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“Roosters are part of the Cuban culture,el folklore cubano, and they represent strength and power,” Amaury replies, looking at Melida.
A few blocks later, we stop at a black Chevy Tahoe, which Amaury just unlocked. It smells like the black tree shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror filling the air with a musky like masculine scent of woods and citrus. He opens the passenger side door for me and then the back door for the girls before walking around to climb into the driver’s seat. After pulling his phone from his pocket, he sends out a text message and tosses the phone in the center console. When he starts the engine, a guitar riff starts blaring from the speakers and I look over to him with a raised eyebrow.
“Metallica? Not a band I pictured you listening to,” I say.
“Rock. It’s the musicquemás me gusta,” he responds, his smile stretching across his beautiful face. “Rock musicme hace sentir vivo. Makes me feel alive,” he translates, while turning to the girls in the back seat.
“By the way, we’re staying at the Betsy Hotel on Ocean Drive. Do you know where it is?” I ask him.
“Claro que sí,” he responds, and flashes a crooked smile.
Amaury parks a few blocks from The Betsy. After exiting the car, he searches for my hand, both of which are wrapped around my purse straps. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and marches quietly alongside me toward the hotel entrance. When there, I turn to him and say, “Thank you for driving us, that was nice of you.”
“Quédate conmigofor a little while. Let’s sit on that bench—” he points across the street “—para hablar un ratico.”
I glance at the bench and back at my friends. “Girls, I’ll meet you inside in a little while. I have my key. I’m gonna sit and chat with him over there.” I turn and point to the bench across the street.
“Do you have your phone?” Melida asks me.
“Yes.” I stick my hand in my pockabook and pull it out, showing her my phone, then toss it back into my bag.
Melida nods and meets Amaury’s gaze. “Thank you for driving us. Goodnight,” she says.
“Thank you,” both Krissa & Jestine echo.
With my hand firmly in Amaury’s grip, we cross Ocean Drive and sit on the bench overlooking The Betsy and the neighboring hotels. The night is warm and there’s a light breeze coming off the ocean cooling the air. I’m dreading going home tomorrow to the cold weather after spending the past few days in the sun.
Ocean Drive is lit up with its famous neon lights—greens, blues, pinks, and oranges—amidst the palm fronds blowing in the wind. You can hear the dull sound of music drifting through the air. The night is still young in Miami since it’s not even two in the morning yet. People fill the sidewalks and boardwalk behind us, some carrying their drinks, most women scantily dressed for a night of partying.
“So, where are you from?” I ask.
“Cuba.”
I purse my lips. “I’ve always wanted to visit Cuba. I hear it’s beautiful there.”
“It used to be beautiful. Not anymore. No visit nowque te hace llorar.”
“Why would visiting Cuba make me cry?”
“Porque el gobiernoruined it,” he says matter-of-factly.
I’m not sure I understand. “What do you mean, the government ruined it?”
“Everything is old and broken. Nothing is fixed.Peroenough of Cuba,” he says, wrapping my hand with both of his. “Let’s talk of something else. You have fun dancing?” He shifts his body to face me and sweeps his right leg under his left, resting it on the bench.
“Yes, even if I don’t know how to dance. I loved watching the others dance, especially the group of people dancing in a circle.”
“What people?”
“I’m not sure. There was a small group of maybe eight people, they danced with partners but in a circle and it seemed synchronized.”
“Ah, sí, eso es una Rueda de Casino.”
“It was impressive. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Muy típico cubano.EnCubamany peoplebailanRueda. It’s very popular,” he explains of the traditional Cuban style of dancing.
“Do you danceRueda?” I ask.
