to my busy social life, I was invited to a couple of elegant dinners at the Versace mansion with the World Presidents’ Organization, a group to which, thanks to Jack, I still belonged, and I attended several events sponsored by the Canadian consulate, including the Miami Book Fair, where I sat at dinner one evening chatting with writer Margaret Atwood.
But it was still the Latin element that most attracted me in this city that was brimming with recent arrivals from Colombia, Argentina, Venezuela, and Spain. They were animated, sexy, colourful, and a world away from my Anglo roots. Over time, though, I would come to see the flip side of all this pasión. There were the constant infidelities, jealousies, and betrayals, as well as corruption among many of the denizens of Miami, a city that was after all built with a lending hand from the drug trade. But I suppose, looking under the surface, what city does not have its share of scandals, and what culture its weaknesses? All I knew was that I was smitten by everything I discovered in this exciting Latin world.
I became an expert in accent recognition, instantly identifying Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, Colombians, or Cubans when they spoke in their mother tongues or in English. I also met people from Chile, Ecuador, and Argentina. I loved them all with a passion that even I could not really understand. Part of it was their appreciation for beauty and for music, and a zest for life that I had often found lacking in Canada, and in the materialistic world I had been part of in Beverly Hills.
I befriended the interesting Colombian writer Enrique Cordoba, and the Ecuadorian journalist Victoria Puig de Lange, read their books, and appeared on a couple of all-night radio shows to which people from all over Latin America called in. To my amazement, all the callers seemed familiar with my music through radio and the concerts and TV shows that I had done over the years in their various countries.
I had rarely lived in such a social whirlwind, and although I enjoyed the novelty of these experiences, I had never been a great lover of parties. My happiest times in the past had always been playing or writing music and sharing it with someone special.
After being introduced by one of my neighbourhood acquaintances, I started to date a handsome, thirty-four-year-old Venezuelan. A wealth management specialist by day, Frank lived for the songs he played and composed on his cuatro, a small, Venezuelan guitar-like instrument. He had always been fascinated by British films, English literature, Indigenous Andean music, Joan Baez (who, to his delight, had written him a long letter), and older women … quite a strange combo, but it worked for us for a while.
He had a beautiful smile, soulful brown eyes, and skin that felt like silk. We serenaded each other, watched movies, collected eggs from the cage of chickens and roosters he kept in his back garden, and danced for hours at a wonderful Venezuelan wedding where everyone, even the groom, and Frank too, took turns performing love songs. As the groom sang Julio Iglesias’s “Abrazame” to his beloved, I remember thinking it was the most exciting and romantic party I had ever attended in my life!
After a couple of months, however, my young friend travelled to Machu Picchu, where he fell in love with the culture, adopted a small family, and decided to give up the world of finance in favour of a life devoted to helping the local kids and old people and teaching them music. I wonder if he is still there. I hope so. He was a special soul and I was lucky to have spent some happy times in his company.
Six months later I had a brief romantic adventure with an even younger man, a thirty-two-year-old guitarist and singer from Medellín, Colombia. He was tall and slim, with a beautiful smile, soulful brown eyes, and thick dark hair he tied back in a ponytail. My new friend was making his living writing music and playing private concerts around Miami. I took him to Luis Miguel’s concert at the American Airlines Arena and was impressed that he knew every single lyric by heart. One balmy moonlit night he sang to me and played his guitar as we drifted in a boat in the middle of a lake behind his house. The sky was filled with stars, the moon was full, his kisses divine, and his passionate Spanish serenade of love songs would have made any girl dissolve with desire. If given a chance, I think every woman should experience at least one young Latin lover in her life!
• • •
I was growing tired of the long commute back and forth to Miami, so after one year there I left the Ocean Club and rented a new condominium on Brickell Key called Two Tequesta, an apartment where I enjoyed a splendid view of the harbour from the twentieth floor. Finally I was closer to all the cultural happenings.
It was only after my first evening there that I discovered my building was under the direct flight path into Miami’s very busy international airport, and with a sinking feeling I realized that the planes roaring past my condo throughout the night and rattling the walls and windows were probably going to disturb my sleep for the coming year. Also, in spite of my protestations, an irritable Argentinian who lived directly above me continued her habit of clattering around in high heels on her marble floor at three or four in the morning. I resorted to earplugs and a wave machine, but being a light sleeper, I was frequently awakened. I concluded that once my year’s contract expired I would be better off buying my own place — preferably one where there was no risk of noisy overhead neighbours.
Hurricanes Katrina, Rita, and Wilma all hit Miami during that second year. Each time, I fled north to Toronto or New Jersey, only to find upon my return that the city was a disaster, with power outages, smashed office windows, and in the case of Wilma, just about every beautiful palm tree in the downtown torn to pieces by the winds. Their brown tattered branches hung forlornly like shredded flags. Miami was in disaster mode and the neighbours recounted horror stories of power outages and elevator entrapment. Thank goodness I had had the good sense and foresight to take off at the mention of the word hurricane! After receiving my colourful epistles describing the destructive “Acts of God,” Prince Philip wrote to me that it was “almost as though nature wanted to punish humanity … as if she wanted to warn us to be a bit more considerate toward the natural world.”
The city eventually recovered, and in between working on my music I continued to enjoy Miami’s social scene — a private concert by Plácido Domingo at the elegant old Biltmore Hotel; Art Basel, Miami’s annual international exhibition; a Steinway concert series; the French, Latin, and Jewish film festivals; an arts salon opening by my new friend the Russian–Italian artist known as “Anastasia the Great”; the Heart Ball and fundraiser at the Surf Club; a concert by the New World Symphony; the Dragon Boat Festival; and the Miami City Ballet.
I often attended the tango milongas, bathing in the sensuous music I had become so familiar with. During that time Willy Chirino, one of the most loved Cuban singers in Miami, invited me to play a couple of numbers at the James L. Knight Center at a concert celebrating Cuba’s independence from Spain.
How could I possibly miss this opportunity? I composed a short Cuban-style intro to my piece “Asturiana,” and in spite of fighting my right-hand fingers, I somehow pulled it off in front of the appreciative audience of over two thousand. I was the only non-Latin to play, and it was fun to be in the midst of all the backstage chaos with guitars being unpacked in every corner and sexy backup singers squeezing curvaceous figures into satiny costumes.
An elderly Cuban guitarist, somewhat star-struck, approached me in the green room. “You are that amazing Canadian guitarist who came to Cuba twenty years ago … I saw you on TV, right?”
“Uh uh,” I replied, “I’ve never been to Cuba; you must be mistaken”
I fibbed on strict orders from the concert manager and Willy Chirino’s wife, Lissette, who had threatened to remove me from the program should I let it slip that I had ever set foot in their troubled homeland. I had obliged and even removed any reference to Cuba or Fidel Castro from my website. The subject of Cuba was a tremendously contentious issue in this city.
The guitarist kept giving me furtive glances — “Estoy seguro que fuiste tu! ”
