This has got to be the stupidest place to go to without pre-drinking somewhere else. That’s true of most places in South Beach on account of their “rape is fun” pricing schemes, but Wall takes it to another level.
Picture this. It’s 1994 in Rwanda. The Hutu are slaughtering the Tutsi indiscriminately (that’s not true, they were doing some hardcore discrimination, that was the point) and various Tutsi flee to a heavily-guarded UN outpost. They’re standing outside the gates clamoring to enter. At the gates are two heavily-armed soldiers not letting anyone in. For the Tutsi standing outside the gate begging to enter, it’s a life or death situation.
Picture this. It’s 1994 in Rwanda.
That’s what Wall is like. Change “life or death” to “urge to get laid” and make all the black people Hispanics and you know what I’m talking about. But it’s SoBe, you have to expect that. But inside, it’s the size of a closet. A linen closet. Full of linen. The music kinda sucks, but that’s subjective. The women though, Zeus almighty. Supposedly, hips don’t lie, but at Wall they bend the truth a little bit. It must’ve been gangsta booty night or something. They were hot as hell, but around those parts I’m used to seeing the more slender or athletic types, and that night was definitely straight out of a hip hop menagerie.
There’s a bar near the entrance and another in the back wall on the inside. Usually with a table you’re not supposed to feel like you’re making the fucking Middle Passage, yet it felt like it. Strangely enough I started to like the place more as more liquor entered my bloodstream. Someone just investigate on why that occurs, because it’s a very interesting phenomenon. Also, the women started looking a little more my type. There was one, let’s call her Miranda (because her name was Miranda), who I started chatting up. Of course, by “chatting up” I mean yelling into her ear. She told me she was an executive assistant. I made the mistake of asking her for what sort of company and had to spend the next five minutes pretending I could hear what she was talking about. After the first two times you yell “WHAT?” and point your ear at her, you can’t do it anymore. From that point on you have to nod your head and pretend you can hear her. Sprinkle a few laughs and hope you timed it on a joke and not a “and that’s how my dad went to prison for public masturbation.”
Of course, by “chatting up” I mean yelling into her ear.
Anyway, after all that I hear her say, “don’t you agree?” Of course I agree. Always agree. “…*noise*….. must …….*noise*…. exterminate ……..*noise*…….. Jews ….. don’t you agree?” I had a few more conversations like that, some ended badly, some ended well.
The restroom line was nonexistent. That’s pretty cool considering the urge to not break the seal has you waiting until the last possible moment to take a leak, and you want to piss (and overflow) in the tiny ice-filled cup you’re holding in your hands when you realize there are 14 guys ahead of you.
Like any other club, you have to be in the right mindset to enjoy it. That is, pre-drunk and horny. You’d think being in a hotel means lots of touristy gals ready to put out, but the truth is it’s 90% touristy guys wanting to take someone upstairs.
People who would enjoy it
People who would not enjoy it
- W Hotel
- 2201 Collins Ave
- Miami Beach, FL 33139