MIAMI VICE

Memorial Day Weekend had finally began. We were off the plane and into a cheap Uber, with a driver who spoke little English but had no problem embarking on a wild goose chase after liquor.

With a handle of vodka, Cool Ranch Doritos, and an assortment of tums and Advil, we began a terribly humid journey to the Fontainebleu. The place is a maze, but beautiful; decorated with massive chandeliers and long, glass hallways, and a trillion grande entrances that did not directly lead to our destination — nor a map. After recruiting a tour guide, we finally found check-in. “May I have a card to place on hold for incidentals?” We both fished for our wallets, myself always fishing longer. But this time, too long.

“My wallet’s gone,” I said, sweat beading across my forehead.

Who would I be if I didn’t lose at least one valuable within the first five seconds of stepping foot on vacation? Evidently not myself.

I immediately began running — sprinting, retracing my steps and flashing back to my short-lived days as a very inadequate track star. I was coming up on the first desk we momentarily stopped at for direction. I wasn’t going to stop (in my head my wallet had fallen from my purse to the sidewalk during our trek from the corner store), but something made me jolt back. The woman was on the phone — very, very seriously on the phone — despite me anxiously fidgeting before her. She finally glanced up and I flowed over the desk, “Hi! Please tell me someone turned in a wallet? Um — it’s black.” (Killer introduction.) The look on her face was not one of someone who was about to save a life, so I’m about to take the loss. Just as I turn away, I catch her reach across the desk, leisurely pulling up a black square. “That’s mine! Oh my god, that’s mine. My ID is in there — Lorelei Rose Taylor.” My eyes welled up. After kissing her feet, I ran back to Kennedy, waving my wallet hysterically. She threw up her hands and rejoiced. Welcome to our life.

Kennedy and I walked into our spacious room to find two queen beds and nothing but blackness beyond the window — blackness we banked on becoming a sick ass view by morning. “I think my wallet crisis won us a free pity-upgrade,” I said. Kennedy laughed, for it couldn’t be closer to the truth.

Daylight saw us tossed by the pool, indulging in overpriced drinks and breakfast wraps on demand. I’ve never stayed at a resort before, and the Fontainebleu only made me eager for the next opportunity — minus the bath water that seemed to have overflowed into the pools. Seeking a change of scenery (and more refreshing cool-off), we’d periodically sprint across scalding hot, white sand, bypassing cabanas we could only dream of affording, and into an ocean that will never grow old to me. (However, it will rob me of my St. Tropez tan, as I grew significantly ghostlier in every photo.)

Post ever-necessary naps, our evenings were spent in the marble bathroom, losing ourselves in makeup and marveling about how far our lives have progressed since darker days. By the time we slipped into reckless black numbers, the night wasn’t so young. We chased back shots and ran downstairs to LIV to meet the promoters we found via Instagram tags, quickly making new friends from foreign places while we waited for bottle service — a very strange and little understood luxury of being a girl at big city clubs. We spent the next night playing through the same motions, fading in and out of the clubs my friends lost their fake IDs to when we were 19. Miami is different when you’re 19. No more or less fun, necessarily, just a different kind.

And we had absolutely nothing else to do. No pre-made itinerary; rolling with any opportunity that sounded like a good time. Someone-somewhere recommended we hit Bodega for tacos — a cuisine you don’t have to suggest to us twice — so we grabbed another Uber and indulged in our staples: Tacos and margaritas. Alcohol introduced us to the guys at our table, and we followed our new friends into the connecting club for a drink, later capping the night with a shit-show at STORY.

We finally took to Ocean Avenue on Sunday, grabbing bowls of frozen liquor at the edge of the boardwalk. We passed a thousand restaurants boasting similar offers, but 2 for $36 won us over. (To note, we needed one. But this is us.) Somehow, this place was at the center of all of the cosmos. The waitresses jumped around table to table, pouring liquor into all of our mouths while LMFAO’s “Shots” obnoxiously belted from the speakers. We were literally sitting at the hub of Urban Beach Week (an event entirely unplanned on our behalf), featuring endless entertainment from a drunk man sitting behind us, who stood up to flatter every single woman that passed by. A man stopped to buy us roses, before another approached us, sketching my portrait. I think it’s implied, but the afternoon was thereon unexpectedly wild. We tried to revive ourselves for Nicki Minaj’s appearance at LIV that night, but after the day-drunk and blistering heat, it was a dream better slept.

And so we left with a lot of sand and no regrets — as Miami is light years away from being a place where you should harbor any of those.