Our trip to Miami began with a four-hour car ride, three bags of potato chips, a map I couldn’t read and driving circles around Coconut Grove in pursuit of a 24-year-old musician we called “Guitar.”

Originally, Brandy planned for Guitar to be the highlight of her weekend.  I was all for shopping and eating. Mishelle, however, wanted to spend the weekend beaching it with a bottle of wine and some strangers, despite the forecasted rain.

When we passed the bridge to Star Island on the way to South Beach, Brandy tried to convince me to use my business cards to get us in so we could stalk whatever celebrities live there. Despite several business cards zipped up in my purse, I was certain that our suitcases full of bikinis and sundresses wouldn’t at all call attention to the fact we were vacationing for the weekend.

After checking into the hotel and changing from lounge wear to cocktail attire, we took off to Coconut Grove for an evening of live music under the stars and got lost for at least one hour.

Mishelle finally rolled down the window at a stoplight and politely asked the man driving the car next to us whether he knew where Virginia (as in, Virginia Avenue) was.

His reply: “Honey, the state of Virginia is a long way from here.”

Ugh. Come on, really?

We stopped at a gas station hoping for help, but the woman behind the counter pulled out a map, ran her dirty fingernail across it and said, “No Virginia.” This led to driving a few more miles in what we presumed to be the wrong direction. Almost too late, I realized that my iPhone has “an app for that.”

Three non-functioning parking meters, two phone calls and one parking ticket later, we were seated on a sidewalk corner listening to Guitar belt out some lyrics that I no longer remember. We only spent a couple hours in Coconut Grove, but found out the bar Guitar was playing at didn’t have a bathroom, the movie theater closes early and (thankfully) the shops stay open late. I managed to sneak inside White House Black Market for a moment and find the cutest black dress, but Brandy reeled me back out to my barstool so she could get another glimpse of Guitar, saying I could buy the dress on St. Armands. (P.S. I checked when we got back into town — our location didn’t have it!)

After making our way back to the Marriott to drop off Brandy’s car, the three of us headed over to Espanola Street to see what kind of trouble we could get into.

Every building was lit up, and the road was filled with people. We entered the last building on the street, a tapas bar with live Spanish music, an excellent martini menu and welcoming faces.

As I sipped a delicious espresso martini, I felt someone bump into my back. All I can say is thank goodness the brownish liquid went undetected against my pink-and-purple dress.

The bartender got my attention by handing two shot glasses full of blue liquid to me. I questioned them by raising my eyebrows, and he pointed to two Asian guys on my right, who raised their glasses of beer, smiled and walked off to the dance floor.

This sort of thing hasn’t happened to me in Sarasota. Buying a woman a shot here means that either the guy can hang on the girl all night long and expect to wake up with her or that the next shot is on her. First off, girls don’t always ask guys to buy us shots. And, secondly, even if you do decide you’re in the mood to spend a few dollars on a girl you just met, that doesn’t mean we’re interested in you or want to date you.
One of the doormen stole our chairs so that more people could fit in the bar area, which equaled another free drink. This time I chose a peach bellini — champagne with a splash of peach schnapps and a slice of peach. Yum!

Then, it happened. I thought a skunk had crawled on top of my shoulder and sprayed me, but, no, it was a large man from another country who only knew the word “party.” I was his target for the evening and no matter how hard I tried — he even jumped into several photos with me — I couldn’t get rid of him. Over the next two days, we ran into Smelly Guy three more times; at the Delano hotel, Guess store and on the street around 3 a.m. Please explain how this happens in such a big city!

On Saturday morning, Mishelle woke up, grabbed an uncorked bottle of merlot and gave herself a tour of the beach. We found out Sunday afternoon that she met up with some friendly Brits who sold adult toys and wanted to plan a visit here.

Brandy and I spent the day shopping, running from store to store in the cold rain. We were soaked by the time we got home, so a hot shower was definitely a must before we headed to a crazy techno bar and restaurant called Sushi Samba.

The place was insane. Our waiter was a little nutso, and took our first round of drinks to three different tables before he noticed us waving him over. We tried the shrimp ceviche, one of my favorite dishes because of the citrus juices and cilantro. I love cilantro. We’re like peas in a pod.

We each got a roll of sushi, and when I tried to order a scoop of ice cream, the waiter said I couldn’t have regular ice cream — I had to try the Japanese ice cream. He described it as a flavored soft tortilla outside and ice cream center, which did not interest me. When I shook my head, he said if I didn’t like it, the bill was on him. And I’ll tell you what — after the first bite, he was already paying for it.

With a full stomach, Brandy and I headed to the Delano hotel. I was enamored with the place as soon as we walked in. White curtains were draped everywhere, creating a wide path down the center of the lobby. It was beautiful. We found two spots at one of the bars, decorated with mirrors and pretty faces.

After a walk down to the pool, where we found a rather interesting woman attempting some exotic dancing in the shallow end, we ended up back at the first bar and were greeted by a young resident doctor and much older radiologist. We followed the two men to a brand new hotel called W, walked along a path landscaped with every shade of green and skipped a line of people that was growing by the second. We walked through the red-velvet ropes into Club Wall with no problem. Of course, the first step into the club reminded me of how much I hate clubbing.

A few hours later, I finally got Brandy to leave the hot, sweaty, thudding club. We opened the door to our hotel room to find Mishelle asleep in Brandy’s bed.

We woke Sunday morning to a phone call from my friend Alex, who wanted to meet for lunch before we left Miami. We were told Alex had a condo on the beach that belonged to his uncle, but when we followed his directions, it led us to a gated building.

I was somewhere between a cry and a scream when two men with machine guns propped on their shoulders approached the window — ready to shoot our faces off if we disobeyed.  

The Miami National Guard doesn’t mess around. But then again, neither did we. Our faces were hanging out the window, mouths salivating over the cute boys in uniform. One even changed shirts in the parking lot. We snacked on chips as we watched the movie-like happenings take place in the parking lot.

Alex was stuck inside taking a urine test, which happens randomly to members of the guard. That just meant we had an extra 20 minutes of drooling time. When he finally did make it out, he brought a friend with him and directed us to the nearest Cuban restaurant, where we feasted on chicken and steak specialties and Cuban coffee that kept me up for the next 24 hours.

The weekend was a great one, minus the fact that we didn’t make it to the gas station before leaving Miami. This left us with ZERO gas on Alligator Alley and praying the car didn’t conk out.

About 50 miles later, we found a BP gas station that had the best soft-served swirl ice cream a girl could want — definitely better than that tortilla stuff.

 

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