The Miami woman is a rare commodity, a wonder to behold. And when something summons their illustriously loud presence to another far-off land, taking them out of their natural habitat, that certain je ne sais quoi shines all the brighter, especially in the heavily condensed hustle and bustle of New York City, and especially during New York Fashion Week.
While trekking from show to show during the semi-annual roundup of designers, we couldn't help but notice some irrefutable differences between the Miami fashion ambassador, and the contemporary likes of her hunched-back counterpart, the City girl.
Here's how you sniff out Miami's finest from everyone else at NYFW. Observe.
"Being on time"
The people of Miami take being "fashionably late" very seriously. Being on time to us means being at least an hour late to the rest of American civilization. Somehow, our lack of punctuality works for us in the 305. But when you apply this concept during New York Fashion Week, the result is missing the Lie Sang Bong runway show and a magnificent collection of butterfly and cloud covered silks and organza, honoring the sinking of a ferry off of the South Coast of Korea and the children who were lost in the tragedy. Gawd, we're such assholes. Note: Set alarm two hours ahead of schedule in New York; no, on second thought, make that three.
Our caffeine dependency
Artsy, foam swirls and Starbucks on every corner of every neighborhood in Manhattan are cool and all; but to us Miamians, it's just not enough. Our tolerance soars much higher than just wimpy pumpkin spice lattes or IG-worthy cappuccinos in the morning (and throughout the day really). No, we depend on a controlled substance, or brownish-black gold rather, that teeter-totters on being some form of illegality. The substance of which we refer to can easily be recognized as a café Cubano, a cortadito, a colada, or a café con leche. Tragically, the citizens of New York deprive themselves of this Miami method of survival. So when you happen to spot the girl (or guy) on the steps of Lincoln Center tweaking out, while double-fisting two PSLs, trying to make do without his or her "buchito de café," then you have just come face-to-face with a fellow shaky-handed Miamian. We feel your pain -- and not to mention, headache, too.
When you only tip 15 percent at dinner
Notoriously known for our lack of generosity in the dining room, we apply this same practice in five-star restaurants in Manhattan. We're not cheap -- we were just born that way. In fact, you might consider it a pleasantry; a form of endearment that says, "Hey, good job, buddy. Here's a little extra for all your hard work." A word of caution: expect to receive baffled looks of concern from your friends that now reside in the city and have evolved past 15 percent to a whopping 20.
Running vs. sauntering
They run to the shows, we walk, late or not; because without our cafecito por la mañana, really, that's all we can give.
A bandaged babe in a land of potato sacks
The average Miami male prefers his woman in brightly colored, bandage-tight dresses, nip-waisted and all; the average male hailing from NYC enjoys his broads swathed in the very antithesis of the contrived likes of a Herve dress. In fact, you might even compare the silhouette of these coveted NYC women, who fancy the more neutral side of the color spectrum, to that of a potato sack -- rid from any signs of curves brought on by an ass, a DD cup, or dare we say, baby-making hips. However, these ladies are flossing Diesel Black Gold's entire current collection, earning them a lusty stare-down from not only the men of NYC, but the women as well. Yah, things work differently up there.
Oye, Pero, or Bueno
Whether your first language was Spanish or not, if you call Miami home, one of these aforementioned words is bound to sneak into your day-to-day vernacular, and probably all in the same sentence if the Miami gene runs prominent in your blood. To us, these words are as crucial the English words and, the, and like. Allow us to demonstrate: "Oye, I thought that I was sitting at the Hervé Léger show not standing. Pero, what is that? Bueno, whatever." But when introduced to the NYC fashion community, you're met with contorted faces staring back at you, asking if one of these words is the name of a new designer showing this season, followed by a look of distress when they are now convinced that they have not been invited to this alleged "Pero SS15 Runway Show." We'll keep our mouths shut while they sulk in devastation because at least that's one "show" we're attending that they're not (insert silent, evil laugh here).
No, we're not throwing a fit; we're simply expressing how much we thoroughly enjoyed the finale walk at Taoray Wang's minimalistic, androgynous show. However we try to convey a sense of excitement through our body language, we always get pegged as the obscene degenerates, wantonly making a spectacle by our less conspicuous neighbors to the north. Could it be all the black beans and platanitos that give us that boost of passionate energy to put action to every word? Hey, maybe that's what makes us such good dancers. Oh, and expect loud, disruptive noises to protrude from our mouths, matching our equally emphatic hand gestures because we wouldn't be properly repping MIA if we didn't.
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