Later, I sat on a parker silver Nissan Maxima with standard Florida plates that may have belonged to a nearby resident - though it was trapped inside the festival grounds. The spacious, outdoor dance floor brought life-giving fresh air. A stone's throw away, Miami's own Natalia Roth played to a small yet active crowd at Door IV. Was this supposed to be an art installation? Or did the organizers forget to put up a "Do Not Enter" sign? Either way, it was an interesting photo shoot for the 'Gram. Photo by Adinayev for III Points The outskirts of Zhu's crowd at Main Frame featured a pitch-black room, which, once illuminated with a phone flashlight, turned out to be filled with traffic cones, barricades, and a single bottle of motor oil. When I walked in that night, there was a half-full box sitting on a concrete slab. By Saturday, it even seemed the III Points organizers wanted people to take the cans. That said, the cans were easy enough to steal when the barbacks loading them looked away.
I was pissed that there wasn't even a bathroom sink to drink from, as there had been in years prior, and Liquid Death - the only water available at the festival - was being sold for $6 a pop. Part of that same code, however, is to find a way around them.
#Is sitting on clouds ost safe code#
Part of the Miami code is to complain about these things. This is Miami, after all, the capitalist dystopia where the more you spend, the better your experience, where the American Airlines Arena has been renamed to reflect a cryptocurrency exchange sponsor, where out-of-town wealth is welcome, even encouraged, despite the way it ruins any semblance of affordable housing for the rest of us, and where the right night out could easily leave you short a grand or two. Though it's an exercise in futility to criticize the lack of places to sit, hydration stations, and Friday's hourlong line most of us had to wait in, even shove through, to get into festival grounds. Photo by Adinayev for III Points Still, last Friday saw many attendees irked by III Points. It was the first time I experienced Miami, outside of a short sojourn I took with my father to see a slimy jeweler downtown, and the handful of ramshackle punk shows I attended at Churchill's Pub when I was in high school. I had grown up in South Florida, sure, but the suburbs of Broward County could not prepare me for this. The art exhibits were entrancing, as were the pounding electronic sets and the outlandish clothing of festival-goers.
There were people there, but it was certainly not crowded. The rest of the weekend was great, despite yet partially because of all the dropped acts. It was the first time I'd experienced anything resembling a club night, and I fell in love. I found my way to Dixon's set and danced my ass off. It was well after midnight by the time I made it into Mana. Disappointed and despondent, I drove down to Miami anyway, 400 miles on the day of the festival, taking the long, western route down the peninsula from Gainesville to avoid the storm, which was hugging the East Coast on its way up.
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