Miami, USA
Miami is completely mental. I don’t know how else to describe it. From the second we arrived, the whole place felt like it was operating at a different frequency to anywhere else I’d been on the trip. The hostel set the tone immediately - it was basically a non-stop party, the kind of place where you walk into the common area at 2pm on a Tuesday and people are doing shots. My kind of establishment.
The first couple of days were relatively civilised (by Miami standards). JT and I grabbed some beers and watched the Miami game, which is a pretty ideal way to ease into a new city. The next day I caught up with Alex at a pub to watch the Euro 2012 Germany v Netherlands game. Finding a pub showing European football and arguing about tactics over cheap beer felt right.
We had a few pool days and drinks at Felt pub, which was becoming our local. One afternoon, some of the guys from the room and I hit the beach. I’d been looking increasingly like a beach bum, so I decided it was time for a haircut. Walked into a Vidal Sassoon and walked out eighty dollars lighter. Eighty dollars. For a haircut. But I’ll admit, I looked significantly less feral afterwards.
That evening we went to Mangos for dinner and drinks, and things escalated quickly. The cocktails were strong, the music was loud, and before I knew it I was what can only be described as “zombie” drunk. The kind of drunk where you’re technically still standing and moving, but there’s nobody home behind the eyes. Not my finest moment, but Miami has a way of doing that to you.
The last night was meant to be a casual farewell. We went down to the beach, checked out the Miami Ink shop and the Jersey Shore house (peak tourist behaviour, I know), and then headed out for one final big night. Dancing, bars, the whole lot.
Then I reached for my phone and it wasn’t there.
Checked every pocket. Retraced my steps. Asked around. Nothing. Some opportunistic soul had lifted it off me on the beach. My phone, with all my contacts, photos from the last few weeks, everything. Gone. Fucking ass biscuits.
There’s a special kind of sinking feeling that comes with losing your phone while travelling. It’s not just the device - it’s the photos you hadn’t backed up, the numbers you hadn’t saved anywhere else, the sudden realisation that you’re navigating a foreign country with no GPS and no way to contact anyone. It properly rattled me.
But what can you do? Miami giveth and Miami taketh away. Despite the phone theft souring the ending, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have an absolute blast. I just wish I still had the photos to prove it.
