How Much I Feel - Marie Force Page 0,33
day Tony was killed. Some of the guys I’ve dated haven’t known what to say when they heard how I lost my husband, so they either said too much or not enough.
Jason got it just right.
It’s not easy to talk about that day, but it felt right to tell him.
I like how he looks in casual attire—flip-flops, khaki shorts, a navy-blue T-shirt from a surf shop in Maui and those sexy Ray-Ban Wayfarers.
“What’s next on our agenda, boss lady?” he asks as we drive away from the condo complex.
“We’re basically on hold until I hear back from Maria about the clinic, so how about I give you the two-dollar tour? We can take some photos for Instagram that show you getting to know your new home.”
“Sure, we can do that.”
It’s a perfect South Florida day, if you like it hazy, hot and humid, which I do. “Can we run by my place so I can change?”
“Of course.”
I can’t believe I’m actually getting paid for this. The thought makes me giggle.
“What’s so funny?”
“I was just thinking that it’s weird I’m getting paid to play tourist in my hometown.”
“That’s not all you’re doing. You’re helping me, which is what Mr. Augustino told you to do.”
“True, but this hardly feels like work.” After a stop at my place, where I change into a casual dress and sandals, we get back on the highway. A short time later, I point to an exit. “Take this one. I want to show you where I come from.” I point to the planes descending into Miami International. “We’re very close to MIA.”
He takes the exit, and I direct him. “I want you to see 8th Street, otherwise known as Calle Ocho, the main drag through Little Havana.” On the way in, we pass signs for the Miami Marlins’ ballpark. “Of the nearly three million people in Miami, roughly half of them are Cuban or of Cuban descent. You can live here your whole life and speak only Spanish and be totally fine.”
“I’m going to have to work on that. My Spanish is rusty.”
“I can help with that, too.”
As we creep along busy streets, I try to see the neighborhood from an outsider’s viewpoint and immediately feel proud of every part of it, including the coin-operated laundromats, massive new-car dealerships adjacent to used-car lots, graffiti, car washes and restaurants offering Cuban and every other kind of cuisine, including Taco Bell, where the drive-through line blocks the street.
Jason navigates around the cars. “Why would anyone go to Taco Bell when there’s all this authentic Cuban food to be had?”
“Great question. Some people were appalled when Taco Bell came to the neighborhood, but as you can see, they do good business.”
“Baffling. I’d want the real deal if it was as close by as it is here.”
“We’ve got the real deal at Giordino’s. It’s the best Cuban in town, in my humble opinion.”
The streets are full of stores and restaurants. There’s everything from a brand new CVS pharmacy to a Goodwill thrift store to a Cuban coffee shop to nightclubs. Cubans love their nightlife.
We pass a park where a group of men are gathered around a table, intensely engaged.
“What’re they doing?” Jason asks when we’re stopped at a light.
“Playing dominoes. It’s very popular in Cuba—and here.”
Little Havana is a juxtaposition of the past and present, sleek and decrepit, coexisting in a mishmash of culture and vibrancy. I love every inch of this place that made me. “When my cousins and I were young, our only goal was to leave this neighborhood, but most of my cousins and friends came back here.”
“There’s no place like home.”
“That’s for sure.”
We drive by high-rise apartment buildings with balconies and down streets full of pastel-colored houses with stucco exteriors and metal security gates. He takes a left turn onto Calle Ocho. “There’s a massive block party here in March every year called Carnaval Miami. It’s so much fun. It stretches from 12th to 27th Avenue.”
“That sounds fun. I love all the music.”
“It’s always loud on this street. You’ll hear everything from traditional Cuban music to Pitbull. Did you know he grew up around here?”
“I didn’t.”
“He got his start playing on stages in this neighborhood. See that place over there?” I point to a yellow building with a counter open to the sidewalk. “That’s Los Pinareños Fruteria, one of the oldest fruit stands in the country. The lady who works there has been pressing the sugarcane for more than fifty years. They’re known for a drink called