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September 05 | 23:09
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If you’re a Miami native, or even just a recent local who travels on I-95 semi-frequently, chances are that you recognize this building, the Hotel City Inn on 81st Street in West Little River. It is one of the most glaringly unmissable icons along I-95, and is the epitome of everything that embodies FuckNoMiami.
This place started off as a Holiday Inn in the 60s and spend most of the 80’s as a Days Inn. I remember noticing it for the first time about eight years ago, as I laughed at the ridiculous sign which, at the time, read Bays Inn, the “B,” really just a cheaply altered letter “D.” Since then, it’s become covered top to bottom in huge advertisements for TV shows and Adult Beverages.
Beverages aren’t the only things of the Adult variety being offered at this hotel, and I’m sure we all know what goes on there. Being a curious little kitten, though, today I was inspired to Google the infamous Hotel City Inn, to see what other people were saying about it.
I stumbled upon this amazing article written for the Biscayne Times by Terrence Cantarella, who spent a night at HookerMart in the heart of one of the nastiest places in Miami. Trust me, it’s worth a read. The following passage in particular reminds me of some crazy scene set up in a Hostel-esque thriller at the movies:
I had grown my beard and dressed down before arriving, hoping to add a bit of menace to my appearance. It doesn’t work. I’m charged $60 for a room – instead of the $39.95 as advertised on a banner outside – and sent up to the top floor. The top two floors, I later learn, are reserved for people who look out of place, people like me. “From the eighth floor down is where the prostitutes and people like that stay,” says a hotel source who will remain anonymous.
The inn’s hallways are poorly lit and the bare concrete floors make it look like a construction site. Two men on the tenth floor, standing next to a bicycle and haggling over its price, stop talking when the elevator doors open.
Inside room 1002, the toilet is full of feces. I try to flush but it doesn’t work, so I remove the tank cover, play around with the fill-valve, and get it functioning. The bathroom door has been kicked in and the lock is gone. The bed sheets are ripped, cigarette burns scar the carpet, I count seven cockroaches on the window ledge, and the empty plastic bag behind the nightstand still smells of marijuana. Someone outside the door is belting out an inebriated rendition of “Your Love Is So Good.”
Man, oh man. After reading that crazy story, all I can say is: Fuck No, Miami.
![has a U of M plate.
[Submitted]](http://6.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_kpj6muJwcg1qzkiy9o1_500.jpg)
