I took my Spanx off in Gianni Versace's bathroom
And that should make all of us a little uncomfortable
I’ll start by saying that I felt more at home at Chili’s.
After cycling through various ideas and several drafts (including a think piece on Jack Kerouac’s favorite bar, a history of alligator farming, and a recipe for Seminole pumpkin kimchi), I decided to kick off this newsletter with a personal story. The most attention-grabby one I could think of.
Naturally, that involves my undergarments.
Before I talk about how I found myself staring at Gianni Versace’s bidet, though, I need to first make a few disclaimers. I am from Central Florida, not South Florida. These two places are very distinct and very different. Even in Central Florida, the west coast is very different from the east coast, which is very different from the I-4 corridor. So when I went to South Florida last fall, I went as a tourist. And that comes with a lot of weight. Which is, in part, what I think this whole newsletter is about anyway.
But we’ll get to that.
When we pulled up to the mansion for our lunch reservation (three courses for $34 a person), I craned my neck. “Is that it?” It seemed smaller than I thought it would be. We valeted the car, adjusted our dresses, and approached the host stand. I didn’t know much about Versace—I still don’t, to be completely honest—but I knew enough about the murder to briefly pause.
“Are these the steps?” I whispered to someone, the image of a lone black slipper on a shallow staircase floating through the back of my mind. “Are we literally walking on the steps? It’s a little weird, isn’t it?”
We waited for our table in a large open-air foyer, fussing over the details. Oh my god, look at the filigree. Go check out that mural over by the bathroom. Take a picture with me in front of the fountain.
We had to wait our turn, of course, because there were two other bachelorette parties already ahead of us.
I snapped pictures and ooh’ed and ah’ed with the rest of the group. In fact, I think I was the loudest proponent that everyone get the margaritas with the gold flakes in them. But still, I quietly kept thinking about that staircase. Throughout the appetizer, entree, and dessert courses, I thought about the blood spatter. As I looked around at the packed veranda, at people taking pictures in front of the famous mosaics, I thought about the caution tape.
Someone was murdered here. And I just paid $20 to drink a cocktail on his pool deck.
Casa Casuarina’s history seems familiar if you know anything about Florida architecture: Built with oil money by a member of the Mayflower Society in 1930, the Mediterranean revivalist structure was modeled after Christopher Columbus’s son’s home in the Dominican Republic. It changed hands a few times before Gianni bought it in 1992, laying 24-karat gold tiles into the pool and putting Picassos on the walls. It’s palatial; a veritable castle in the sand.
The story of Ocean Drive is probably also familiar to Floridians who live in coastal communities: Once desolate, it is now a booming epicenter of tourism and gentrification, one that is constantly choked by traffic and threatened by rising seas.
I didn’t know any of this as I wandered into one of the mansion’s ten bathrooms, liquored up and full-bellied. My Spanx had carved deep grooves into my hips and thighs, and I dreaded the idea of pulling them back up just to walk out to the car. Staring at the black spandex puddled around my ankles, I was struck by sudden inspiration. I kicked it off, scooped it up, and dropped it into my purse.
And then my eyes caught the bidet. I think I snorted.
The thing about taking my Spanx off in Versace’s bathroom, aside from the sheer absurdity of that statement, was the startling reality that commodity fetishism had almost completely obscured the violence of murder. The bathroom is very near the main entrance; very near the shallow staircase. Yet the proximity did not stop me from being surprised that the entrees on the prix fixe lunch menu included filet mignon and lobster spaghetti, or from being pleased that I was decently tipsy off of one $20 drink.
It made me uncomfortable.
For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why. Historic homes, particularly those belonging to members of the upper classes, have been open to public viewing for centuries. You can have a meal at the restaurant in Versailles. I’ve had lunch at Hampton Court. You can eat at Graceland and at Monticello. Wasn’t this just like that, sans the guided tour?
I thought about the steps, a very public crime scene. Two gunshots.
One of the common threads that binds Florida together is spectacle. Spectacle weaves through the Florida Man tropes and the Ringling Bros. circus and the Scientology scrutiny and the Disney mania. It elevates people like Ted Bundy and Hulk Hogan and Donald Trump. It pulls in the Versace Mansion, too. Casa Casuarina is one of the most photographed homes in the country behind only the White House and Graceland, both circuses in their own right.
(Fwiw I wouldn’t be surprised if Mar-a-Lago, another Florida home of historic value before its ascension to fame, was also high up on that list.)
As I climbed into the car, I wondered how the rest of the country would respond if JFK’s Lincoln Continental was transformed into a booth à la Jack Rabbit Slim’s; if Sharon Tate’s house was turned into a bed and breakfast. Sound horrible? I looked back at the staircase that I just descended, watching people walk up and down until we pulled away from the curb.
Yellow caution tape. Blood. A single black slipper.
In Guy Debord’s vision of a spectacular society, one dominated by social relationships with images, spectacle is the sun that never sets. In Miami that day, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
Field Notes: Black Miami-Dade is an incredible archive and multimedia project helmed by Nadege Green. The Black Miami-Dade Instagram account is one of my favorites, mostly because of one specific image of Diana Ross in a sequined jumpsuit. Anyway, I love this post from yesterday.
Tasting Notes: On impulse, I picked up a bag of Highland Grog at Publix last week. I couldn’t resist the little skeleton playing bagpipes. Roasted at Bones Coffee Company in Cape Coral, the grinds are sweet on the nose and pleasantly smooth when brewed. Perfect after-dinner coffee.
End Notes: Is eating at the Versace Mansion an act of engaging with a kind of public history, or does it represent an extreme form of consumerism? Both? I’m curious about what you think.
I’ll be at a Dolly Parton poetry reading and book launch later this week in Wilton Manors. Order the book from Madville Publishing here.