New Times Takes a $2.5 Million Bugatti Veyron Vitesse for a Spin (and a Burrito)
Categories: Upper Class
Next, we head to South Beach because dammit, I've got a Bugatti for two hours and I might as well impress some chicks. It doesn't take long. Driving a $2.5 million car is like handing out hundred-dollar bills with David Hasselhoff: You quickly attract attention.
"Go, Michigan State!" screams a gorgeous blonde wearing a ponytail and eye black as she sits in the passenger seat of a Ford Mustang. Noticing our confusion, she says, "Your license plate says Michigan. You're here for the basketball game tonight, right?"
Rather than dispel her illusion, I step on the gas.
When we cross Lincoln Road, it's like taking center stage at Wimbledon. Random strangers yell at us: "Hell yeah!" and "What kind of a car is that?" while snapping photos and touching the car. Two Scandinavian models actually stop and tilt down their sunglasses to stare at us. My life has become a motion picture.
On Fifth Street, a pearl-white Ferrari 458 Spider stops behind us and the driver screams for us to pull over. We duck into a gas station.
"What the hell is going on here, boys?" croaks the man, who turns out to be a 54-year-old insurance mogul named Eric Giglione. "This is the most beautiful fucking car I've ever seen. Is this your bad boy?" he asks me. When he hears I'm a journalist, he laughs. "I thought you were Justin Bieber."
"I bet this baby's got a lot of ugh," Giglione says, performing a hip thrust. "It's all about the pussy, after all. You know what I'm talking about." Leitzinger demurs.
As if on cue, two women on bicycles pull up next to the sport cars. Their eyes move from us to the cars and back again as the brunette fumbles to inflate her tire. She gets down on her knees. "I'm sorry," she says innocently as Butch walks over to help. "I lost the little top part."
"Do you think all the air will come out?" her blonde friend asks. When Butch finds the cap, they smile and say thank you, but keep standing there. ("Yeah, that seemed a bit staged," Butch says later.) Like the women, Giglione is also in love, now determined to buy his own Bugatti. "What money can't buy, more money will," he says.
"Go, Michigan State!" screams a gorgeous blonde wearing a ponytail and eye black as she sits in the passenger seat of a Ford Mustang. Noticing our confusion, she says, "Your license plate says Michigan. You're here for the basketball game tonight, right?"
Rather than dispel her illusion, I step on the gas.
When we cross Lincoln Road, it's like taking center stage at Wimbledon. Random strangers yell at us: "Hell yeah!" and "What kind of a car is that?" while snapping photos and touching the car. Two Scandinavian models actually stop and tilt down their sunglasses to stare at us. My life has become a motion picture.
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| Michael E. Miller |
"What the hell is going on here, boys?" croaks the man, who turns out to be a 54-year-old insurance mogul named Eric Giglione. "This is the most beautiful fucking car I've ever seen. Is this your bad boy?" he asks me. When he hears I'm a journalist, he laughs. "I thought you were Justin Bieber."
"I bet this baby's got a lot of ugh," Giglione says, performing a hip thrust. "It's all about the pussy, after all. You know what I'm talking about." Leitzinger demurs.
As if on cue, two women on bicycles pull up next to the sport cars. Their eyes move from us to the cars and back again as the brunette fumbles to inflate her tire. She gets down on her knees. "I'm sorry," she says innocently as Butch walks over to help. "I lost the little top part."
"Do you think all the air will come out?" her blonde friend asks. When Butch finds the cap, they smile and say thank you, but keep standing there. ("Yeah, that seemed a bit staged," Butch says later.) Like the women, Giglione is also in love, now determined to buy his own Bugatti. "What money can't buy, more money will," he says.
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