Today I went with Cherie (younger sister) to a flea Market. I
was warned before our departure that this was not a white people market. So,
before we left from our middle class white neighborhood in beautiful Coral Gables,
I was sure dress as "Portland" as I could, which included a long
sleeved zipped up red shirt, dark rimmed glasses and Keen outdoor hiking
sandals. I was hoping for a lot of stares.
I was very excited about this new cultural adventure, and
was hoping to bring home a souvenir that spoke to the African-American experience.
When we arrived, however, I was not bombarded with crafty or garage sale-type
items as I expected I would. Instead, I was bombarded with tattoo shops, barber shops and places to
buy gold teeth. The warehouse went on
for what felt like miles, with pretty much only these three types of stores. Every once in a while, I would see some places to buy strange
pants that went way too high up ones torso, or tee shirts with very colorful
language. Probably a bit to colorful to be wearing to our upcoming family reunion.
This was rather disappointing, because I cannot afford gold
teeth or a gold chain. Perhaps, one day, when I am in the same socioeconomic
status as these folks, I will come back here and buy a gold chain as memorabilia,
and tattoo my body with gangster symbols.
Then I will have a permanent reminder of the memory of the market.
We soon got hungry.
When we looked at the food options, we discovered them to be unique, but
a bit too unique even for me. So we started to leave, but first, Cherie had to
try on a pair of strange looking pants. So, as we waited, we had the lovely experience of having our brains rattled by loud "BOOM BOOM" music, that was coming from about every shop in the building. These people were very into their music. Later I decided that they were actually into showing off their bass, since every store was playing what seemed like the same exact song.
On our way home, Cherie decided to drive us past her workplace and to show us some interesting things. We had the radio on as we drove. The stations were being perpetually switched back and forth between Country music and the great Miami "Boom Boom" song, because that’s the way my sister does her music. Suddenly, the
infamous rap commercial for 411 pain (that I mentioned in a previous blog) came
on the radio. Just as the song began, I looked up and saw a billboard for 411
pain. In the words of John Redcorn, "What a coinkidink!" I tried to point
this out to Cherie, but she was far too busy making U-turns. Eventually we landed in the parking lot of a pet store.
There were many exotic animals in cages. Animals that I am
not sure people ever would consider as a pet, such as a lemur and a coco burro.
I am not sure if this was really a petting zoo or a place to harbor exotic
animals. Either way, there was a crazy monkey, which seem to have more energy
than five toddlers. I did not buy him.
When we left there, we finally went to eat. We settled on a
nice little Nicaraguan restaurant, which later we decided might have actually
been Cuban. To this day, the mystery is unknown, and we may start a family feud
if we talk about it. So we don’t talk
about it.
Anyway, when we walked in the door we discovered that there
was no identifiable line to buy food. People were moving in a strange flow
towards something but we didn't know what, and couldn't ask because no one
spoke English. To confuse matters further, the menu was not in English, and
there were no prices. Cherie directed us to a spot where we could pick some
food out. We just pointed to things and the lady filled up a Styrofoam
container with food.
We got about four pounds of food for ten dollars. Ropa vieja, rice and pork, plantains, and black beans and rice. MMmmmmmmmm..... Cherie also got an avocado salad, which was basically a bucket of Avocados chopped up with some onions. We found a spot outside where we could enjoy the sound of road traffic as we gazed at the beautiful view of a shopping plaza across the street. It was picturesque. There was a beautiful breeze, and we ate happily surrounded by Cubans (or Nicaraguans) enjoying their meals together. It was then a need arose for Isaiah and I to explain to Cherie the history about the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, because she did not know much about it. She looked at me in and said very matter of fact: "Wow, that's a lot of fighting for one person's infidelity!"
I am thankful for this memory. I enjoy memories. And, I enjoy sharing them.
P.S. We did some research and discovered that the restaurant was truly Cuban after all.
