Too Old for the Peacock Parade: Notes from a Miami Beach Exile

From our apartment wedged beside a Hampton Inn in Miami Beach, the morning soundtrack is a symphony of honking horns—angry, insistent, and deeply personal, as if each driver believes their rage will somehow part the traffic like the Red Sea. I’m grateful we didn’t rent a car. Instead, we’ll wander on foot like civilized tourists and hop a trolley to today’s grand event: a five-hour tour of Miami’s greatest hits—its islands, its excess, and its curated chaos. Dinner and a boat ride are promised, which sounds either romantic or like a timeshare presentation with ocean views.

For my family, it’s all new—the pastel Art Deco, the swampy opulence, the omnipresent scent of tanning oil and ambition. But for me, a native Floridian, this is a strange pilgrimage, a nostalgia trip filtered through Botox and Beats headphones. Miami hasn’t changed—it’s just doubled down. This isn’t a city. It’s a humid runway where the rich and surgically sculpted flex their flesh like currency. I feel like I’m attending a party I wasn’t invited to, wearing the wrong shoes and ten years too late.

This morning, my wife and I walked the edge of the Atlantic, and I was struck by how different it smells from the Pacific. The Pacific has that cold, salty hush. The Atlantic? It smells lush—warm, sweet, almost suggestive. Like a pineapple cocktail is about to glide down from the clouds and whisper, “Welcome, darling.” There’s something in the air here that makes you believe life is one long poolside flirtation—until you check your bank account or your blood pressure.

Still, I’m looking forward to going home. Say what you will about Los Angeles—it’s neurotic, performative, and addicted to traffic—but compared to Miami Beach, it’s practically Amish.