Left Kissimmee mid-morning, thinking we'd cruise into Miami by late afternoon. Should've been four hours, tops. Turned into nearly seven.
The Turnpike quickly became chaotic—lane closures, fender benders, flashing lights, drivers weaving through lanes like pinballs. We bailed near Yeehaw Junction. Apple Maps got jumpy, rerouted us through scrubland detours and backroad silence. Then, the sky filled in.
Holed up in a friendly McDonald's in nowhere America. Nursed a coffee each while lightning flashed, thunder cracked, and rain swallowed the road. The kind of downpour that makes you wait it out, no matter how far behind you are.
When we finally rejoined I-95, we hit the wall—Friday night traffic, crawling toward the city. Even the express toll lanes were often stationery.
Finally arrived in South Beach. Turned onto Collins Avenue. Pastel Art Deco storefronts rolling past, tattoo shops, juice bars, Cuban diners, boutique hotels with Margarita bars out front. We’re still crawling but it’s the right kind of crawl.
The Tony Hotel. Our home for the next three nights. Art Deco bones and old school charm. Built in the '30s, still standing proud in the noise and glow. A curve of white façade and subtle signage. It doesn’t scream. Just leans back and lets you come to it.
Bags dumped fast, car dumped quicker.
Rooftop bar. Palms swaying. Beats bouncing. Sky burned gold, now slipping to ink.
Drinks cold. Night hot.
We made it.
Collins still hums below.
But we’re done crawling.
But we’re done crawling.
I-95? Already forgotten.
