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A man in shorts so oversized they make Justin Bieber’s saggy-pants era look like a skinny jeans revival slouches against a streetlight on Ocean Drive. Beside him gleams a candy-red convertible, and he rattles his keys just enough to broadcast: yes, it’s mine. Behind him, neon flickers awake while the night air blends salt, perfume and something fried. Cars prowl past, and the breeze catches the man’s shorts, inflating them into twin hot-air balloons preparing for lift-off.
Art Deco hotels along Ocean Drive on a sunny morning in Miami.Credit: Getty Images
It’s my first foray into the Miami night after arriving by train from Orlando, and after ditching my luggage at the hotel I’m already hooked – half dizzy from the chaos, half giddy from the energy.
South Beach, where I’m staying, screams excess – flashing signs, blaring music and the confident strut of people who seem to own the pavement. Although I’m soaking it all in, I feel out of place. It’s sweltering and I’m in a maxi dress; here, I look like a covered-up librarian. Women glide past in tiny skirts and high heels that click like percussion, their laughter spilling into the night.
After weaving up and down Ocean Drive, watching cars cruise and tourists pose, I finally settle into a restaurant that spills onto the sidewalk. People-watching is the sport here, and I happily join in over dinner, sipping a drink slowly to stretch out the show.
Music isn’t background noise in Miami, it’s the city’s heartbeat. Drums and horns laced with Cuban roots tumble from cafes and bars, rhythms that arrived with waves of immigrants from the island in the mid-20th century and have stitched themselves into the city’s fabric.
But Miami isn’t just nightlife – its art, history and community hum long before dusk, and nowhere more so than in Little Havana. Here, the locals down cafecitos – tiny, strong, sweet espressos – from morning until night. I join them late one morning, downing one, then another.
On Calle Ocho, smoke from hand-rolled cigars mingles with coffee as I wander past souvenir shops. A classic Cuban hat insists on being bought for a friend; a trio of tiny basket-and-hat sets destined for my daughter and her cousins. Touristy or not, I order a local specialty, a Cubano toasted sandwich, for lunch. The pressed bread crackles in my hands, cheese stretching, pork and ham stacked in salty-sweet perfection.
South Beach flaunts lifeguard towers and bronzed bodies, but quieter stretches are beacons for families – and pelicans, bringing a hush, a balance, to the city’s beat.
From Little Havana’s old-world charm I wander north, into Miami’s glossy playgrounds. The Design District dazzles with boutiques and galleries spilling into the streets, every corner curated to impress (unlike the coffee I stop to drink). The contrasts sharpen further in Wynwood, where colour riots across every wall, murals sprawling over warehouses, turning the streets into open-air galleries augmented by food trucks and pop-up shops; even the people seem like works of art.
Eventually, the ocean pulls me back. Miami’s beaches are its exhale, a counterpoint to the frenzy. South Beach flaunts lifeguard towers and bronzed bodies, but quieter stretches are beacons for families – and pelicans, bringing a hush, a balance, to the city’s beat.
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What I love about Miami is the way the contrasts don’t clash. The calm of the beach flows into the chaos of the streets, and polished hotels sit comfortably alongside gritty neighbourhoods. In Little Havana, a nightclub pulses with bass just steps from a guitarist strumming softly, while a Michelin-starred restaurant shares a block with a cafe pouring strong coffee into chipped mugs. By logic, it shouldn’t fit together – but somehow, it does.
Miami doesn’t ask to be understood, it demands to be experienced – in the crackle of a fresh Cubano, the salty spray on your face, the sway of a stranger. And even after you leave, its beat lingers like a song you didn’t know you knew.
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