Return to South Beach: Friday Night with The New Fab Five

My return trip to Miami after the tiny hands episode begins with the longest shuttle ride ever.  See, there’s this meth-head on the shuttle who can’t get it straight that he is a very long way from the Holiday Inn on 175th Street.  Or somewhere in BFE.  Meth-head moves up to talk to the driver, which just happens to be next to me, and Meth-head’s breath is so awful I want to put the pillow on the seat over my mouth.  Also, I have to pee, and my thong underwear is currently riding up my butt.  Hanky-panky, YOU LIE.  Expect a deceptive advertising claim from me and the FTC very soon.

So the driver is trying to explain to Meth-head how to call Holiday Inn in BFE and have them pick him up at the American Airlines terminal at the Miami airport, where we are now headed.  (Meanwhile, Chevre is texting me and asking “where r u?” because she cannot imagine why the 30-minute trip from Ft. Lauderdale is now at 80 minutes and counting.)  Meth-head asks the driver to repeat this information about, oh, say 700 times.  I seriously consider ripping the cell phone from his hands and hitting him over the head with it.

Finally, we are free of Meth-head, but not until he delays us further by arguing the fare with the shuttle driver.  When we roll down Collins Avenue, the shuttle driver actually slows down to point out all the places we should go.  Um, shuttle driver?  Please get me to my hotel.  I am happy to have recommendations but I have been traveling for about nine hours now, and that’s just silly.  And I still have to pee!

The hotel is gorgeous—almost worth the wait!  I want to move in here.  In the room, Renaissance immediately pours me wine.  The room is abuzz with the activity of girls getting beautified and ready to party.  This means every flat surface is covered with the following items: flat irons, jewelry, phones, phone chargers, purses, makeup, clothes, shoes, booze and glasses.  It’s like heaven.

I join the flurry of beautifying activity and then we are off to dinner, carrying our bottles of wine to the BYOB restaurant, Maya.  Upon arrival, our host comments on the hard work we have done to get ready for a night out in South Beach:

“You ladies look like you’re dressed to get laid.”

Intrigue snorts, “I don’t THINK so,” under her breath.

“Did he just say what I thought he said?” I ask.  She confirms.  Wow.  I thought we looked pretty, but apparently the dash of slutty we threw in, owing to the higher slutty factor of South Beach upped the ante to “get laid.”  Ooops.  Not sure that’s what we were going for.

Dinner is wonderful, as I discover the largest, most delicious bowl of cheese risotto ever.  I would seriously travel another nine hours to experience this gooey delight again!!!  (God forbid I try and make it myself.  Me, cook?  What?)

After dinner, more wine and a slight altercation with the wait staff after they attempt to pile on more charges in what might be the most expensive city in the world, we are off to our next destination.  First it’s a brief appearance at—you guessed it!—the second-best hotel in South Beach!  The Delano!!!  The girls, who have read for themselves about the tragic date that was tiny hands, ask me, “But did he ever tell you which hotel was the best?” Shit.  I was so bored by his constant repetition of the phrase “second-best hotel” I forgot to ask which was the best.  Now we will never know.  The tragedy continues.

The girls are on a mission, and decide the Delano won’t do, so we hop into a cab to go check out the hype at LIV. 

(LIV is a constant source of pronunciation woes for our group, as each time we mention it we say, “Liv [pronounced like a shortened form of “Olivia”]” and then we say, “or is it L-I-V?” and then we say, “or Live [pronounced like a-live]” and then we say, “You know, that place we went Friday night.”)

Anyway, we manage to get free passes inside courtesy of some dudes who are clearly using US to get THEMSELVES in, because we are freakin’ gorgeous and everyone knows it’s easier for the girls to get in clubs. 

Apparently I am not only looking fabulous but young, as the bouncer sees fit to card me but no one else.  WTF?  I want whatever he’s smoking.

The Fab Five (that would be us) go directly to the bar.  (Have I mentioned how much I love these girls?)  I’m waiting for the first round when this dude asks what the occasion is.  “Why are you here?” he asks.  Obviously, the correct answer is a birthday or a bachelorette party or some such nonsense.

I shrug.  “Because we’re fabulous.”

He is amused.  “What’s your name, fabulous?”

I tell him and then I am whisked away by the Fab Five.  He asks me to save him a dance.

Then we dance, and then we break some hearts, in no particular order.  At one point, Uma points out that there is actually a $40,000 bottle of booze on the menu.  This place is Out. Of. Control.  There are also little go-go dancer ladies shaking their groove things for us. 

At one point, Intrigue scores us a free shot from some guy she picks up at the bar.  In the process of taking our Patrón shots, he knocks over my brand-spanking-new-15-dollar-vodka-Sprite.  A guy appears out of nowhere and starts cleaning it up.

“Who is that guy?” Shot Spiller asks.

“It’s the magic clean up fairy, of course,” I answer.  Meanwhile, the nicest bartender in the land is re-making my drink at no cost—to me, anyway.  I think Shot Spiller picks up the exorbitant fee.

“Magic clean up fairy?” Shot Spiller thinks this is the funniest thing he has ever heard.  (I guess I am pretty funny, especially if you’re already liquored up!)

Then he decides that he loves my freckles.  He tells me we could make beautiful babies together.  He sort of has me pinned against the bar.  Eeeek. 

I manage to escape him and am following Uma back to the dance floor when I run into some dude and my second brand-spanking-new-15-dollar-vodka-Sprite goes sloshing over the side of the glass.  I scream obscenities.

The cute boy who caused the collision apologizes and points out that his shirt is ruined.  He asks me to come back to the bar for another drink.  Well, okay.  Twist my arm.  At the bar, I notice that it looks as if he and his friends just started shaving.

“Um, are y’all like 12 years old?”

The cute boy proudly shows me a New York license, complete with a 21st birthdate as of that day.  He was born in 1988.  I nearly spit my drink out.  “When you were born, I was a middle school cheerleader,” I tell him.

Renaissance retrieves me and we return to the dance floor.  After more dancing, heart-breaking and really goofy pictures, Chevre decides it’s time to head out and the Fab Five sort of melts into a cab to return home.  The Fab Five is a bit damaged: I might be the only one still wearing shoes as we limp into the hotel.  Upstairs, Renaissance heads immediately for the shower and then goes to bed with pillows over her face and ears to shut out our loudness.  Intrigue sort of passes out curled up on the bed still holding her phone.  Uma and I read the texts as they come in from some boy she met earlier.  Intrigue has insisted on food, but it’s Chevre and Uma who order room service.

We are laughing and carrying on so loudly that (1) we can’t hear the room service guy when he arrives; and (2) our neighbors complain about the noise.  Aw, wouldn’t El Dilector be proud?

Chevre and Uma finish off all the food—french fries much more highly reviewed than the pizza—and attempt to push the cart back into the hallway.  It bangs into the wall, which makes all of us giggle even harder.  Intrigue pops up from her passed out position on the bed.  “Where’s the food?” she asks.

Good night, South Beach.  See you tomorrow! (But, not until, like noon.)

-Shakira 09.29.09