Adventures Nextdoor

The day started with me dealing with insane highway rush hour to get to downtown Miami by 9:30, at which time the French Consulate opens for visa consultations. Halfway along the drive, I remembered why I hate driving downtown, because the combination of Hispanic drivers, permanent construction, and general insanity is always a sure recipe for frustration. US1 and Brickell Avenue are not, I repeat, not, my friends. The visa matters went very well, especially because the wonderful Catherine Petillon, who helped resolve my application issues all the way from Washington D.C., was actually in Miami this week, and I got to thank her and creep her out by furiously shaking her hand in person.

After this, I had a little time to kill, so I embarked on a brief but memorable Miami adventure. First, I stopped to have some coffee and empanadas at a random Cuban timbiriche, where I chatted and surprisingly played a quick round of Qubilete [an old Cuban game involving dice, which he was very surprised I knew] with an old Cuban man and his ten-year old grandson, all the while discussing why and how come Fidel was still alive. Then another man referred to me as “La Rusita,” meaning “the little Russian” and gave me a brief lesson on the history of my own countries and the alliance with our “Soviet brothers.” The coffee was delicious: strong, sweet, a jolt to the system that American coffee, despite my love of hazelnut-flavors, does not provide. I also had not consumed coffee in months so after a while I began to feel my heart pounding its way out of my chest cavity. My right arm was also shaking slightly on the wheel of my car. Oh caffeine, so healthy.

At this point, I decided to enter a promising establishment. It’s name? “Coin Laundry of America.” This could not possibly be a regular coin laundry, like the many I’d seen when we first came to the US and lived in that small apartment next to the central Florida International University campus. This was the Coin Laundry of AMERICA, people! Inside, old Cuban ladies eyed me up and down, one of them making a comment about how I as just “skin and bone.” Did I want some rice? No, thank you. One of them reminded me of one of my favorite people, Laura Noya, or Tatica as I still refer to her when I write her letters or call her in Cuba. She obviously had horrible arthritis, as Tatica does, but, fully decked out in curlers, some kind of bathrobe, and plastic flip-flops, was slowly making her way from the washers to the dryers. I offered to help and soon we were having a conversation about the small coastal Cuban town of Jucaro (which to her surprise, I had plenty of information about), and mangoes that grew in our backyard, and her grandson traveling to Venezuela as a doctor, and me somehow remembering certain parts of Havana. She spoke in a fluid and hurried stream of words, like most Cubans, forgetting the final “s” in words and mixing in random exaltations.

From here, I proceeded to meet up with my parents and take them out to lunch at Houston’s in Aventura, a restaurant that for some unknown reason, I have a particular predilection for. It was their 31-year anniversary [not of marriage, but of meeting, which they believe is a lot more significant]. So there we were, waiting for our table for the promised twenty minutes, which turned more into thirty. Approximately five minutes into the waiting period, in walks a rather tall, rather bulky man, clad from head to toe in athletic gear and carrying a small child in one of those baby-carriers [I’m not sure what the appropriate name is]. He put his name down on the waiting list, walked over, and sat down in the only available seat, which just so happened to be next to moi. And here is where this man’s pleasant lunch with his daughter started to sour. I, known to begin conversation for no particular reason and without any incentive to do so, proceeded to strike up a conversation by complementing his daughter, who was quietly sleeping at her father’s large Nike-clad feet. He smiled, looked at me rather strangely, but said thank you. I continued, asking for her name in what I believed was an innocently amiable manner. Soon enough, the two of us were calmly discussing his wife’s name, which is Natalie, and making all sorts of pleasant small-talk. I had played with daughter when she woke up, we laughed about a comment he made about some woman’s oversized nails. Then, THEN, he asked if I was a student, I answered, and, in return, inquired about his line of work. Here, prepare yourself, because everything goes down hill “real fast.” The conversation went as follows:

Me: “Yes, I’m a college student. I’m just taking a semester-off so I’m currently at home. What do you do?”

Stranger: “I’m in baseball.”

Me: “I’m sorry.”

Stranger: [looks confused, laughs] “Why?”

Me: “I’ve always found it to be a little boring. I know it’s just my personal opinion, but I have a hard time watching a full game.”

Stranger: “I feel you. But it’s a different when you’re playing.”

Me: “Yea, I’d assume so. Do you play or are you a manager or something more… administrative?”

Stranger: I’m Dontrelle Willis. I pitch for the Marlins.

[Pause. Long pause.]

Me: “Oh!! Wow, ok I’m sorry! I don’t really follow baseball, as I said, and since I spend most of my time in Boston, I know even less about …. South…. Florida…. teams… um… Marlins.” At this point, my struggling happened because for a second I had forgotten if the Marlins were a Miami team or a FL team. Shame on me. Then, because I thought that I had said something grammatically and/or syntactically flawed, I proceeded to try to correct myself by saying, “Not the fish…I mean…the team….I mean, yea that’s obvious. Ok you know what I mean? I’m done.” All the while, I am clearly flailing my arms in the kind of gesticulation that usually accompanies my explanations, which, when dealing with establishing the difference between Marlin-the-fish and Marlin-the-baseball-team did not prove helpful and only made me look more idiotic. [Note to self: Who says, “You know what I mean” to a NBL starting pitcher? I inwardly rolled my eyes at myself].

DW: [Laughs] “No it’s ok”

Five minutes later, my family was seated, and I left Dontrelle – Mr. Willis – alone with his daughter Adriane, or Adrianne, or Adrianna, I have no idea how it is spelled. And my day in Miami was over. I was ready to head back to the United States.