The F1 Miami Grand Prix Feels Like Visiting An Alternate Universe

I’ve never been a Miami person. Every time I go, I end up in an area that’s loud, expensive, and subject to membership fees. The bars, which are sometimes right below or above your hotel room, bump until the early-morning hours. Supercar exhausts and police sirens wail down the streets, day and night.

The social clubs are so strict that when I hosted an event at one last year, I went to the on-site restaurant for lunch and had to beg them to let me buy food because I wasn’t a member. After consulting a manager, they finally did.

I prefer things quiet and affordable, so I’ve always avoided these areas. But last weekend at the Formula One Miami Grand Prix, I finally participated. It was unlike any F1 weekend I’ve experienced — the ultimate show of wealth in the most showy city in America. It felt like being in an alternate universe.

F1 Is Fully American Now, Including Miami

The F1 Miami Grand Prix is young, and it was born in a new era of F1. The inaugural event happened in 2022 as a result of Formula One’s boom in the United States, which coincided with its massively popular Netflix docuseries Drive to Survive.

The race happens at the Miami Dolphins’ NFL stadium, 15 miles from downtown, which is about 90 minutes in bumper-to-bumper race traffic. Miami is part of F1’s growing race calendar, which, in the past few years, has gone from one U.S. event (Circuit of The Americas in Austin, Texas) to three (Austin, Miami, and Las Vegas).

The Miami track looks fancy, with teal grandstand seats and runoff areas painted in palm-tree patterns. But ultimately, it uses the existing facilities: The circuit cuts directly through the stadium’s parking lots; the Turn 18 suites use an indoor training complex for food, drink, and merchandise stations; and the paddock sits inside the actual arena. This year in Miami, McLaren driver Oscar Piastri won the race and extended his championship lead.

F1 has been on the American market since the 1950s, but over the decades, reception was iffy at best. Almost every U.S. race has been doomed: track surfaces melted, heavy rains flooded races, tires disintegrated, and most recently in Austin, people just didn’t come.

Circuit of The Americas was the only American race from 2012 to 2022, and before the DTS boom, it struggled to stay on the F1 calendar — even signing megastar Taylor Swift as the concert headliner in 2016. I remember hoping she would attract more attendees, being disappointed, then looking at my phone map after on-track activities concluded and seeing a wall of traffic approaching the venue. They were there for her, not F1.

Now, F1 is popular on its own in America, and each grand prix feels like a stereotype of its host city. Austin is dotted with live music, cowboy hats, and barbeque. Vegas is the glittery desert oasis with sequined jackets, Elvis impersonators, and middle-of-the-night racing because time doesn’t exist there. Miami hosts the Crypto.com Miami Grand Prix, which says it all. Most people and things, including the fake trackside marina with yachts in it, feel crypto-invested or crypto-adjacent.

The Miami GP Isn’t Just About Racing — It’s About Perceived Opulence

This year was my first Miami Grand Prix, and I went with eBay Motors. The company sponsors the McLaren F1 team, and they brought me and other media out to watch the race and see their new charity auction collection. The collection has a bunch of clothes and accessories worn by supermodel Winnie Harlow, as well as a 27,000-mile Porsche 911 Carrera 4 Cabriolet from 1993 (the 964 generation).

I accepted the invitation, knowing I’m not big on the subculture that surrounds the Miami race. But on my first night in town, I walked outside and saw a street-parked Rolls-Royce Cullinan in the distance. It was covered in either crystal or glitter wrap (my eyes aren’t good enough to tell the difference), and a few inches in front of it was a Lamborghini Urus with the same treatment.

Down the street, a gold Huracán had the doors removed and duct tape all over the side mirrors. It had white, red, and black spray paint all over, spelling out various messages: “Need money 4 doors,” “#69,” “Will not run,” “Need money for tickets,” and more.

That was the moment I decided to embrace the absurdity of it all, at least for one weekend.

I went to Sexy Fish, a restaurant decorated in glitter, neon, fish tanks, intricate mosaics, and aquatic sculptures hanging from the ceiling. (“The restroom cost $1.8 million,” a staffer told me. When I went to see it, the bathroom attendant offered to take Instagram photos of my group. We accepted.)

I looked out over the ocean. I watched my friends spend $100 per shirt at the race. I saw an F1 jacket for $860 and gasped. I ordered $14 alcohol-infused brownie ice cream at a bar expecting at least three scoops, and it came in a can the size of single-serve cat food. A friend messaged as many people as possible, asking if they knew someone with a yacht. It all felt very Miami.

I stayed in Brickell — the financial district of Miami, dotted with rooftop clubs, ocean-view apartments, and restaurants with strict dress codes. There, you encounter a few things: gaudy supercars, cops, $20 cocktails, cigar smoke, lines of people waiting for things you had no idea were going on, and the constant knowledge that everyone is in competition to be the hottest and most opulent person in the room (and you are too, even if you lose).

Some people rip by in Lamborghinis — rented? owned? I can never tell — while others wear such current micro-trends that if they told me they got new outfits in the mail daily, I’d believe them.

Brickell during F1 is chaotic yet cohesive, with everyone trying to exude a derivative of the same absurd wealth and flashiness. It’s like being in a video game: extravagant characters placed to create a uniform environment, where no one is out of place, yet no one feels quite real, either. The city drips with new (potentially temporary) money, and the race does too.

I Don’t Love Miami’s Extravagance, But I Do See The Appeal

I’ve only ever seen the extravagant side of Miami, and I’m still not in love with it. For me, it’s a place to visit occasionally before going home to my cat, 20-year-old cars, and tennis shoes I’ve been gluing back together since 2008. At home, nothing is a hotness competition or a membership fee. It’s the opposite: comfortable. I thrive in comfort.

But after finally giving it a chance, I see the appeal of Miami. When you can afford the cost of entry — either with cash, rental fees, or debt — you’re immediately part of the “in” crowd. And if high school taught me anything, that’s all many people need.

Top photo: Depositphotos.com, author