The Miami Grand Prix isn’t just a race—it’s a sensory blitzkrieg. Julia Mervis, now baptized in the gospel of roaring engines and champagne sprays, emerged from the weekend with a grin wider than a pit lane. "Electric, speedy, and very, very hot," she muses, as if describing a forbidden cocktail. The asphalt sizzled, the crowds throbbed, and somewhere between the VIP lounges and the grandstands, she found her rhythm.
While Oscar Piastri dominated the headlines, the real gossip fluttered like confetti: Max Verstappen, the Dutch lion of the track, had quietly welcomed a new cub to his pride. A tender footnote in a season otherwise written in gasoline and grit. But Mervis? Her heart revved for Lando Norris. Blame it on her best friend, a McLaren devotee who talks about the Brit like he’s the last slice of pizza at a party.
Lesson learned? The Grand Prix is less "sprint" and more "ironman in a sauna." Mervis clocked 24 hours in four-inch stilettos before surrendering to the tyranny of blisters.
she laughs. Now, her sneakers bear the sacred dirt of the circuit—a badge of honor.
Beyond the stopwatches and podium tears, Mervis soaked up the spectacle:
As the checkered flag fell, one truth crystallized: F1 isn’t watched—it’s swallowed whole, a feast of adrenaline and absurdity. And Mervis? She’s already hungry for seconds.
