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“Nochica. I no late, I run on Miami time,” I reply, and wink. After turning the engine off, I rise and approach her. She smells like cinnamon and I’m going to have to ask her what it is becausemeenciende por dentroand I want to devour her. I’ve never been a fan of cinnamon until meeting Sol.
“Miami time?”
“Sí. If someone says one, it really means one fifteen or one thirty.”
She raises an eyebrow over at me. “Um, okay.”
“You drink coffee?” I ask her.
“Yes. What kind of coffee do they have here?”
“Café cubano,cafecito, colada, cortadito, orcafé con leche,” I tell her.
“Other thancafé con leche, I don’t know what the others are,” she responds, wrinkling her nose.
“Cafecitois like espresso, except the Cubans prepare it with sugar in it. Acoladais the same thing, only it’s a little bigger, for people to share. Acortaditois a smallcafé con leche.”
“Oh, well in that case I’ll have acortaditoplease.”
“You tried Cuban pastries yet?” I ask her, pointing to the pastry case to my left.
“No, what kind are they?”
“Here they havequeso, guayaba, orguayaba con queso.”
“I don’t know whatguayabais,” she says, looking away from the pastry case and meeting my gaze.
“Guayabais guava, a fruit very popularen Cuba.”
“What’s it taste like?”
“Es dulce.”
“I’m not a fan of things that are too sweet so maybe I won’t like it. I’ll have the cheese one.”
“Está bien. You can try mine to see if you like it.” I order our coffees and pastries with the young woman behind the counter.
“So where are we going today?” Sol asks and turns to lean on the wall.
“PorCollins Avenue to Hollywood Beach. It’s scenic and a pretty ride on the Vespa. Also, there’s a nice boardwalk with restaurants, and live music.”
“Sounds great. I haven’t gotten that far north yet so it will be new for me.”
“Sol, you can’t wearchancletasto ride the Vespa.Es peligrosoand you could get hurt,” I tell her, pointing to her feet. I don’t want her to seriously injure herself.
“Oh, really?” she asks, looking down at her feet. “Should we stop by my place so I can change?”
The young woman places our coffee and pastries before us, and I slide Sol’scortaditocloser to her.
“Si puedes, sí. If you suddenly stop or something, your feet aren’t protected. You should wear closed shoes, or sneakers.”
“Okay. We can stop by my place, and I’ll run inside real quick to change them, if that’s okay.”
“Claro que sí,” I respond, nodding my head in unison.
“This is the cheesepastelito,” I say, pointing to the long, golden brown pastry with sugar baked on top. Sol extends her fingers to grasp it, bringing it to her lips.
“Mmm,” she mumbles, as she’s chewing. “Que rico. It’s warm, and cheesy with just the right amount of sugar in it.”
