Where the Girls Are

It has never happened before. Not anywhere. Ever. There is a greater concentration of female beauty on the southern tip of Miami Beach between First Street and Fourteenth Street than has ever occurred in the history of the planet. This sounds like hyperbole, doesn't it? But hear me out.

We are talking about 120 blocks. According to Irene Marie of the Irene Marie Model Agency, 1500 models live in these blocks year-round. The math is simple. There are about 13 beauties per block. A lucky number for some. And that's not all. During the winter season, the megamodels jet in from New York-the Christys, Stephanies, Naomis and Cindys. They come from Europe, from Scandinavia and from Germany for the catalog shoots-hundreds of Nordic beauties. And long-legged Hispanics from Latin America. In season, there are perhaps 500 more girls visiting from abroad.

South Beach is now a major modeling center in America. Some say that it is bigger than Los Angeles. It is almost as big as London, Paris or Milan. But those other places are vast cities. South Beach is a village. That's why it's unique. That's why beauty fills the eye of the beholder. It is the girl-watching capital of the universe.

You will need somewhere to stay. Try the Marlin Hotel. Lots of top models stay there. You'll meet them in the funky bar and in the funkier Jamaican restaurant, Shabeen, where you eat goat and listen to state-of-the-trend reggae. The Marlin is owned by Chris Blackwell, the Englishman who signed Bob Marley and U2 to his Island Records label. Another hotel possibility is Gloria Estefan's Cardozo, on Ocean Drive. Eat with the Cuban elite in the nearby Carlos Alves-decorated restaurant, Larios. New Yorkers like the Park Central, which was there at the beginning of the beach revival. Barocco, its restaurant, is an offshoot of the one in Soho. Magazines such as Vogue and Harper's Bazaar use it. So if you like your girls Kate Moss-thin and on top of things, this is where you will go. Or you could stay at the Raleigh, which has the most beautiful pool in Miami and an open-air muscle-pumping station beside it. Models from the North hang out here to pick up the obligatory South Beach tan. Sharpen your chat, Milwaukee. This is it.

You have come here not just to see the girls. You have come here to meet them. In the rest of America that is not easy. Here, it is. But you will need some tips. More important, you will need some accessories. First, transport. Forget cars. You will be outgunned by the Porsche- and Mercedes-tooling locals. What you need is a bike, and not just any old bike. You need a (continued on page 161) Where the Girls Are (continued from page 138) Harley, a great big chrome and custom-painted monster-a Fat Boy, a Heritage Softail or a sexy Low Rider. You can rent Harleys here, believe it or not. Next stop, Wings of Steel on Espanola Way. Here you will buy your Harley accessories and wonder about shipping a sleek new bike home. As you cruise the strip, eyes on red alert for girls, your cellular phone will be sticking out of your black canvas bag. You were wise enough to pick up a pair of sunglass clip-ons and now you are ready for your first major South Beach experience. You are going to do some serious people-watching at the News Cafe.

Dressed from head to toe in faded blue denim, Sixties style, you will buy a copy of the International Herald Tribune and case the joint to see which tables are handled by the prettiest waitresses and which are close to the tables with the girls. If you sit long enough at the News, and they will let you, you will see everyone in South Beach walk by. It's the only place to start. Past you will parade the girls in these photographs. They will waft by on the Rollerblades you will rent tomorrow, their perfect buttocks encased in blue denim minishorts, the top buttons undone to show the bikinis beneath. You have never seen quads like these, or legs or ankles. You have never seen tans so even and breasts so pert. They are deliciously different, and gloriously the same. They are young and fit and confident. They are in the right place at the right time, and so are you. However, your anxiety is beginning to rise. The women are everywhere. But how to make contact?

The two German girls at the next table are deep in conversation. You haven't made eye contact. Ditto the three American girls in front of you. What you need is a prop. The last time I was there, a guy brought a snake, a great, sleek, fat one, in his beach bag. He had it crawl round his neck, and there wasn't a girl in the place who wasn't trying to talk with him. Another guy had an iguana, but that was another day. Puppies are great, but as yet are difficult to rent on the beach. (Babies are heavy lifting and give out contradictory vibrations.) A pretty girl by your side makes you very attractive on the unto-them-that-hath-it-shall-be-given principle, but we are in catch-22 land now.

The top of your head is wired from the Cuban coffee, and you are getting desperate. This is a voyeur's paradise, but you are a man of action. So make your move. It's time to work out. Take your choice. The South Beach Gym. The Gridiron on Alton Road or Club Body Tech on Washington Avenue. Shared sweat and shared pain break down barriers. These places are thick with models trying to lose weight on their agents' instructions. Their hearts are not in it. So they will welcome the distraction that will be you.

What are the pick-up lines that work? Here's the lowdown. Tell her you recognize that she's a model. Appeal to the Narcissus who lives just beneath the surface in these girls. "Do you mind my asking just how tall you are?" should bring an appreciative smile from a six-footer. Tall girls clean up, and it was clever of you to know. Or you can ask for help. "How do I adjust this machine?" "Am I doing this right?" or "How long did it take you to get your legs looking like that?" Be brave. Fear not. This is friendly South Beach. This is not L.A., where the girl you are hitting on would already be thinking about calling the cops.

Let's imagine it is not your day. You still have no partner for the club crawl of the century. Do not despair. Outside on Washington Avenue, it's hotter than hell. Up and down the sidewalk are the Cuban juice bars, where they squeeze things like guanabana, mango and papaya. You sit on a long bench and quench your thirst with the healthiest and most delicious drinks in the world. And you are not alone. The Rollerblade models get hot, too. One flops down beside you on the bench and the pair of you are alone-fellow travelers in some quaint Third World country. How about that? Vitamin C and the girl of your dreams, both there at the same time.

But it's no good. Is it your cologne or the lack of it? Whatever. Here's what you do. Go back to your hotel, pick up the phone and make an appointment for a massage. Jacqui, the masseuse at South Beach Massage in the historic Webster Hotel building, will give you one of the best therapeutic massages you've ever had. And you are also going to take Rollerblading lessons with Tina Wiseman. Tell her I sent you. Now here's the deal. Lucky for you, she is also a night-beat authority par excellence. Are your culinary tastes offbeat? She'll send you to eat red snapper at Bang, which looks like a set out of Phantom of the Opera, and then to drink and party at Rebar, just across the road, and later to Sean Penn's Bash. Are you a gastronome? She'll send you to the French-owned Strand, where South Beach restaurants began, or to Cassis, whose chef used to run the kitchen at New York's Le Cirque. After that, Tina will send you to stylish Les Bains, whose sister, Les Bains Douches, has been the Paris night spot for years. If you own a disco medallion, you will want to try Le Loft or Van Dome for dirty dancing. If you are a hungry student, then Lulu's is definitely your place.

But the immediate future is Tina. She is your Rollerblade instructor, or if you desire, she will guide your workout in the gym. Tina is better looking than all the girls you have seen so far. She was a model and now she is a trainer. She sparred with Mickey Rourke a few months back. Her body is as near as you will come to heaven on this earth. Anatomy doesn't get more perfect than this. Soon you are out on the boulevard with her, gliding along Ocean Drive, framed by the water and the palm trees. All the guys in all the cafés are watching and wishing they could be you. It might be cheating, but it will do wonders for your self-confidence, and, as we all know, self-confidence is all there is.

Oh, and of course, there is still tonight, and this is still South Beach.

"This is a voyeur's paradise, but you are a man of action. So make your move. It's time to work out."