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Live a little: try public transportation

Since moving to south Florida Juan and I have been sharing one car, one motorcyle and a bicycle. Let me rephrase that. Since I don’t know how to drive a motorcycle and Juan took the bicycle to work to get around from one end of the yachtyard to another we just share the car. Actually, since tropical rainstorms occur nearly every afternoon he usually takes the car as well.  I don’t mind since most days I work at home. Riding the bus, which picks me up right across the street from our building, is convenient, cheap and since meeting some really intriguing people, both passengers and drivers,  it’s become a quite appealing mode of transportation.

Today, for example, a mile after boarding the route 11 city bus and taking my seat, James paid his buck and a half and took his seat in the front row designated for disabled and seniors. “Howya doin’,” asked the amiable black man carrying two plastic shopping bags, one of which had a wooden backscratcher sticking out of it.

“I have that same backscratcher at home,” I said.

James replied, “There’s nothin’ beatin’ it, ‘cept maybe a warm hand with strong nails.”

“That’s what my husband says too. I give him a backscratch every day,” I laughed with a hint of complaint.

“You spoil him, is what yer sayin’,” said James who described how his grandma used to spoil him with baked treats when he was little. He’d wait for the milk truck that made the delivery to his childhood home in Georgia. “Nuttin’ bettah than an ice cold glass of milk with those treats right outta the oven. Yep, nothin’ bettah,” said James wistfully. “I still remember how special she made me feel bakin’ those special sweet cakes of hers. Won’t never forget it.” His face held the same dreamy memory when I got off the bus.

I think I’ll give Juan a backscratch when he gets home today from a hard day at work. Maybe another at bedtime until he falls asleep. He’s already spoiled. No sense stopping now.

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Equal to mustard but not psychics

There is a national day or week event named after everything you can imagine including underwear, chocolate chips and s’mores.

I don’t mind sending cards on the acceptably recognized days: Valentine’s, Mother’s, Father’s. And now that I’ve starting making my own customized greeting cards I wouldn’t even mind sending out a few more to select individuals. For example, since I got married on October 12, in addition to an anniversary gift perhaps a Columbus Day card is in order for my beloved. Washington and Lincoln’s birthdays were combined into President’s Day in February, which is, in my opinion, the best time for skiing so maybe I’d send a card to my dad who owns a ski area in Minnesota. Groundhog’s Day, also recognized in February, traditionally the day we discover how much longer winter will be, could conceivably be cause for recognizing my former neighbors who were so helpful to us in ridding our lawn of the pesky rodents. It’s a bit of a stretch, but I could reasonably fathom each of those days as cause for recognition and even celebration. I could even see Hallmark expanding their product offerings.

I cannot, however, see cause for either recognizing or celebrating National Underwear Day on August 5, National Mustard Day on August 7, or Sneak Some Zucchini onto Your Neighbor’s Porch Night on August 8, which was started by some guy in Pennsylvania who constructed the holiday to gain attention for the vegetable during an unusually high surplus year. While these national days may have seemed like a good idea, it escapes me why they deserve a national day every year.

I do support, however, National Fresh Breath Day on August 6 and think it deserves to share, at the very least, National Week August 4-14 with Hobo Week, World Breastfeeding Week, and Intimate Apparel Market Week, all of which have merit. I also support Blame Someone Else Day on August 13 in honor of politicians and BP executives, International Day of the World’s Indigenous People Day on August 9 for any person in the US that doesn’t have a day to represent their particular culture, and Kool-Aid Day, which actually has the entire weekend of August 13-15 to recognize the refreshing beverage designed to foster sugar-laced hyperactivity in children already prone to tooth decay and early onset of diabetes and obesity.

But if mustard and Kool-Aid get a day in their honor, I should too. I’m not presumptuous enough to think that my contributions are deserved enough to warrant an entire week of recognition like that of Hobo Week, National Clown Week, or Psychic Week, but at the end of my life I hope to have done more for society than Purple Hearts, Presidents’ Jokes, and Sandcastles. So when I leave this life make sure to celebrate my birthday on July 18 in my absence. You can call it I Liked Liz More Than Some But Not As Much As Others Day.

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Smoke em if you got em

If I still smoked I would have lit up that bad boy.

My cop-friend, Rick, periodically goes to Miami on his day off to relax and savor the cultural delights of Little Havana, an area in Miami where Cuban-Americans live, work and enjoy their lives in a free country. Being relatively new to south Florida Rick invited me and my Canon Xsi digital camera along for the ride. He picked me up several hours after the morning rush hour in his freshly washed 2005 Corvette convertible, which seemed a bit unwise considering the reputation of the area we’d be in. But hey, he’s the cop AND a Fort Lauderdale native so I was pretty sure he knew the risks. A few dozen blocks west of downtown Miami the neighborhood we drove through had bars on apartment windows, groups of men lounging on their steps talking, and every store we passed had signs in Spanish, ONLY Spanish. It was as if we had crossed through to a parallel dimension and were transported to another country and time. Rick parked on Calle Ocho (8th Street) in front of a store where a man chewing on a toothpick leaned casually against the doorway, looked at me and slowly nodded. We crossed the street to El Pub Restaurant and savored an authentic Cuban lunch followed by an espresso shot of Cuban coffee, my first, ever. Rick ordered two more “to-go” and we walked a few doors down the block to a store with a wooden Indian statue and a wooden chair beside it, as if to give the Indian a place to rest if he chose. A man in a white hat, white trousers and white shirt greeted Rick warmly although no words were spoken between the two friends. Rick offered him the styrofoam cup of espresso and the man offered Rick a cigar. It was clear the exchange was a well-honed tradition. The man lit Rick’s cigar first then his own. As Rick puffed he explained the origins of the cigar store, the identity of the man in white and how tobacco can be compared to wine in many ways. We visited two more cigar stores that afternoon, each of which had a distinctly different “flavor”. 

I quit smoking cigarettes cold-turkey nearly seven years ago after discovering a former smoking buddy had terminal stage four lung cancer. I haven’t had one puff since. But after visiting the cigar stores in south Florida, where tobacco grown from Cuban seeds is rolled by Cuban workers in the traditional Cuban style, just for a minute, I wished I could smoke again. Perhaps if I live to be 100 I’ll go down to Little Havana and enjoy a Cuban-style American cigar. Or maybe by then travel to Cuba will be allowed for all American citizens, not just those of Cuban heritage, and I’ll have an actual Cuban in Cuba.