Memorial Day weekend is officially upon us. The influx of tourists has already begun, and those locals who haven't already fled to the Keys or Orlando better get ready to mingle with a couple thousand of their new best friends.
In situations like these, telling the tourists from the locals becomes important. How else are you going to know to whom you can speak your native Spanglish, or make sure that hookup you met at Wet Willie's is just a one-night stand, and not a source of awkward run-ins for the next several months? Unfortunately, telling the tourists from the locals also becomes more difficult during Memorial Day weekend, because only the most dedicated party people (read: locals who are just as crazy as the tourists) venture onto the beach.
So we've compiled this handy guide to the differences between the hoards of tourists that flock South for the weekend and Miami Beach locals who've rarely strayed west of West Ave. Now you know, and knowing is half the battle.
Tourists stagger the streets armed with 32-ounce frozen daiquiris.
Locals
know better than to spend $20 on a drink that'll melt in the Miami sun
in .37 seconds. Flasks, 40s in paper bags, and water bottles filled with
Svedka are the traditional local options.
Tourists,
by Sunday morning, can be spotted hobbling down Ocean Drive, their
virgin skin seared medium-well by the tropical sun; their red faces
glowing like beacons in the night.
Locals' leathery skin is unaffected by the blazing rays after years of nearly nude sun-worshiping.
Tourists don neon colored t-shirts garishly announcing
overplayed LMFAO or Pitbull lyrics. (We know you're in Miami, bitch.)
Locals spend the weekend in giveaway liquor t-shirts and dime store flip flops.
Tourists
pay $30 and wait on line for two hours in six-inch stilettos to get
into sub-par clubs, just to see C-list DJs and risk getting roofied by
middle aged creepers.
Locals who aren't holed
up in their own apartments with Netflix and a bottle of Jack are taking
cover in a tourist-averse dive bar. Getting wasted in a windowless hole is a Miami Beach tradition, after all.
Tourists
are suckered by Ocean Drive's snake oil salesgirls. Soon after, find
them sadly sipping giant, watered-down margaritas and eating overpriced
crab legs.
Locals eat while they're pre-gaming
at home, because everyone who lives here has a cousin who got food
poisoning from one of those Ocean Drive restaurants.
Tourists gawk at naked boobs and Brazilian thongs on the beach, with iPhones poised and capturing 24-7.
Locals
aren't moved by a naked breast, a stray wang, or any other unexpected
exhibitions of sexual organs. How else do you think we've all avoided having tan lines?
Telltale Sign #7: The Ride
Tourists drive these:
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