If I were forced to pick just one place in the whole wide world to sit and
have a drink, then it would have to be the terrace of the Tides hotel in
South Beach, Miami.
Sipping a cool, cool beer, I can just make out the beach itself with its
pastel-coloured lifeguard towers over the grassy dunes 100 yards ahead. Just
in front of the dunes lie 100 yards of sandy no-man’s-land where
Rastafarians selling coconuts mix with Cubans working out on high bars,
showing off to gaggles of micro-bikinied girls giggling in Spanglish. In
front of them lies a tarmacked promenade down which swish and swoon an
endless procession of heart-stoppingly beautiful in-line skaters.
Meanwhile, directly in front of me is the main attraction: Ocean Drive, or
Ocean as it’s known here in SoBe. It’s a beachfront stretch of art-deco
hotels to which it feels like the whole of hip America has come to pay
homage. Obviously, this being the States, they didn’t walk here. Enormous
Hummers pursue little red Corvettes, gloriously customised orange-and-chrome
choppers cruise past Hispanics in low-riders, their arms hanging loose out
of the open windows that channel their ear-splitting soundtrack in my
direction.
All this, and the first time I came down for breakfast, the rapper Jah Rule
was sitting at the table next to me, with his pet lion lounging contentedly
at his feet.
South Beach is that kind of place. It’s the American Riviera. It’s like Cannes
run by hipsters and everyone’s invited, no jacket required. It’s a place
where yellow Porsches make complete sense. It’s where I can become someone
else.
Five years ago, if you’d mentioned the word Florida, I would have shuddered.
Florida, to me, was a muddle of lobster-pink English package-holidaymakers
visiting godawful amusement parks while being mugged by the occupants of the
millions of stolen vehicles that I could watch every night on World’s
Wildest Police Chases. Florida, I thought, was just a redneck, sunbaked,
no-go zone.
I was right, but I hadn’t been to South Beach yet. When I was filming Trigger
Happy USA, a location finder recommended Miami and off we went. I remember
landing and being hit by the wall of heat as we exited the plane. I remember
trying to translate the endless tannoy announcements that were made
exclusively in Spanish. Had I got on the wrong plane? This wasn’t America.
Then we drove over the bridge crossing from downtown Miami onto the curious
island that is Miami Beach. I was blown away. This was not my America. This
America had gorgeous weather, stunning, slightly faded art-deco architecture
and a Latin feel that took the edge off the normal in-your-face Americana
without losing the amazing 24-hour service part. This was heaven.
Then I saw the Tides. SoBe is almost totally low-rise and the Tides rises
imperiously over its stunted neighbours on Ocean. The lobby has an enormous,
double-height space with cool, stone floors and three portholes puncturing
the walls on each side, allowing you to see the beach from the pool at the
back as though you’re peering through some enormous fantasy telescope.
The whole building has been redone so that the corridor on each floor is at
the back and every room in the place overlooks Ocean and the beach. If you
can’t be bothered actually to go and stare at the topless hotties on the
beach, there is a real telescope at the window of each room. It’s
perfection.
I don’t normally like city breaks: go see the big, tall thing, wander
aimlessly around the big, open-space thing and hurry through the very old
cultural thing. This done, I start to get bored and normally have a big
argument with my travelling companion and end up going to the cinema.
This never happens in Miami, thanks to South Beach. I love to take the Versace
walk in the evening. His gorgeously excessive house is two blocks down from
the Tides. Twice a day he would saunter down Ocean, past the dancers at the
Clevelander, skirting the entrance to Gloria Estefan’s uber-trendy Cuban
restaurant and end up at the News Café, where, apart from getting a drink
and watching the world go by, you can purchase cigarettes and newspapers
from everywhere in the world, and I mean everywhere.
Versace would obviously then walk back home, but I tend to avoid that, as he
was gunned down on the marble steps in front of his house, and that’s not
really my idea of a good night out. He was shot by some crazed stalker, not
a random criminal; South Beach actually feels very safe and you can’t help
marvelling at how far it has come. Fans of the movie Scarface can have a
real good look at how dilapidated and dangerous Ocean was but 25 or so years
ago. One of the most violent scenes in the film shows Pacino drive down the
strip in an old convertible and end up killing an entire household of
Colombians when a drug deal goes wrong. The slow regeneration of the
art-deco area and its designation as a historical district was what first
attracted the producers of Miami Vice, whose programme really kick-started
the place’s ultimate revival back in the 1980s.
Turning off Ocean, I cut through the trendy shopping street that is Collins
and get to the slightly scuzzier and definitely hipper Washington. Moving
north, I eventually cross Lincoln Road Mall. Lincoln Road, a pedestrian-only
zone, hits Miami Beach at right angles. Packed with bars and restaurants and
people — so many people — it’s a joy to amble down.
Finely toned gay couples straight out of Sex and the City sidle past
ultraconfident Latina lovelies, in minuscule pink outfits, taking the
world’s smallest dogs out for their evening constitutionals. There must be a
law against large dogs on the island as I have yet to see one even half the
size of a cat. If it all went meltdown and SoBe somehow went back to nature,
then cats would be the main predators, hunting down petrified packs of tiny
little gay dogs. I think I spotted the future cat-führer one evening. He is
simply known as “the cat in the hat” by locals. An enormous grey creature,
he waddles up and down the road, sporting a tiny, bespoke woollen hat.
Nobody knows much about him or why he wears the hat, but if you’re a
mini-dog, you wouldn’t dare ask, as he could kill you by sitting on you.
My average evening normally ends up in one of the enormous outdoor
restaurant/pool bars that back off the row of hotels on the northern end of
Collins. I tend to flit between the Delano and the Shore Club. The Delano is
a classic Schrager hotel masterpiece. The entrance is very theatrical, with
miles of flowing pillars of muslin framing the trademark enormous pieces of
isolated furniture in the lobby. You pass the best sushi bar in the city and
make your way past models playing pool before descending into the garden
where the restaurant overlooks the pool bar. Here, tables and chairs are
placed in the middle of the ankle-deep end of the pool. Three or four
mojitos (the SoBe drink of choice) and you’re up for the Shore Club a block
and a half further down. I’ve had problems getting in here in the past, but
some kind soul finally sorted me out with a Schrager VIP card that gets you
into any of his bars/restaurants at the merest flash of plastic. It’s one of
the best things I’ve ever been given.
By the Shore Club pool, I flop down on an enormous bed and finish off the
evening with a couple of apple martinis. The music is invariably inspired,
with a fantastically eclectic taste ranging from Supertramp to Prince.
South Beach has rapidly gone from crime-ridden, run-down dump to America’s
hottest destination. The place buzzes with energy and excitement as artists,
musicians and fashionistas dance the night away. For God’s sake, I’ve even
been known to dance there and that hasn’t happened since I was a 21-year-old
goth smashed on cider-and-black in the Electric Ballroom in Camden.
Sitting on the terrace of the Tides, watching the midnight traffic parade and
sipping the world’s best caffe latte, I can’t help looking up into the
starry sky. I never see it, but I know what I’m looking for. In
Scarface there’s a moment where Pacino stares up into the Miami sky and sees
an enormous blimp that bears an impressive LCD display. Across the blimp
scroll the words “The world is yours”. In South Beach it sure feels like it.
Travel brief
Getting there: direct scheduled flights to Miami operate from
Heathrow, with American Airlines (0845 778 9789,
www.americanairlines.co.uk), British Airways (0870 850 9850, www.ba.com) and
Virgin Atlantic (0870 380 2007, www.virgin-atlantic.com). September fares
for each start at £326.
For regional departures, Expedia has flights from Manchester and Edinburgh
from £348, with BMI via Washington. Or try STA (0870 160 5513,
www.statravel.co.uk), or Flight Centre (0870 499 0040,
www.flightcentre.co.uk). Gohop.ie (01 2412389, www.gohop.ie) has flights
from Dublin from €529, with BA via Heathrow.
Where to stay: the super- stylish Tides (00 1-305 604 5070,
www.tidessouthbeach.com), at 1220 Ocean Drive, has doubles from £212. Or a
more modest art-deco classic is the Albion Hotel (1650 James Avenue; 305 913
1000, www.rubellhotels.com), with doubles from £82.
Tour operators: Elegant Resorts (01244 897520,
www.elegantresorts.co.uk) has seven nights at the Tides from £1,440pp,
including flights from Heathrow with BA. Regional add-ons from Glasgow,
Manchester and others from £35pp. Or try Carrier (01625 547040,
www.carrier.co.uk), or Virgin Holidays (0870 220 2788,
www.virginholidays.co.uk).
