An local’s guide on what not to do when visiting Miami
There’s something about Miami – heck, about Florida in general. On any given day, you can stroll down the streets, let’s say Calle Ocho, and marvel at the menagerie that is human life. Yup, that’s a guy with an iguana on his shoulder, and yes, he’s feeding his tiny dinosaur live crickets. Look over there – it’s a tricked-out car driven by an octogenarian with a Vin Diesel tattoo on her neck and electric blue hair. Is that Pitbull composing his next hit by listening to a ringtone? Possibly.
Welcome to Miami: a petri dish of genetic malcontents living off Buffett, Estefan, and the unspoken code. That is, we won’t bother you… unless you put your feet on our coffee table. Then it’s “Thunderdome.”
You might think this city is one wacky day away from declaring “The Purge” a national holiday. It seems that anything goes. But if you want to survive the experience, you’d better stick around. Why? Because Miami is loose and wild and friendly – but it also has a license to carry. It could even be a concealed machete.
The fever dream
Miami isn’t just a city—it’s a fever dream with a coastline and a gumshoe attitude that throws caution straight into the Biscayne breeze in the middle of a hurricane party. It’s where luxury condos and Cuban coffee crash headlong into Florida Man energy and EDM basslines that never go away, even when the music stops. It’s intoxicating. It’s also deeply chaotic. It’s a world unto itself. That’s part of its charm—and its danger.
If you come in wide-eyed, with a fanny pack and a vague sense of “vibes,” Miami will eat you alive, spit out your AirPods, and use your sunglasses as bait for the next set of tourists. So here it is: a lovingly judgmental guide to what not to do in Miami. Not just to help you survive—but to help you not look like that person.
We have dinosaurs and things that eat dinosaurs
Let’s start here: don’t swim in canals. Sure, the water looks calm and even worthy of Instagram or TikTok. But this is Florida. Those canals aren’t decorative, but they are gator expressways. You might think it’s cute to take a dip in the Venetian Causeway’s backwaters or some charming corner of Hialeah. However, it’s not adorable when you lose a foot. Pets also go missing here. Daily. You do not want to gain viral fame because a manatee thought it was mating season.
Back in the late ’90s, thanks to that sweet “white powdered” money flowing in from Latin America (fun fact: during the cartel boom, Miami had more banks than anywhere else in the U.S.), we started building like a caffeinated toddler with a LEGO set and ADHD. But nature got wrecked. Gators were almost wiped out. So we started protecting them, building habitats, cuddling baby Stitch-faced swamp monsters.
Flash-forward 20 years? We’re overrun. Turns out that apex predators who survived the asteroid don’t need much help to bounce back. Who would have thought? And it also turns out that when you give them food, a relaxed ambiance, and PitBull blaring 24/7 – they get frisky. They multiply like bunnies on a mission.
Oh, and did I mention the bull sharks that swim in freshwater? It turns out God has a sense of humor and decides that the most dangerous of sharks need that mutant power. Not to mention the massive pythons, illegally imported from all over as pets and now slithering around the Everglades like rejected Godzilla extras. Yeah. Miami is Jurassic Park without the liability waivers.
Wildlife is out there, and it wants to be left alone
This should be obvious, but apparently it’s not: don’t mess with the wildlife.That includes iguanas, raccoons, parrots, and whatever that lizard was that looked like it had a podcast about crypto. Miami’s urban ecosystem is basically Pokémon meets Jumanji. It’s real. It’s wild. It’s armed.
Feeding a raccoon a croqueta might feel magical – like your Snow White moment – but he’s not there to harmonize with woodland creatures and sing you a song. He’s there to mug you.
And past 150th Street? It’s a swamp. The Everglades, the largest wetland in the U.S., is home to all kinds of nasties. Case in point: Miami has its own Bigfoot. Yup, the Skunk Ape. Real name. Actual local research station. Smells like hell, walks like beef jerky on stilts. Might be a cannibal.
The sun will bake you in an instant
Next up: don’t underestimate that glowing death orb in the sky. Tourists think they’re immune because they once tanned in Tulum or survived July in Phoenix. Cute. But the Miami sun doesn’t play. It reflects off everything – glass, ocean, beach sand, luxury vehicles, retirees’ sunglasses – and hits you with double UV karma. You’ll land thinking you’re golden. Three hours later? You’re a boiled lobster and the natives are chuckling behind your back calling you “stupid gringo.”. SPF 50 isn’t a we’ll see. It’s body armor.
Leave the bad taste at home
While we’re on the topic of being seen: don’t dress like you’re in a Kid Rock video unless you’re actually in one. Miami has style, yes—but it’s not all sequins, body glitter, and discount Tommy Bahama. If you show up in head-to-toe neon mesh, we’ll assume you took a wrong turn in 2007.
The real look? Linen. Yacht-core. Subtle designer drip that whispers “money” while pretending to be casual. And anyway, all that fabric? It’s gonna get drenched. You’ll sweat through it before brunch. Dress like you’re headed to Hell’s sauna on a layover in Hades. Because, in summer, the Devil himself strolls down Ocean Drive with a Gatorade and screams, “Somebody turn on the damn A/C!”
English as a second language
Don’t assume everyone speaks Spanish—but also don’t assume they don’t. It’s weird. It’s wonderful. It’s Miami. You could be in Little Havana ordering a cortadito coffee with an opera swagger of a telenovela villain and get corrected by a barista from Buffalo on your pronunciation of “señor.”. Or you could be in Wynwood, begging for oat milk, and get side-eyed by a guy who DJ’d underground reggaetón parties in Bogotá. Best bet? Learn to say more than “¿Dónde está el baño?” and roll with it.
Your driver’s license doesn’t mean a damn thing
Don’t rent a car unless you’re into vehicular nihilism. Miami driving is part demolition derby, part choose-your-own-adventure, and part “Why is that man doing 90 while FaceTiming?” It’s a PTSD moment and shrinks getting a new condo off your issues. Blinkers? Optional. Speed limits? Just vibes. Turn signals? Sarcasm, mostly – the final of that group used ironically sometimes. The roads are M.C. Escher lithographs. The motorist plucked from a painting by Hieronymus Bosch.
A grandma once got cut off and responded by sticking a 9mm out the window and “shot over the bow.” True story.If you’re from a place with public transport and social contracts, brace yourself. If you must drive, treat every merge like it’s the” Hunger Games.” Or just rideshare—and hope your Uber driver isn’t arguing with their cousin in Bluetooth stereo the whole ride.
This is not Vegas
Miami doesn’t owe you anything. It’s not Vegas with a beach. It’s not L.A. with better coffee. It’s not your personal playground. It’s a city with layers—communities that have been here for generations. Neighborhoods with real stories. People who are not background extras in your beach montage. Treat it like a living place, not a postcard. Respect it, and you’ll start to see the weird magic behind the madness.
If you treat it like a movie set, you’ll miss the plot. Miami may look like it’s full of fools, but it’s not. And it suffers no fools.This is the region that gave us NASA engineers, Tom Petty, and poets like Jim Morrison.
It has attracted mob bosses who wanted to retire and ex-dictators hiding next to political dissidents who’ve seen the worst of humanity. This place is myth, memory, and madness mixed in a cocktail shaker.
A wrap-up (because I like you, and want you to survive)
Never try to buy anything from a guy on Ocean Drive wearing an inflatable flamingo. That’s not what you think. That’s a felony in a fruit roll-up – or you waking up in Tampa a day later quoting the Talking Heads, “how did I get here?”
Don’t swim where you shouldn’t. Don’t feed anything that hisses. Don’t assume you know what you’re doing just because you read a travel blog or once partied in Ibiza.
Miami is so many things—beautiful, bizarre, bipolar in both weather and attitude—but it is never boring.Approach it with a ten-foot stick, a decent hat, and a flexible definition of “normal,” and you’ll be just fine.If not… Well, at least your mugshot will have a killer tan.
