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The Ocean Club, situated near the tip of Key Biscayne, a sixteen-mile drive from downtown Miami, was indeed the tropical paradise I had envisioned, and once my huge cardboard boxes filled with clothes, books, and art had been unpacked, I set out to explore the city. After breathing the often-smoggy air of Los Angeles for fourteen years, the air here smelled delightfully clean and fresh. I knew no one there other than my Cuban realtor, Maria, but was confident that I would soon make new friends. Perhaps all my family moves during my childhood had equipped me for this.
The condo, which I had rented sight unseen, had spectacular views from every angle, and I revelled in the splendid sunrises and sunsets over expansive ocean views that never failed to inspire me. I resolved that I would never live in a place where I could not enjoy this treat of nature, the best artist ever. It all contributed to my delight at having chosen a new home on the edge of the ocean. In 2004 I was in love with Miami and had no inkling of all the problems that were in store for me.
If I arose early in the morning, I could swim alone in the warm pools and watch iguanas and lizards emerging from their shrubbery hideouts on the central island. I floated on my back, gazing up through the palm fronds to the tropical skies. How had I been so lucky to be airlifted into this paradise? If I desired a change of scene, after only a two-minute walk I was on a sun-warmed, sandy beach that led to the lighthouse and park at the tip of the island, where sailboats and motor boats pulled up, and where they served café con leche, rice and black beans, and Cuban-style fried plantains.
In no time I had befriended some of the other residents of the Ocean Club, whom I met while in the outdoor restaurant, the state-of-the-art gymnasium, or the local town. A Haitian girl and I became friends while dancing Argentinian tango at one of the milongas, and a few classical guitarists welcomed me once they discovered I was living in their midst. Still, over and over again I encountered people who asked me with a look of disbelief, “You moved from Beverly Hills to Miami?” Could there be something about this city that I did not yet understand? I paid no real attention to these questions, though, continuing to enjoy my exciting new life.
In Key Biscayne I was delighted by the flamingos and egrets that strutted nonchalantly along the pathways, and soon I was riding my bike along Crandon Boulevard and happily prattling away in Spanish with bank tellers and garage attendants, thrilled by the adventure of discovering this new city that I had seen so much of on Univision, the popular Spanish network that, along with CNN en Español, I had become addicted to in Los Angeles.
My obsession had begun while perfecting my skills with a language that I had loved ever since living in Mexico as a teenager. In the Latin world, everyone talks at the same time, constantly interrupting each other. Such behaviour is not considered disrespectful, just the acceptable way of communicating. I remembered Jack’s frequent criticism of me for my “bad habit” of not letting him finish his sentences, and my mother’s reprimands if she saw me jumping in too soon on television interviews. Here, however, this practice was not considered a fault, but the norm, and somehow this style of fast-paced communication suited my naturally impatient nature just fine! If one observes the English language morning news shows on NBC and then switches to Univision or Telemundo’s Latin broadcasts, one sees the two styles are night-and-day different. The Spanish-speaking hosts and guests exude passion and excitement, and nobody feels offended. If someone is making an important point, I would consider it poor manners to interrupt, but in casual conversation, almost all the Latin-based languages seem to function this way — one only has to listen to a group of animated Francophones or Italians!
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Key Biscayne was actually a bedroom community, somewhat removed from the city, ideal for raising families and for those desiring a quiet family life, so I decided I needed to drive downtown to attend as many cultural events as possible. I made contact with people from the Miami Opera, joined the Museum of Contemporary Art, went to lectures at the library, was invited to the book circle of Northern Trust, attended the symphony, went along with my new Salvadoran friend, Roxana Flamenco, to the monthly Coral Gables “Art Walk,” contacted the Canadian consulate and the School of Music at the University of Miami, and checked out concerts at the Catholic church and the Beethoven Society. Pretty soon my life was a whirlwind of social activity. I met a wide variety of Spanish-speaking people who were intrigued by my fascination with their language and culture, their cuisine, their art, and above all their music.
A friend from Los Angeles, Hector Villalobos, the manager of Mexican superstar Marco Antonio Solis, invited me to attend the flashy BMI awards. There I became acquainted with Julio Iglesias’s producer, Ramon Arcusa, as well as both his long time engineer, Carlos Alvarez, and his concert promoter, Arie Kaduri. Ramon and I exchanged emails, and over coffee at Bal Harbour he complimented me on several of the Spanish songs I had written, and even helped me polish a couple of lines to one I had written called “Por Este Amor.”
“If you want to find success as a songwriter Liona, remember to only write love songs,” was his advice.
At a Julio concert, which I had attended with Ted Miller, a young Greek-American with whom I often practised singing, I sat for almost an hour while Julio sang his entire sound check to me. Was I dreaming or was I in heaven?! I was enjoying a private concert by one of the world’s great singers at one of the major Miami Beach hotels. Afterward, Ted and I had a chance to see Julio with his future wife, Miranda, and their adorable new youngsters. The man certainly knew how to create gorgeous songs and equally gorgeous kids!
After only a short time in Miami I had become acquainted with just about every major player in the Latin music scene, from producers Emilio Estefan and Kike Santander to the legendary and most revered of all Mexican song- writers of “Ésta Tarde Ví Llover” fame, Armando Manzanero.
Here Cuban salsa ruled, and I practised my dance steps in places such as Bongos and Mango’s although I much preferred the atmosphere I found in Little Havana and at private parties, where live music was always a given. How very different from all those staid Beverly Hills and Toronto parties where live music was the exception rather than the rule. Music, and especially guitar music, was an indispensable part of their culture and daily lives.
Pretty soon I had also rubbed shoulders with every newscaster and music star in the area, from Don Francisco (the Ed Sullivan of the Latin world), to Raúl Velasco, Fernando Arau, Giselle Blondet, and Cristina Saralegui (the Cuban-American Oprah Winfrey), all of them embracing with warmth this strange Canadian who chatted away in Spanish and was obviously familiar with the important roles they represented in the landscape of Latin American pop culture.
A friendship developed with Sanford and Dolores Ziff, Miami’s philanthropic power couple. Sanford had amassed a fortune after founding the Sunglass Hut, and along with Dolores, he invited me to many of the big events taking place in the city. Between the Ziffs and other new friends, I was overwhelmed with invitations to various functions: cocktails at Nikki Beach; the Andalusian Food Festival; a showing of Chihuly glass sculptures at the beautiful Fairchild Garden; and a polo game on the sands of Miami Beach.
On a more sombre note, I played at the funeral for the Ziffs’ son. To my continued chagrin, even though I still struggled to play my beloved guitar every day, my right-hand fingers were not improving, Nevetheless, somehow I managed to perform two simple pieces, a short Carcassi Etude and Erik Satie’s Gymnopédie No. 1. While living at the Ocean Club, I also enjoyed taking some singing lessons from an elderly Venezuelan vocal coach who showed me exercises that I diligently practised at my piano.
I spent a few days over Christmas at my buddy Ted’s parents’ peaceful avocado and lychee farm, a nice change of pace from life in Miami, and they took me to the Southern Command’s Air Force Ball where Ted sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I occasionally called Jack to see how he, Muffin, and the family were doing and to let them know I was surviving living alone
