trees swished their fronds in a teasing dance urged on by an exiting gale.

Within 30 minutes I was settling into my chosen spot for the weekend: Hollywood. The other Hollywood. The one without movie stars, without an intersection with Vine, without Graumann’s Chinese Theater. It’s “old Florida” wedged between the cruise terminals of Fort Lauderdale and the overgrown and overpowering Miami sprawl. It’s unpretentious. It has some of the same hotel facades it had in the ‘60s (I know, I was there…). And best of all it had something I couldn’t have found in Ocean City, NJ, on a holiday weekend: deserted beaches.

I plopped my beach towel under a palm early on Saturday, and looked down the stretch of sand: quiet, peaceful, empty. People started to arrive as the day wound on, but there was never a feeling of overcrowding. Live music played along a beachside promenade called The Broadwalk (apologies to AC), and when the sun finally went down, glorious fireworks were shot up over the ocean from a barge plowing through the dark water.

Parties persisted at little beachfront hotels that hung welcome signs on thatched Tiki huts where rum punch was the libation of choice. And it was impossible to resist the urge to dance under towering royal palms. It felt positively tribal. Unrehearsed. Cathartic.

Ah, they’ve sung about the “Moon Over Miami,” but nothing beats the smiling face in the heavens above Hollywood. With its shimmering light illuminating ocean waters set to bathtub perfection -- 88 degrees -- a few fearless souls, myself included, took a midnight dip in the mighty Atlantic.

By Monday I was back in Pennsy pushing a pencil. But the pink suitcase remained packed -- with music, moonbeams and memories.