Mr & Mrs Smith

The thing is, we had our entrance all planned out: cruising up to the valet with the roof down, and the radio up, heads gently bobbing to a lilting Latino beat. Bienvenidos a Miami. The place to see and be seen. The trouble is we can’t find the Mondrian Hotel. It’s set back from the road and we’re now pretty sure we’ve driven past it four times. Will Smith never had these problems. Not once in that video do I remember him doing dodgy three point turns in other people’s driveways while exchanging tired and snippy comments with his bevy of bikini-clad Mrs Smiths.

But then, Big Willy’s Miami is more about Ocean Drive, whose art deco pastels draw in the tourist hordes and Spring Break party kids. The Mondrian is on Biscayne Bay, the other side of the strip that makes up South Beach. Still close enough to stroll to the shops and restaurants of Lincoln Road and Washington Avenue, but far enough from the madness to unwind.

When we eventually find the entrance, it feels like the hotel is mocking us for having failed to spot it. Everything here is oversized. From the black-lacquered floating staircase that dominates the gleaming white lobby, to the fat pillars that descend from high ceilings like enormous table legs. It’s like we climbed a beanstalk. There’s even a super-sized vending machine. But if you were hoping for a giant can of Fanta and packet of Wheat Crunchies you’ll be disappointed. In keeping with its high-end surroundings the ‘Semi Automatic’ dispenses design classics such as gold Kiki de Montparnasse cufflinks and Thakoon dresses.

I move quickly to distract Mrs Smith with a pithy observation about the number of Bono-style wannabes sporting sunglasses indoors. Surely if you were striving for anonymity, the gold bikini with six-inch matching heels wasn’t the ideal choice of outfit. But as Mrs Smith notes, the shades might be less about pretension and more a response to the gleaming whiteness of the decor. Squinting back at her, I realise she may have a point. The Mondrian’s so bright you gotta wear shades. One point to Mrs Smith. But then she never did spot that vending machine.

Up in our room, the sleek whiteness is broken up with flashes of dayglo colour and amusingly retro touches: a Fifties-style kitchenette and coat hooks made from grandma’s old china plates. On the wall, a chilling photo-mural of a doll’s face watches over you while you sleep. But none of these touches can compete with the view. The floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the bay and beyond to the glistening skyscrapers of Miami. Below us, at the Mondrian’s private marina, guests can dock their yacht, and, if they choose, take a trip out to the hotel’s private island. Unsurprisingly, we don’t get to take advantage of this particular facility, but we take solace from the fact that we can spy on and make catty remarks about those who do.

We decide to take a quick shower and freshen up. Mrs Smith is pleased with the Malin+Goetz toiletries, which is a relief. Mrs Smith would stay in the nearest caravan site if the complimentary shampoo was up to scratch. I, meanwhile, am captivated by the shower itself. I’m impressed enough to find a chandelier in there, more delighted still when I turn on the tap and water springs forth from it. Satisfied that this isn’t some horrendous wiring glitch, I relax and luxuriate.

Mrs Smith is desperate to catch whatever rays still remain so we head down to the pool where the oversize theme continues. Gigantic chintzy lampshades and scatter cushions provide the comforts of the indoors, out. While a series of private cabanas, featuring chaise longues and plasma TVs, offer respite from the thump of the sun.

Set up with loungers and plied with drinks by attentive pool staff, we kick back and let the people-watching commence. We soon realise that we’re not the only ones. Everyone is watching everybody else, whether to see who they can spy, or to check whether other people can see them. There’s a strange sensation of life turning in on itself. It’s like Paris Hilton walking into a hall of mirrors.

Woozy from the sun (OK, and the drinks), we grab a late lunch from the snack menu of the hotel’s in-house restaurant, Asia de Cuba. Mrs Smith has a Cuban sandwich of shredded duck confit and caramelised onions with melted manchego cheese while I go for the seafood Cobb salad, which comes with piles of fresh Maine lobster, blue crab and ‘colossal’ shrimp. As poolside snacks go, it doesn’t get much better.

At 5.30pm we retreat to our room – on the advice of an enigmatic porter. We soon discover why. As the sun begins to drop behind the skyscrapers, the light refracts into an extraordinary palette of pastel pinks and oranges. Mrs Smith and I settle in on the balcony high over the bay, sipping cocktails, bathed in the kaleidoscopic light. From here it feels like we can see the whole of Miami buzzing away below. But nobody can see us. Bliss.

The next day at the pool a minor reality TV star’s eyes light up as two excitable young girls approach asking him for a photo. He coolly agrees, glancing around to try to spot who spotted him being spotted. But then the girls hand him the camera and tell him which button to press. We watch silently, waiting for the moment when his face suddenly falls. Click. There it is.