It starts, as many Florida stories do, with a mosquito.
In the 1890s, Miami was a desolate stretch of mangrove swamp. Julia Tuttle—the only woman known to found a major U.S. city—sent an orange blossom to Henry Flagler to prove the city was frost-free. That citrus flower helped coax the railroad baron to extend his line southward. By the time the tracks arrived in 1896, the mosquitoes had receded just enough for 300 settlers to sign Miami into existence.
But Miami has never really shaken its strangeness. It is, after all, the only major U.S. city founded by a woman. It’s also one of the only cities where parrots are feral, iguanas fall from trees when temperatures drop, and basements are an impossibility due to the porous limestone lurking inches beneath the soil. It’s a city that shouldn’t work—and yet, somehow, does.
The Coral Castle That Love Built
Just south of the city, off a quiet stretch of U.S. 1, sits one of Miami’s most improbable landmarks: the Coral Castle.
Built by a single Latvian immigrant named Edward Leedskalnin over 28 years with no one ever witnessing how he moved the massive stones, the Coral Castle feels like a homemade Stonehenge infused with heartbreak. Ed carved and balanced over 1,000 tons of oolite limestone—some weighing 30 tons—with no machines. He claimed to understand the secrets of magnetism and gravity.
For kids, it’s a wonderland of giant rocking chairs, sundials, and spinning gates. For adults, it’s part sculpture garden, part scientific mystery, part love letter to a woman who never married him.
Local lore says Ed built it at night, using “anti-gravity” secrets he took to his grave. Scientists say levers and pulleys. Miami just shrugs. It’s always been a city content to let magic coexist with concrete.
Mangoes and Croquetas: A Culinary Mash-Up
Nowhere is Miami’s cultural blender more flavorful than in its food. Take Versailles, for instance—not the French palace, but the Cuban one on Calle Ocho. Inside this family-run icon, the mirrored walls reflect plates of ropa vieja, fried plantains, and café con leche served so strong it feels like rocket fuel.
A few blocks away, El Rey de las Fritas serves up Cuban hamburgers topped with shoestring potatoes—a meal best enjoyed in a parking lot with the windows down and salsa playing on the radio.
Then there’s Joe’s Stone Crab, where families crack claws and dip them in mustard sauce as they have for over a century. Opened in 1913, it’s as old as Miami Beach itself. During peak season, Joe’s serves nearly 1,000 pounds of stone crab claws per night—most of them harvested within a few miles offshore.
And for dessert? Head to Azucar Ice Cream Company, where flavors like “Abuela Maria” (vanilla, guava, cream cheese, and Maria cookies) tell the story of an entire neighborhood in a single scoop.
Lodging: Glamour, Gators, and Ghosts
For accommodations, Miami doesn’t do bland.
The Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables, a 1926 Mediterranean Revival marvel, has hosted everyone from Al Capone to Franklin Roosevelt. Rumor has it a mobster’s ghost haunts the 13th floor, but the real magic is the massive swimming pool—once home to synchronized swimmers and alligator wrestlers.
Families will find the Loews Miami Beach Hotel both elegant and practical. With direct beach access, kids’ clubs, and skyline views, it’s a front-row seat to the city’s Art Deco dreamscape.
Looking for something quirkier? Try The Vagabond Hotel, a mid-century motor lodge turned retro-chic boutique. Originally built in 1953, it was a hangout for Frank Sinatra and his Rat Pack pals. Today, it boasts mural-covered walls, a funky pool shaped like a boomerang, and serious old-Miami vibes.
Concrete and Crocodiles
Miami is a paradox. It’s home to more high-rises than almost any U.S. city, yet just a few miles west, the Everglades begin. A “River of Grass” that stretches 60 miles wide and one foot deep, it’s the only place on earth where alligators and crocodiles coexist.
Board an airboat with Gator Park, and within minutes you’ll be flying over sawgrass, pointing out herons, turtles, and—if you’re lucky—a sunbathing gator or two. Don’t forget ear protection. The boats are loud. The memories are louder.
Closer to the city center, the Frost Museum of Science offers a stunning aquarium, a planetarium, and rooftop views of Biscayne Bay. It’s one of the few museums where you can peer into the Gulf Stream or watch hammerhead sharks swim overhead—without ever leaving the air conditioning.
Insider Family Tip (Don’t Call It That)
Miami traffic is infamous, but the city’s free Metromover loop downtown is a kid’s dream and a parent’s blessing. It glides above traffic like a toy train and stops at major attractions. Locals swear by it. Tourists tend to miss it. Board at Bayfront Park and ride a full loop just for fun.
And if you’re planning beach time, skip South Beach’s crowds and head to Crandon Park on Key Biscayne. It’s got shallow water, soft sand, free parking if you’re early, and shade trees that double as iguana condos.
The City That Shouldn’t Be
Miami is built on drained swamp and dreams. It survives hurricanes, real estate collapses, and seasonal humidity that feels like walking through soup. It is relentlessly weird and endlessly fascinating.
Here, you can eat Haitian griot in Little Haiti, Venezuelan arepas in Doral, and sip cafecito in Coconut Grove—all in the same afternoon. You can snorkel coral reefs, stroll art fairs, kayak through mangroves, or bike across Venetian bridges where peacocks sometimes block traffic.
It’s a place where birds fly upside down (no joke: black skimmers do this while feeding) and where people live upside down, too—swapping day for night, offices for patios, and problems for pastelitos.
Is it chaotic? Often. Confusing? Sometimes. But boring? Never.
And like that first mosquito-bitten band of settlers, anyone who makes peace with the weirdness of Miami often finds themselves wanting to stay a while.
