I was once told that all things strange wash up in Miami. Maybe that’s why we ended up there, winding through the glitz and glamour of South Beach. We were imported just like the rest of culture, only without the luxury flaunted down the main drag. If you’ve seen any Miami Vice re-run or any Rick Ross music video, then you have an understanding of what I’m talking about. The beaches are beautiful, the women are gorgeous, and the food is simply poetic. It was however, a little much, so we retreated over the bridge to a place where we felt more invited – Wynwood.
Things are expressed differently over there. The yachts and Ferrari’s have vanished, the condos have dwarfed to boutiques, and every wall was a meticulously painted mural. It was fucking beautiful. This was where we belonged, among the creative outcasts and hellbent artists of Miami. These are the people who stay up all hours of the night creating something of magnitude instead of popping ecstasy in a club. These were our people. So as a matter of tradition, we threw the fine folks of Wynwood a party. It was sort of homage to their beautiful niche.
The next morning we shook off our hangovers and got to work. After all, we were there to conduct business. It was good to see everybody again. We made new friends and checked in on the old.