We could get high in Miami, dance the night away,
People never die in Miami, that’s what they all say,
You believe me, don’t you baby?
-Lana del Rey, Florida Kilos
“One of the mixed blessings of being twenty and twenty-one and even twenty-three is the conviction that nothing like this, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, has ever happened to anyone before.”
-Joan Didion, Goodbye To All That
I am writing from an Airbnb in Miami, situated in the bottom bunk of a janky hostel-type shared room: hellooo coronavirus! I failed to realize it was a shared room in my hasty search across Airbnb to find a last minute place to stay. When the map opened and showed only a handful of places available for under $100, I knew the clock was on to beat the many other rash, irresponsible winter-escapees who were focusing too much on the sun and drinking to plan where they would sleep.
The Airbnb is a small, one floor house (shack?) with a metal roof located on the edge of the Wynwood District, an area known for its murals and graffiti that cover the walls of rundown industrial buildings and overpriced Instagram clothing stores. Inside, a long hallway stretches out with multiple rooms on both sides, on the right lays a small counter with a microwave and sink, two miniature bathrooms that remind me of the cramped Peter Pan bus bathrooms (the kind where you can barely close the door when you’re inside) and a shower with the curtain opening directly into the hallway. A door leading to the small, Mexican Victorian styled bar that’s currently playing stuff that sounds like Spanish house music sits at the end (I don’t really know, I’m not great with genres). I do know that it’s so loud and the walls are so thin that the bass is vibrating the metal wire-framed bunk bed I currently lay in. I’m not complaining— I would totally go out and get a drink except I am experiencing serious pain, the magnitude of which I have truly never felt before!!! More on that later.
The whole place feels hobbled together in the most perfect way. It’s a place for solo travelers to catch a cheap bed and shower and that’s about it. It’s run by a small woman named Seda who greets every guest upon arrival while also manning the bar in the back. Girlbossss. After giving me the rundown of the place, essentially just the door code and the rule no bringing guests home for the night (I’m not sure what kind of person brings hookups back to a shared room), Seda politely told me, in broken English, that when leaving the house I should turn left, walk until I see Kush bar, take the right and walk that way. “Do not go straight” she said and cracked a nervous smile. I didn’t ask any more questions. What’s the fun in seeing a city if you’re not going to get down with the slightly sketchy?
I visited Miami’s nude beach this morning, arriving at about 8 and enjoying some relative privacy before the everyday beach dwellers began to stream in around 10. By 12 it was packed with people of all ages (mostly old) and all genders (mostly men) sunbathing in the nude. Most were clearly recurring beach bums, the dead giveaway being that they came very prepared: beach umbrellas, chairs, aerosol sunblock and tanning oil, their dark leathered skin. My pale Irish ass showed up with a towel, a speaker and a small bottle of my favorite Paula’s Choice Calm Mineral SPF 30 Moisturizer (strictly for my face because that shit is expensive) and let me tell you.. my ass paid the price. Literally!! My ass is purple.
And that leads me back to the here and now, where I am cringing and wincing at every minor movement because my ass is on fire. In lieu of real aloe, I’ve tried rubbing my Cerave Moisturizing Cream on it to lessen the peeling that has yet to come (although I have a feeling it will be more like bubbling) but even that is too painful. I’d like to say that I’ve learned my lesson for next time; although, I may be too scarred to ever return to a nude beach (not only because of the burns but also the old men setting up camp a little too close and a little too angled toward me). I’ve decided it was a one-time thing to check off the bucket list. I can deal with the tan lines.
While Miami isn’t among the top on my list of favorite places I have to say I am enjoying my stay here. It beats staying holed-up in those hyper-lux South Beach resorts that’ll run you $300/night. My bunk mates have already had interesting stories to share: Santiago escaped NYC early in the pandemic and moved to Michigan, flew down to Miami to pick up a sports car planning to drive it home only to find out he couldn’t get the title and had to have it shipped, sad ): Tom had been watching his nephew, traveling across the States as his sister stripped in different cities and is now using his unemployment checks to continue traveling with nothing but a backpack and a skateboard. He complained of the difficulties of picking up Miami women if you don’t own a boat and I awkwardly pretended to sympathize with his struggles (lol).
That’s all for now. The exhaustion and the pounding House music are competing for control over my body and as soon as the 12am closing time hits I’m knocking out. I’m checking out tomorrow and have one more sleep until Joe and Dahlia join me in Ft Lauderdale for a week of drinking. I gotta rest up for that. Goodnight Miami.
