The truth is, I love Miami. Three words I hesitate to say too loudly given the current political climate. But I do. I don’t visit often, yet each time I do, I feel oddly at home. Maybe it’s the heat, the sea, the glow of everything, or the city’s strange stillness behind its chaos. Whatever it is, it calls to me. A friend suggested I look into my astrocartography, turns out, my Taurus Midheaven line runs through Miami. Whatever that means.

3:00am: My flight is at 6AM, so I leave my apartment at 3, aggressively early, I know, but JFK traffic is famously moody, smooth one day, gridlocked the next. My Uber smells terrible, so bad I ride with my head halfway out the window, dog in a car style. I make it through TSA in record time and grab a slice from Artichoke. Pizza at 5AM should be criminal activity, but here we are. JetBlue, as always.

9:45am: I land in Miami and immediately feel calm. The drive into the city is beautiful, there’s something about palm trees that makes me flirt with the idea of moving here. It’s the same feeling every time I’m here. I check into the Miami Beach Edition. Everyone that works at the hotel is wearing white, effortlessly chic. My room isn’t ready, so I settle into breakfast at the restaurant. It’s fine. Not bad, not great. But I’m here and that’s enough for now.

11:00am: I post up by the pool and let the Miami sun do what it does best. I’m in my Martine Rose shirt, one of my favorite pieces, covered in portraits of her team, her family, her friends. It’s like wearing a family photo album, and apparently everyone agrees. Strangers keep walking up to me to compliment it. I order a mocktail and sink into the calm.

1:00pm: My room is finally ready. The bellhop takes me up and it’s lovely, serene and with an ocean view that instantly makes me exhale. I take a shower and then a nap. The best kind of luxury.

I get dressed and head out. I’m on my way to the Faena Hotel.

4:30pm: I decide to walk, which turns out to be a gift. Miami’s stillness never fails to surprise me. For all its industrial developments and glossy party reputation, there’s a softness to the city that makes me fall in love with it, every time I’m here. The air is thick but gentle, and the streets, lined with colorful homes and swaying palms, feel like a dream. I take my time, taking it all in. And then, I arrive at the Faena.

6:00pm: The Faena is, as always, a spectacle. It feels more like a Hollywood set than a hotel, red velvet, gold columns, that giant Damien Hirst woolly mammoth in the glass case by the beach. I sit in the lobby for a while, people watching. Miami has a way of making everyone feel like the main character. An old man invites me to dinner, I decline. I’m here for the energy and the breeze 

10:30pm: Back at the hotel. I shower again, wrap myself in a robe, and climb into bed. I feel a lump forming in my throat. There was a lot of coughing on the plane, too much not to notice. I try not to spiral, but just in case, I order Theraflu on Uber Eats and ask room service for boiling hot water. I have two cups and crawl into bed. I drift off, hoping I feel better in the morning.

4:00pm: I head to Chef Creole, a Haitian spot that’s very popular in Miami. I order the snapper with rice and peas, and it’s perfect. The kind of perfect that makes you close your eyes after the first bite. I add fried shrimp too, and regret not going for the fried conch. It’s one of the best meals I’ve had in a long time. Watching the community come in and out, picking up orders, chatting with the staff, it felt warm and familiar. Like home. Like Trinidad and Tobago.

6:00pm: I head back to the hotel and take a seat at the bar. I don’t order anything, I just sit, people watch. I’m really starting to feel it now. The Theraflu is wearing off, my energy is low, and I know I need to call it a night.

I make my way up to the room, change into my pajamas, put on Summer House on Bravo, and curl up with my Theraflu like it’s a blanket. I fall asleep somewhere between the first argument and the first confessional.

10:00am: It’s my last day. My flight is at 5PM, so I’m up with Theraflu in hand, my trusty travel companion on this trip. I order breakfast, play some music, and ease into the morning.

I make my way to the beach. I don’t get in the water, no offense to Miami, truly, but I only bathe in Caribbean waters. I’m a little bougie that way. Still, I lay in the sun hoping it melts away this cold. I fall asleep right there, under the sky.

1:30pm: I wake up, sun dazed, and head back to my room. Time to pack.

3:00pm: I leave the hotel, bags in hand. I want to check out properly, say thank you to the front desk staff who’ve been so lovely, but the line is wrapped around the lobby. It’s a shame.

My Uber arrives and we’re immediately stuck in traffic. The app says I won’t arrive at the airport until 4:30. Normally, I’d be spiraling if this were New York, I’d be sweating bullets, already texting someone about being over New York. But I’m calm. The Miami calm has seeped into me, and I’m at peace with whatever happens. Then, while still stuck on the freeway, I get a message from JetBlue, my flight’s been delayed. Well, look at that. Everything always works out.

I arrive, check my bag, and brave the TSA line, which feels like the entire population of Florida has decided to fly today. I wait an hour to get through. After that, I make my way to Chick-fil-A, sit, eat and wait. My flight finally leaves at 8PM. I land in New York at 11. Uber home. Shower. Theraflu. Bed.