I Finally Lost My Miami Virginity

Sure I’ve explored the southern shores of Florida before, but it was just fooling around. I never really got my feet wet. It’s always been a transition spot for a cruise, an airport pit-stop or a family trip. It's never been an intimate experience; never hung out there for more than a few hours as a post-21 adult. Until Memorial Day weekend, that is; possibly the most daring weekend to get a little frisky with Miami.

Winnie said it best: our first night in Florida was one big knock-knock joke. After almost 48 hours of madness, confusion, the runaround, anti-sobriety agents and a couple standout memories, we sat piled in a hot Volkswagen after getting a jump from the bouncer at the first club we tried to get access into (and clearly failed). At almost 5 am. It was Memorial Day weekend in Miami (and Ft. Lauderdale) and it felt like the hangover in Vegas.

What started out as a late embarkation for a hotel pre-game and table at Club Play ended up as anything but. In one Friday night, we went from being turned away at one club and being overcharged at another ($50 a head for girls? Eff outta here) to hiking up the strip in four inch heels (from 5th to 12th) to attending a hotel function where we interrupted a guy who was about to hit it raw with a random girl (just so you know what we're dealing with). But it was fine because even though the young Miami natives looked like the would-be lovechildren of Chief Keef and Nelly with unkempt baby locks and gold fronts, they were hospitable and polite at first. They immediately showered us with liquor and herbs (I know they wish it was a literal shower, and no I didn't herbally partake). After a few drinks, they got a little too comfortable with their confidence and their spit game. Too bad I was painfully sober and called them out on their crap (I snapped when ol’ boy hit the light switch like no one would notice sudden dimness. Like, are you dumb? I will cut you). After dipping from awkward hotel room, we caught a cab to Club Liv (I honestly had no idea that this was one of Miami’s most poppin’ and most expensive clubs). Turns out it was a special night: Busta Rhymes birthday. So thanks to a last minute connect, we got in free and got champagne to sip on, glow stick necklaces and headdresses, confetti to dance in, tables to stand on, non ratchetly dressed patrons and a mini concert from the birthday boy, quick spitting and all (Caribbeans, go listen to his song “Twerk It”). We couldn't believe how much our night had turned around for the better... Until we got to the parking garage full of hope and joy and wanting relief for our aching feet and heavy eyelids. But the car wouldn't start. Turns out we left the keys in the ignition from the jump (so lettuce first thank the sweet Lord above for us finding the car in the same spot we left it in), and the car wouldn't start. I left the parking garage with so much energy, determined to quickly find someone with jumper cables. Enter bouncer from the adjacent parking lot. If this was just day one, imagine the remaining 3 days...

For days I was pissing around to my friends about not getting to frolic around in what we heard referred to as “urban beach weekend.” My host homie was reluctant to venture back to the masses after Friday’s fiasco. And understandably so. I’d heard all the warnings, but those never scare me away. They only make me curious, antsy even, to find out the hype for myself. We kept most of my jitters at bay by highway coasting with the music blasting (I LOVE this experience as a passenger, don’t be fooled), air boating with the alligator whisperer in the Everglades, scoping out the Seminole Hard Rock for fancy food and rooftop dancing, clubbing with a roomful of Caribs boasting their intricate passa passa choreography and the simplicity of lounging and taking selfies by the neighborhood pool. Unfortunately, the latter eventually led to a stolen iPhone.

Ft. Lauderdale was nice and all, but I was dying to get a daytime view of the buffoonery people say Miami is. And then on the fourth day, Based God made ratchet. Aside from a few spots of drizzle, the Memorial Day sun was perfect. Ocean Drive was a sea of Miami Heat jerseys, Ciroc bottles, bronzed skin poking out of ill-fitting bikinis, drunkenly applied tattoos, Caribbean flags, and six packs and strong arms, a sight I wouldn't trade for anything. To keep it short, during our day bounce from Wet Willies to the party on the sand to the rain soaked strip to the crappy overpriced café with poo-ass burgers to the packed hostel to the hot tub (it was all PG, promise) we bumped into old friends, met new ones and made enough kickass memories to last me until my next trip back. Because I WILL be back.

I know, I know. I was rambling. But let me rock, you know how first timers can get.