This is what it's all about.

So here I stand looking back at several pivotal moments in my life, experiences I both love and regret, and I wonder what it all amounts to today. But it is during these times of reflection when you realize that all of this might not have happened had you not stepped out of the box. Running away is for cowards and that's not how I raised you to be.

You see hijo, as you walk through life you'll find yourself at the right places at the precise time to make a change. What's most important about this very second is what you do next: do you take advantage of your surroundings or do you allow yourself to remain lost and scattered?

I found myself in the Spanish coffee shop that day and my eyes fell upon the most gorgeous woman I've ever met and it was then I made my decision. I chose her.

I found myself listening to the clink, sputter, clank. Spill! Clank. "Ave Maria!" from our table at Versailles where I sat with the sun streaked across my face.

I found myself straining to hear the timeless sound of Celia Cruz that permeates the Miami streets.

I found myself thinking of Spanish gypsies curling their wrists and swaying their hips to the flamenco guitarists sitting street side.

I remember the good and the bad, the coffee spills and the parking lots arguments.

But ultimately, I found myself through her.

So again I asked myself, what happened to the woman I met in the Spanish coffee shop? She's mine. And that is how I met your mother over a couple cups of Spanish coffee.

Where is she?

"Amor, it's fine. It's just a little bit of coffee."
"You're not the one that has to smell like it all day. Ugh, I look like a slob."
"You can barely tell! Just relax."
"Tell me to relax one more time."
"Hey, I'm not the one with coffee on my pants."
"I am going to work. Good-bye." 

What happened to the woman I met in a Spanish coffee shop? Sometimes I can't help but revisit those days. It took some weeks of persuasion and charm but finally she gave it a shot and god, was it fun. Where's the woman that jumped on the back of my Vespa and dared me to jump into the Magic Fountain of Montjuic? The mysterious woman with her long black pony tail and fire red lipstick begging me to show her the world? She talked about the Queen of England and afternoon tea yet all of her ideas crossed a plane of similarity, similar to the discussions of Rhizomes by Deleuze and Guattari. Was this just natural progression? A sense of comfort? Or was this an ebb and flow with a predominant flow?

The white Camry that moments ago pulled out of the parking lot with an aggressive vigor crept back onto the Versailles property. With the car placed in park and still running that long black pony tail popped out and ran into my arms.

"I'm sorry. I just don't like being late...or covered in coffee."
"I know my love."

And with a kiss on that beautiful head of hers and the smell of coffee wafting through my nose I remembered: this is the woman I love.

Inevitably

There is more than a light murmur over the place. It's actually a casual bout of constant shouting and there is pleasantry in the oxymoron of it all. She slowly nibbles on her food.

Bite                        by                       bite.

Until the inevitable moment when she realizes she's late and grabs a lid for the small coffee on her way out and there I am. Inevitably, I debate the impermanence. Not of her, not of us, not specifically. The beauty of an us is the chance for it to slip through your fingers. 

Honoring Celia's 88th Birthday

It's been 10 years since her passing and still her voice echoes through the streets. She is the steady beat to our growing rhythm and still we hold on. Part of her impact was drawn from her humanism, her impermanence. We needed to absorb as much of that enchanting voice because we knew it wouldn't always be around. In fear of losing what we love we hold on tight.

I sit at our usual table and get lost in my thoughts. Staring out onto the vibrant Miami streets unexpectedly, listening for Celia's voice, is it inevitable for one to question something’s permanence? I believe it to be part of human nature. Like everything else:

The ebb and flow of the sea, economics, relationships. It's only natural. 

Inevitably, the question of reality floats through the many thoughts fighting for attention in my head. Does the we really exist? Are we just an imagined us? Is she my Nadja?

I take a sip from the steaming cup, I pick up my coffee and chase her out the door. 

Dr. Seuss Land

The small Styrofoam cups arrive at the table with their frothy milk tops steaming. And the conversation takes place the way it has many times before--over a cup of

I remember our first cup as fresh as the last. She ordered her Cafe au Lait and I commented that it was a fancy way of asking for coffee with steamed milk. Both her and the barista gave me their disapproving glances and the motions began: Clink, sputter, clank then the long awaited hiss. She called me an asshole and I invited her to dinner. 

We walked out to her car as she told me no multiple times. She said I was crazy for asking. I told her I've traveled to a world reminiscent of a Dr. Seuss Land where broccoli trees sprout from the ground and smoke seeps into a Spanish sky. A place where traveling through troupes of gypsies dancing on pieces of cardboard was an act that faded into the familiar background as you walked to this crazy place.

 I promised her at this moment that one day I would take her.  

"You're crazy," she giggled in response. She climbed into a poorly parallel parked car and with a small wave she was gone. The car clinked, sputtered, and clanked down the road and she was gone. 

I snapped back to reality and continued our conversation over dos cafecitos.

"Ave Maria!"

Clink, sputter,clank. Spill! Clank. "Ave Maria!"

Small metal cups, dented and scratched from use, clink into place beneath the firm grip of an espresso maker.
A hiss, the machine sputters out the remaining coffee from it's molten hot spout.


Clank, the sound of the cup hitting the tiled floor after an unaware hand grabs the molten hot handle.
Then the spill!
A clank from the mop bucket.

"Ave Maria!"

It's loud, it's rarely polite, but it's warm, and the people love it. Driving down 8th street, you'll find people dancing to a voice that has spanned the ages. It's salsa, it's bolero, it's cha-cha-cha, and it's Miami. It's a cafecito con tostada, it's a restaurant where the yelling isn't uncomfortable because it reminds you of home. And it keeps you perfectly grounded in reality.

The bar stools are occupied by veterans of Versailles, a cigar lodged between their pudgy fingers and talking amongst each other," por que la cosas en Cuba no son buena". We take are usual breakfast seats by the window, I take my position on the East end of the table, taking a full dose of sun to the face. Before the menus touch the tables, our server is scribbling into her notepad.

"Dos cafecitos, dos tostadas, una orden de croquetas y dos pastellitos de guayaba."

Anything else, she asks. We shake our heads no.

"Gracias"

Works Cited

Bruno World. Vintage Car. N.d. Photograph. Miami Beach. Bruno World. Web.
Versailles. Croquetas. 2013. Photograph. Miami. Https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=632857213412309&set=a.268050753226292.70580.114215478609821&type=1&theater. 16 Sept. 2013. Web.