I was first exposed to Spanish in the summer of '96. I was staying at a youth hostel in Fort Lauderdale after dropping out of college my senior year. To pay my way, I was making and selling hemp jewelry while hanging out at the beach. Every now and then, I would make extra cash giving shuttling international tourists to and from the airport, to local shops, and to nightclubs throughout South Florida.
My best mate at the time was Bo, a laid-back buzz-cut Brit who was in town for the last month of his gap year trip around the globe. Bo had money to spare, so he was always up for a good time. He kept my tank full during our adventures. And we got as close as two guys with not a care in the world could get.
One Friday afternoon Bo, wearing nothing more than a pair of linen trousers and a Panama hat, asked me to give him a ride to Miami to get some weed. I said sure. Next thing you know we were filling up the tank at the local BP and barreling down I-95, chasing the sunset.
When we reached the Golden Glades - the gateway to Miami - we opted for the commuter lane, a flyover route that rose dramatically above the confusing traffic knot below to provide a panoramic view of the twinkling Magic City and its beaches, strung along the coast like diamonds on a necklace stretching as far as the eye could see.
The view at dusk left me breathless. The sky was at once orange, purple, and black. Bo looked over at me, shook his head and said "damn, mate", and we just took it all in. South Beach was lit up and laid out as if a gift before us, and we were both ready to bathe in its twinkling lights.
Beyond the Glades, we shot over to Bal Harbor at 125th Street and cruised down A1A the rest of the way. Literally seconds after I found a parking spot along Ocean Drive, Bo hopped out and was already chatting up two Latin party boys hanging out on the patio of the Adrian Hotel.
I approached after feeding the meter, and Bo already knew their names. The tall, dark-skinned rasta dude was a Nicaragua dude named Ricardo. The other was a smooth-talking Domincan named Jhonny. Both spoke English well enough to communicate the basics of their trade. But just like everyone in Miami, they mostly spoke Spanish mixed with heavily accented English.
It was obvious these were the guys to ask for drugs, but when we asked for weed they said sorry, offering us coke instead. But we only wanted weed. So someone was going to have to go get it from the park, Richard said. I was about to hand over a twenty so they could go get it, but Bo was more street smart and said he was go with Richard while I stayed here by the car with Jhonny.
After they left, Jhonny convinced me to follow him to a nearby market to buy us all some food. We walked into the grocery and were blasted music as loud as you would hear in any night club. The vibe was electric as Jhonny got kisses he got from the cashiers and began dancing with one of them down the aisle to the back, where a steam table buffet full of things like rice and beans and big hunks of meat was laid out.
Everyone was speaking Spanish and I just watched as the checkout girl packed a single to-go container full of enough pork chunks, rice, and beans to feed all four of us. Then as I went to pay, not knowing how to ask how much it cost, I gave her a 20 dollar bill hoping it was enough. To my shock, she gave me $17 change.
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