Razzle Dazzle Basel
In our sixth year as parents, finally doing it like pros (o pazzi).
Every year, Art Basel comes to town generating glee and outrage simultaneously. International art appreciators, collectors, the glitterati and party professionals alike flock to Miami in droves to feast their ojos on some arte, and to knock elbows with elites whilst partying in the way only Miami knows how. Art Basel itself is but one (sort of stuffy if you ask me) art fair. The name, however, has extended to encompass everything that happens during this magical and maddening week; seven thrilling days of festivities and enough expensive art to satisfy the tastes of onlookers everywhere.
This year, a drove of elephants made their way across the sand as locales, new and old, made their attempts to achieve a balance of inclusive exclusivity. Seemingly every famous DJ was about town gracing glitzy, glammy, even ravie parties with their presence. The highlights, for me, were Design Miami in terms of fairs and Five Palms in terms of fun, the later of which was perhaps the most epic party I’ve ever been to. More on that in a minute.
Disappointments? Personally, I was disheartened by what felt like a shift in Basel fashion. In years past, it felt like the people watching was more captivating. The global crowd meandering around the fairs were often art themselves. This year, it felt like it was just Miami Beach’s usual hot and hard bodied crowd had expanded. Maybe this is evidence of Basel having become less about seeing art and more about being seen. Well, that in addition to it being the era of Ozempic and Lip Flips.
Then there are the fiestas that we old school locals used to look forward to all year and have since become sort of let downs. For instance, Soho House’s Beach Tent opening party used to kick off the week. It often collided with my birthday making for a festive affair that gathered hundreds of friends and acquaintances under the moon on the ocean’s edge. It’s now too packed, too sweaty and too obvious that the vibe has changed since Soho went public. Although, it could be that me and my Founding Member cohort are just old now and being edged out, quite literally.
I’m likely the only person not kvetching about the traffic, rating it as disappointment number one. It’s really quite something. Locals for whom it takes three hours from point A to point B rather than the usual 15 minutes curse the Basel name, declaring their refusal to take part in any of it. And then there’s us.
I learned how to drive a scooter a few years ago specifically to allow for weaving through the intolerable Basel traffic. It’s since become a way of life but Basel was indeed the impetus. So as our local friends and family agonize over the traffic, we are relatively unaffected, illegally zipping through as disgruntled drivers huff and puff or yell desperately “Can I get a ride?!” and I yell back, “Get a scooter!”.
I’ve been asked by some marginally less degenerate parent friends how we manage to do it all, parenting and partying, during Art Week (and otherwise). Having turned inward to provide a helpful response, I found the truth is simply that we forego rest, sleep and sitting down at any point. The kiddos are always our priority. We want them to miss nothing, experience everything and always feel our presence. On the other hand though, and largely due to Gabri’s brand of TOMO (terror of missing out) I often reference, we miss close to nothing and experience everything alongside the creatures of the night.
Having failed to ship the littles off to the grandparents like other wiser friends (blessed with that possibility) do, Basel week didn’t mean a break from parental responsibility. In addition to school drop offs, school pick ups, sports and more home cooked meals than I ever imagined I’d be held accountable for, we spent the days porting the kids around to fairs like Scope and Design Miami to see the beach elephants and to dance at the Baby Rave in Soho’s tent before tucking them in with snuggles til they drifted off. And then, our journey into the night would begin. Of all the nocturnal affairs (for which there were many), the Five Palms closing party takes the cake.
Tell you more? Well, I don’t claim to be exceptionally cool. I don’t self identify as sittin’ pretty amongst the Gypset. I do, however, know many of its members by fabulous filler-laden face, if not name. When you live on Miami Beach, spend your summers in Ibiza and are married to a charming Italian who’s 14-on-the-inside and a forever party boy, it’s only a matter of time before you find your way into the belly of la vita bella, or more aptly put… la vida loca. And there is no better summation of Miami’s version of la vida loca than what transpired at Five Palms, the best fiesta yet courtesy one of Miami Beach’s most professional party “boys” and owner of what’s certainly among it’s most gorgeous homes.
Let’s do a visualization exercise: Think of a mansion. Now think of three mansions connected together, exquisitely designed with entertaining in mind and positioned against a beautiful palm-fringed aquatic Miami backdrop. Imagine multiple DJ consuls inside and out, with incredible sound systems, flowers hanging from the ceiling, endless angles to snuggle into, ample daybeds to rest your over-danced feet, a poolside bar, an indoor bar, an actual club inside, clean bathrooms with tolerable two minute lines, delicious food for the few rumbling tummies and everything else for those behaving badly.
Even with an invite and the coveted bands collected and wrapped around our ready wrists, it was a tough door. But where there’s a Gabri, there’s a way. I’ve never actually seen him not make it in to anywhere. While I’m the one who gets the proper invite or the names on the list, there isn’t a line or a bouncer or a “no” that’s a true match for him. In fact, earlier in the weekend, he took one look at Island Garden’s line for Adam Port, said nope, and in we went ahead of the hundreds of far more patient people waiting in the two hour line. No VIP bands? No problem. We somehow walked right in past the velvet rope, invisible despite being among the taller couples there.
And so, a minute of “no” at Five Palms became hours of yes. Yes to Blondie, to Vanjee, to Bedouin, to Seth Troxler, and to the MVPs … Juan Du Sol and Nico Bernardini sharing the decks for SIX HOURS straight! Yes to endless dancing. Yes to shirking responsibility. Yes to this other dimension, a planet where a beautiful species reminiscent of humans but with music pumping through their veins instead of blood undulate as one to rhythms worthy of the most magical city. Yes yes yes.
Actually, no. That’s a lie. I wasn’t without responsibility. The party started at 3am. We arrived around 5:45am. I set an alarm for 9:40am and exited nervously to get my laptop out of our scooter while I sat crosseyed and anxious on the ground to register Dani for his after school enrichments at 10am sharp. Registration happens on a first come, first serve basis and I was not about to allow my need to party to get in the way of Dani’s future happiness! This probably serves as an example of the Brahatkin version of doing it all, simultaneous parenting and partying. The party gods were in my favor because he got into all four enrichments I signed him up for and I was able to squeeze my way back into the party, unburdened by potentially disappointing one of my babies. I can’t imagine the bouncer had ever heard the same re-entry excuse.
We partied through sunrise and into the late afternoon while many raged on right through sunset the next day. We called it quits somewhere around 3:00pm, multiple hours into the most epic earlier mentioned set courtesy Juan du Sol and Nico Bernardini. The vibe was incredible, energetic and full of light. None of the darkness you can sometimes run into at the afters. We had imported our recently departed Mary Poppins of a nanny as well as “The Nonnis” (my dad and stepmom) so the kids had the love and care and entertainment of some of their most favorite people. But at the end of the day, we went, we saw, we conquered and we missed them. So as the clock struck 3:00pm, I dragged a majorly TOMO-ing Gabri who kept repeating “senza pensieri” (the Italian version of “no worries”) away from the dancing dimension and back into the streets of Miami for a much needed pizza, shower and the journey home to our little loves. They are the only beings on earth that could have torn us away from this little slice of Basel-born heaven on earth.
And with that, we artfully wrapped up Basel 2024 with exhaustion and euphoria, burgers, the minis and the Nonnis. While we know plenty residents who would wish it away or skip town in anticipation of the masses, we’ll look forward to Basel 2025 and hope our magic city glows just as brightly as it managed to this year.