There is a version of Miami Beach that only exists between the last cruise ship of spring and the first cold front of November. The hotels drop their rates and their guard. The restaurants that were impossible in March have a table by the window. The ocean is warm enough to swim in at six in the morning without arguing with yourself.
This is the version I live in. It’s slower and stranger than the postcard, and it’s where most of the good conversations happen — on a walk down the boardwalk before it gets hot, at a long table on somebody’s terrace with the fans going.
If you’re thinking about coming for a gathering, come in the off-season. You’ll get a different city, and a better one.