head over feet
Miami and me, we got a love-hate-love thing going on. This weekend was my third trip to Winter Party, the super-sized homo fest that storms South Beach every March, and I'll have to say this was my best trip yet — even if the weekend ended with my head in a trash can. (Long story. Next topic?)
I've been to South Beach four times in the past decade, and I've definitely watched the area go through a downturn. In 1996, I was floored by how queer it was — we're talking guys in speedos on rollerblades, rainbow flags on the volley ball nets. It was like I'd walked onto the set of The Birdcage, but thankfully lacking Robin Williams.
In 2003, my next trip to Ocean Drive, the 'hood had lost some of its luster. This time I actually stayed at the Surfcomber, WP's host hotel, and I remember being wowed by the gorgeous art deco architecture, even if some of the streetlife seemed less fashionista and more Florida — which is not a compliment.
The BF and I ventured down together in '04, which was an off year all around. South Beach felt downright threatening in places, with thugs on several corners and a certain something missing from the events.
It rained at the end of the Sunday beach party, which was a bummer, and the closing at Crobar left us both feeling cold. Of course, we were staying in the scuzzy Island House that year, a bathhouse with none of the sex, or better yet a dorm with none of the cute college guys. Vote me off that Island, because I'd never stay there again.
This year's Winter Party made more sense — partly because we're now New Yorkers. Leaving blowing snow and landing in 70 degrees and sun has a way of altering your mind set.
Plus, the trip turned into a sort of reunion for us, a rare chance to catch up with friends from Atlanta, D.C., S.F., Austin, Montreal and god knows where else. I can see now why some people do WP year after year. It's really not about the parties at all: It's a homo homecoming.
For me, the highlight of the weekend was Saturday night, when I actually stayed in the hotel room, ordered pizza and just hung out with my core group of friends. The beach party on Sunday certainly didn't suck, and Saturday's poolside soiree remains a favorite. But nothing can touch nights like that, when you've got nowhere to be and can giggle for hours at the most ludicrous moments that you know no one else in the world would get.
As for South Beach, I'm happy to report that the old girl seems to be coming back around. It looked 10 or 20 percent less rundown than two years ago, even if some of the sparkle has faded. Said one local, the difference now is that South Beach isn't as much of a gay destination: It's just a gay-friendly vacation spot. I see what he means, and I wonder if several of the old stand-by destinations aren't starting to experience the same trend. P-Town, anyone?
Today I'm pretty down, bummed that the weekend went by so quickly and more than a little ashamed that I played the part of Patty Pukes-a-lot at the closing party (see earlier comment about my good friend, the trash can). At the same time, I feel fortunate to have such good friends, the kind of guys who'll hold your hair back when you're spitting up your spleen, and stick around to make of you for it later. Bring it on, boys; I know I deserve it. Next year, maybe I'll get Miami right.
I've been to South Beach four times in the past decade, and I've definitely watched the area go through a downturn. In 1996, I was floored by how queer it was — we're talking guys in speedos on rollerblades, rainbow flags on the volley ball nets. It was like I'd walked onto the set of The Birdcage, but thankfully lacking Robin Williams. In 2003, my next trip to Ocean Drive, the 'hood had lost some of its luster. This time I actually stayed at the Surfcomber, WP's host hotel, and I remember being wowed by the gorgeous art deco architecture, even if some of the streetlife seemed less fashionista and more Florida — which is not a compliment.
The BF and I ventured down together in '04, which was an off year all around. South Beach felt downright threatening in places, with thugs on several corners and a certain something missing from the events.
It rained at the end of the Sunday beach party, which was a bummer, and the closing at Crobar left us both feeling cold. Of course, we were staying in the scuzzy Island House that year, a bathhouse with none of the sex, or better yet a dorm with none of the cute college guys. Vote me off that Island, because I'd never stay there again.
This year's Winter Party made more sense — partly because we're now New Yorkers. Leaving blowing snow and landing in 70 degrees and sun has a way of altering your mind set.
Plus, the trip turned into a sort of reunion for us, a rare chance to catch up with friends from Atlanta, D.C., S.F., Austin, Montreal and god knows where else. I can see now why some people do WP year after year. It's really not about the parties at all: It's a homo homecoming.
For me, the highlight of the weekend was Saturday night, when I actually stayed in the hotel room, ordered pizza and just hung out with my core group of friends. The beach party on Sunday certainly didn't suck, and Saturday's poolside soiree remains a favorite. But nothing can touch nights like that, when you've got nowhere to be and can giggle for hours at the most ludicrous moments that you know no one else in the world would get.
As for South Beach, I'm happy to report that the old girl seems to be coming back around. It looked 10 or 20 percent less rundown than two years ago, even if some of the sparkle has faded. Said one local, the difference now is that South Beach isn't as much of a gay destination: It's just a gay-friendly vacation spot. I see what he means, and I wonder if several of the old stand-by destinations aren't starting to experience the same trend. P-Town, anyone?
Today I'm pretty down, bummed that the weekend went by so quickly and more than a little ashamed that I played the part of Patty Pukes-a-lot at the closing party (see earlier comment about my good friend, the trash can). At the same time, I feel fortunate to have such good friends, the kind of guys who'll hold your hair back when you're spitting up your spleen, and stick around to make of you for it later. Bring it on, boys; I know I deserve it. Next year, maybe I'll get Miami right.
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