A Very Miami Easter

No matter where you are, chances are that if you're a Roman Catholic, like me, you're not far away from a church celebrating the resurrection of Our Lord.

For today is Easter Sunday, and on this special day, Sundries is taking you on a very special travellogue...a trip around 3 of the many Catholic churches in South Florida!

Yeah, a little church is good for you, for me come to that, ya hear?

At least, every once in a while, if only to hear some of the most beautiful voices singing their little hearts out for you, doubtlessly after many heated rehearsals all week, in the name of the Lord.

And it goes a little like this:





Young, old, woman, man, every section of society is represented in this humble church choir.

It also is your first introduction to one of our featured travellogue churches, which debuts this blogpost quite nicely.


STS PETER & PAUL ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH






You've been to the Silver Bluff-Shenandoah neighbourhoods before with me, on Sundries, even if you don't immediately recall. That's where the cutest little house in Miami is located, remember?

And where Robert of 26th Parallel held his wedding, at this very church, the much beloved, Saints Peter & Paul, which also features a school of the same name. In fact, all 3 churches pictured in this travellogue, have schools attached to its parish, one of the imprimaturs of a healthy and successful Catholic community.

You know, I don't know about you, but I've yet to know of a Catholic school that didn't have a yard long waiting list for its school, a fact which has always made me smile.

For the world says that the Roman and Apostolic Catholic Church is in frank disarray, with dwindling membership, and an embittered and suspicious faithful -- which I don't doubt is true for many.

But this opinion is also an exaggerated view, often culled up by secularists who in repeating this, hope to seed doubt in people's minds. Catholic Church is dying! No one is attending Mass! Catholic priests are all paedophiles!

Indeed?

Well, in these three churches, ranging from working-class to elite status are anything to go by, perhaps all what we Catholics really need is a little more faith...in our faith.

By the way, did you see, "Sts Peter & Paul -- Panthers"?

How MANY schools have "Panthers" as their mascot in America?? It must be the single most popular mascot animal in this country!

Why never "Home of the Chihuahuas", hmm, hmm?





Holy Week started with me deciding to be a little more devout than I usually am, so on that note, I told my parents that I would be accompanying them to Mass, whenever they went. They have never forced me to do so, and for that, I've always been grateful.

In my own way, I'm rather religious, but man, am I lazy.

But anyway, mother rejoiced, and dad snickered, but then he would, old agnostic that he used to be.

So off we went to Sts. Peter & Paul, since that's my mum's favourite church.

Look at that neighbourhood. PACKED, totally packed. Not even a spot to swing the proverbial handicapped parking space cat.

We walked from two blocks away, where we had finally found a space, having first left a sign in my car window saying that I was at Church, so irate owners wouldn't have me towed away.

Oh, in two languages, of course! After all, that area is almost completely Cuban-American.

...and 50 years after their exile began, some of them don't even speak ni un pepino de ingles. Ah well.





That's St. Peter to the left, and St. Paul to the right. Or is it the other way around? I forget.

Either way, as you can see from the wide wooden doors, and aged sconces outside, it is a modern church (built in 1939), but still not an ultra-modern mega church, just another barn-like edifice masquerading as a house of worship, which frankly, I've never liked.

I just never have found the presence of God inside those modern, Protestant-looking Catholic churches which seem to abound in the US (sadly), you know?

But Sts Peter & Paul doesn't have that problem. It is very elegant, with all that implies -- understated colours, muted stonemasonry, and yet stately lines.

If I had to describe this church in one word, that word would be SOLID.





I always enter this church by the left-most door, and you know why?

Because the right-hand door leads you immediately to a statue of St. Joseph, holding as is the custom, our baby Lord, Jesus Christ. I like me some St. Joseph, it's not that, but I LOVE ST. THÈRÉSE OF LISIEUX.

And that's where the left-hand door leads you to: to her beautiful statue, in those Carmelite robes, holding that famous spray of roses with which she is so closely associated.

When I was a little girl, my maternal grandmother made me read her famous autobiography, Story of a Soul, and like millions of Catholics after her death, I instantly fell in love with this saint, who preached a Catholicism we could all do -- The Little Way.

Whichever church I go to, she's always my first port-of-call.





Like many churches, Sts. Peter & Paul has two little side rooms, an antechamber of sorts, where you can pray quietly and give a few dollars to help the church meet its expenses.

Right next to St. Thèrése, we have just such a room where a wonderful, unadorned crucifix of Our Lord hangs.

I'm not too keen about this newfangled modern candle thingie, where by a mere push of a little button, it lights up an electric "light" in memory of your loved one, and so forth.

Yeah, the old versions were fire hazards, but if the Vatican doesn't mind being engulfed in a conflagration to preserve the custom, with its holdings which are beyond price, why should a more modest church not do so, too?

Bring back the real candles!!





Every Catholic country has its particular Saint this, or Our Holy Virgin Mary of the other, and Cuba is no different.

Next to the prie-dieu above, there is a tiny little space for the Cuban "Nuestra Señora de la Caridad del Cobre" (Our Lady of Charity, which a Cuban friend once mistranslated as Our Lady of Sweet Charity with a totally straight face).

The French have Lourdes, the Portuguese have Fatima, the Mexicans have their Guadalupe, and the Brazilians have their Conçeicão, but the Cubans revere the story of this apparition of Our Lady for many reasons.

Three fishermen, one white, one black and one indigenous (the first totally Politically Correct santico crowd in the world, and to think, Barbara Walters had nothing to do with it...), chanced upon a statue of a lady in the waters where they fished. Attached to her was a little wooden plank with the words, "Yo Soy La Virgen de La Caridad" (I am the Virgin of Charity), which is some calling card, boy.

Her legend grew in Cuba, to the point where both Catholics and voodoo priests worship her with equal fervour. Interestingly, she was appointed patroness of Cuba by another Benedict, Pope Benedict XV in 1916.

I've never seen this little statue without some little old Cubana senior citizen praying reverentially under her.

(Ooh, I don't like the look of that panel in the ceiling, all peeling and yucky, which isn't noticeable when you're actually there, though. Never mind fire. What is the church doing about its damp and rot?)





Obviously, a cute little sign in brass asking parishioners not to use calculators inside church.

Sucks for the 6th graders cramming just before an exam.





Jam packed for Holy Week services, this elegant lady had to stand up, and do her devotions on the floor.

Mother turned to me and whispered, "I think that's Catherine Deneuve".

Oh totally, mum, definitely.

Catherine Deneuve flipped the bird to La Madeleine and Notre Dame and chose to attend Mass in an obscure Cuban-American Miami neighbourhood church, Sts Peter & Paul.

Anyway, is she even religious? Belle du Jour, indeed.





My favourite chorister is the lady allll the way to the back-right, who looks like a Cuban Barbara Bush. Que nice.

And what a booming alto! She's the topmost voice you hear singing "La Gloria Del Señor" in the Youtube clip above.

(In case you wondered, many of the Masses we attend are in Spanish, but neither my parents nor I, mind. Dad just pretends it's Latin, and mum sings in a mixture of French and Italian, much to the amusement of the viejitas around her)





A lovely, long view of the actual interior of the church.

You can get a fair idea of what kinds of people attend services, although I do have to say this is most probably 100% Cuban-American (minus stray gringos like myself, or other Hispanics).

Funny thing about it, is that some of the kids actually wore their school uniform, I noticed! It had the logo of the school on their yellow polo shirts, and blue trousers. You couldn't have paid me to put on my school jumper after hours, back in England...

Lastly a word about the "cura", the priest.

He's from Spain, apparently, and has a wonderful voice. Mass and services around the world are made or broken by the voice of its vicars, priests, imams, rabbis, etc.

Get a really boring, monotone chap, and that 1 hour of devotion will inch second by second, until all you do towards the end, is count the moment when you can bolt out the door.

But this guy? He has charisma, and a lot of presence.

Mum says she doesn't understand a word he says, because his Spaniard accent is too thick, but she loves going there at nights, just to listen to his voice.

If only our Church had more like my dear old mother.


EPIPHANY ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH






Our next church is located in upscale Pinecrest, the old neighbourhood of ex-Governor Jeb Bush, and in fact, used to be his and his family's local parish.

Yes, Pinecrest is a very wealthy area, with million dollar homes strewn all over Old Cutler Road, but for all that, its citizens are not to the manner born, like in Coral Gables.

Epiphany Church (yes, with school next door) reflects their non-fussy attitude, where Catherine Deneuve would never deign to appear.

It's actually a fairly new, ginormous church, resembling a cathedral in size and import, but still just a church.

It's not exactly to my taste, since it has a hint of that modernist architecture which I told you I greatly dislike, but their services ARE mostly in English, so my family and I sometimes go there just for that.

Makes a change to understand what's actually going on, you know?





Massive doors frame the entrance. It's not as minimalist as it seems, though. It's just a bit new, and hasn't grown into its character, like Sts. Peter & Paul.

Give it time. 60 years, which in Miami-time, is 300.





Not too sure I approve of the wicker ceiling (I think that's what it is). But at least the stained glass windows and depth of the transept give Epiphany a nice glow in daylight.

This is the Good Friday liturgical Mass, which was preceeded by the Stations of the Cross devotional.

(My favourite part of the whole Easter calender is Good Friday, when the Passion takes place. And yes, I was first in the queue when Mel Gibson's movie came out some years ago)

The priest in this church was a young, American chap, and very nice too, I'm sure. But he just doesn't have the gravitas the other Spaniard priest had, best illustrated by the lack of timbre in his voice, which he used to RUSH through the Mass (40 minutes flat, in what usually takes 1 full hour!).

My parents and I kept looking at each other, wondering where the fire was?

A Winchellesque performance, which I hope he will grow out of, as he ages gracefully into his role -- just like Epiphany church itself.





The paddles for the "offerings", or what you heathens know as the "begging for money" baskets.

I took a photo of the open door because it reminded me of an Oxford boatrace, when the oars (blades) are lined up just like that.

Fitting, because the service was over faster than an Eights Week bumps race...





Yes, there are poor folk in Pinecrest, which is like saying the poor of Kensington or Park Avenue, heh.

And here is the proof.

That's my mother opening up her purse and putting in a whole 3 bucks into the poorbox, one dollar for each minute of the Mass...





I'm very conscious that I'm taking pictures of reverential places for this travellogue, so I make sure I never catch anyone in actual prayer, which would be wrong.

I break this rule of mine, only once in the travellogue, and here it is.

Mother, child, looking up in devotion to Our crucified Saviour. Every photograph I have shown you has been taken with the joy of sharing my world with you.

But here, in this one photograph, I am showing you what my religion means to me, through the faceless body of a devout mother introducing her child to our faith.

What can be more beautiful than that?





If you guessed that I wasn't particularly bowled over by Epiphany church, you would not be wrong.

But I'll give them this -- that's the best church bell tower in all of Miami, bar none. On a fine day, you can hear them clear across Coral Gables, calling its faithful to pray in their Grand Prix.


CHURCH OF THE LITTLE FLOWER






So far, you've followed me to upwardly-mobile working-class Cuban-American Silver Bluff. Then you've traipsed with me to services in flexingly nouveau-riche Pinecrest.

But now, we're in the heart of the elite world of Miami -- Coral Gables!

You remember the Church of the Little Flower, surely? Well, here it is for Holy Saturday Vigil Mass.

Mum and I lost the armwrestle match with the old lady you see emerging triumphantly from the illegal parking space just in front of the church, so we parked three blocks over.

I'll say one thing for my newfound religiosity. What with the genuflections during Mass, the ups, the downs, the hiking of miles from parking space to church, I must've lost at least 3 pounds.

Catholicism is not only good for the soul, but it tones your abs, too.





I'm not exactly sure whose bust of a saint that is -- frankly, it looks not a little like Machiavelli or Savanorola.

(Just behind it is the requisite school of the Little Flower, which is $$$ to get into, as can be expected)

Keeping up my tradition, I always enter through the left-hand door of the church, though since this whole CHURCH is dedicated to my Little Flower, I don't do so to encounter her statue, more of which anon.





It's just that I like the view from the left, as one enters.

High vaulted ceilings. Flouncy alcoves, and a massive cupola above the Altar. I love it.

Yeah, a little ornate, but ornate is better than a modernist Costco Warehouse. Who can find God next to the Rice Crispies?

The only thing I found a little disappointing, was that the crowd was almost all older, and not very enthusiastic, as at least the Epiphany crowd were.

And I tell you what else disappointed me, now that I am in quibble-mode.





The outdoor statue of St. Thèrése, my beloved saint.

Nooooo, that's so totally not her face! She looks like a young Mirta de Perales! Look at that nose. Cubanaza and a half!

That's another thing about us Catholics -- we're fussy about our faith, and we each of us have in our minds, how certain things should be relating to it.

Take me, for example.

I can only worship in a church I like, which gives me the right "feeling" inside, when I enter it. If there is a priest I don't care for, or a statue which rubs me the wrong way, I may shun its comforting purpose, because I can always find another church which suits me better.

Sure, many religions have that peculiarity too, and furthermore, I do so because I have a wealth of choices around me -- but Catholics are notoriously sentimental about their churches, their priests, and their saints.

Anyway, just because the Church of The Little Flower has a snub-nosed St. Theresa outside, who looks like she just came out of the ring with Leila Ali, doesn't mean I have to look at her all day.

That's why I bring my Little Flower rosary box with me, so her more recognisably beatific face stares at me, whether the priest be boring, speedy or folksy.





Ahh, that's more like it. The Little Flower looking at me, for once a good little Catholic girl, observing her duties to her faith, and sharing it with all and sundries. But now, I must say...

This travellogue is ended. Go in Peace!

And Happy Easter, everyone!


UPDATE: Blogger colleague, Class-Factotum, makes an amazingly similar observation for the "workout" portion of the Catholic ritual. Read the blogpost here.

I know I shouldn't be sacreligious on such a day, but that's never stopped me before.

Why, I ask myself, hasn't a priest ever realised he could treble his parish numbers, if he instituted step classes in CYO?

Just a thought.

Please also read Benning's Easter post on the Resurrection. Very moving!

Crystal Palace

(Welcome Stuck On The Palmetto readers! More SoFla travellogues coming soon)

Do you have two supermarket stores so close to each other, that you are left wondering:

What's the point?

Now, I understand all about competing petrol stations in quadrangulation of each other on some street corner -- that's capitalism at work, baby.

You WILL go to the cheapest station, even if it's just by one penny, and the other ones might just be forced to compete with each other, to keep up.

But it seems to me that with supermarket chains, it becomes a mite silly, even wasteful, if there are other locales which would have needed a closer supermarket to them.

So, how about when there are two supermarkets REALLY close to each other, say, oh across two city blocks of each other, but are from the SAME chain?

That's weird, my friends.

But such is the case in South Beach, of the two Publixes virtually within spitting distance of each other.

The mind starts to wonder:

Is the first, older Publix set to be demolished, and the company hedged their bets by building a newer one when the first goes, since the locale is very profitable?

Was it some kind of home-owner association demand to service a more specialised, gourmet market?

Or in the case of this Publix supermarket, is it the special, out-of-the-way plaything of a rich demographic, insistent on their privacy, where one frequently sees limos parked outside?

For the sake of our latest travellogue, let's assume it's Door Number 3. If you know better, speak up! The mystery is killing me.

Either way, here is our latest South Florida Travellogue together -- this time, not too taxing on your neurons, I promise -- where we head on over to...


THE CRYSTAL PUBLIX PALACE





Capacious. Stunning. Futuristic.

These are the immediate impressions this particular supermarket makes on you. A glassy bauble on what is the South Florida jewel in the crown -- Miami Beach.

Look at how the light plays with the glass, and the palm trees in the foreground, jutting at odd angles to each other, but making it that much more elegant because of its asymetry.





Here in South Florida we have two major supermarket chains, in competition with each other: Winn-Dixie (as in that awful Dakota Fanning movie and book).

Winn-Dixie's slogan is "The Beef People". Yep, you guessed it, they have excellent slabs of beef. If a South Floridian wants a good steak, that's where they go.

However, it's also the more inexpensive of the two, and that's why Winn-Dixies are usually the preferred stores for the public assistance crowd, with everything that signifies.

They are usually dirtier, less safe, and less fancy than the other major chain, which is...

Publix.

"Where Shopping Is a Pleasure"

If you guessed that I prefer and shop almost exclusively at Publix, you get a cookie. Anyway, I lost my EBT card.





When this supermarket opened, apart from the already mentioned head-scratching wonderment as to its placing, my first thought was:

Oh! Americans have finally gone the Carrefour route!

Carrefour is a French supermarket chain which is called an HYPERMARCHÉ, and you have to enter it, to believe just how enormous those things are, around the world.

They even have Carrefours all over South America, from Rio to Bogotá.

No, it's not quite Costcos, or Sam's Club because they are proper supermarkets, not nearly wholesale operations where you can buy industrial-sized bags of frozen gnocchi to feed a family for a year.

It's a local neighbourhood supermarket, just blown up to Eiffel Tower proportions.





This is the entrance to our own Crystal Palace, as dad and I immediately dubbed it, for obviously cultural reasons. We're forever blowing bubbles at it.

I confess I have a special liking for that modernist aluminium look, which this Publix satiates quite nicely in me.

But when I was taking the photo, I barely noticed that sign with the bunny, thinking it must be yet another tiresome Easter promotion to do with kiddies and egg-baskets, which I loathe.

I was never much for Peter Rabbit.

Such was my surprise when I found out that Publix has been awarded special licence by the US Government to print "bunny bucks", of which you can read more about in the blogpost above.

Are they serious?? That's almost tercermundismo! Even the French would balk.





As you can see, the inside is no big shakes, unlike my other travellogue, The Fresh Market.

Same overused pretty-in-pink-and-vomit-green theme décor (the Publix colours), and the same savings one would get at any other Publix, so what's the big deal, you know?

I expected clowns, a marching band, and possibly strippers.

I mean, LUDACRIS shops there, come on.





It's not even that capacious, given its deceptively gorgeous size outside. The Publix in Coral Gables near Miracle Mile I think is bigger.

And it certainly has a better quality of boniato.

(Note the Volvic water being advertised at the entrance, since South Beach is perfectly crawling with Frenchies, my friends. You'd think you were in France! Even my condo prez was French, sacré bleu! Anyway, I drink Perrier, exclusively)





So let's go back out, since there is nothing special about the inside.

Ahh, now we're talking. Aluminium and glass as far as the eye can see!






And again, that play of light produces a strangely intimate feeling in this cavernous edifice.

It's almost as if you are absolutely alone despite being surrounded by hundreds of people, like sometimes happens in a little odd corner of the Louvre -- just you and an artwork suddenly quite solitary.

Maybe it's the rounded corners, which are seductive, don't you think?





I paused from my photographic good works to drink the Publix brand lemonade, which I then set on top of this bin. That's when I saw them!

The archtypical South Beach couple:

He, all LL Bean baby blue shirt with upturned collar and linen bermudas. She, with insouciant Calvin Klein gear, with an eye to purse-snatchers, having criss-crossed her handbag wisely along her body, just like one does on the continent or in Rio de Janeiro.

You'll notice BOTH are wearing the latest baby blue shoes, which as you know, is the "it" colour of Spring 2007.

Fashionistas would never frequent Winn-Dixie.





More shoppers, this time a family which probably spent $300 on two shopping carts worth of goods.

Sigh.

I remember when £20 would get one 4 enormous bags at Tescos, and my dad would still have some change left over to buy me a toffee.

But things were bound to change after Mafeking.





The top level of the Crystal Palace carpark.

That exposed piping, and the already dingy walls slightly marred the overall positive impression I had of this Publix, but no matter.

It's the only supermarket carpark where you don't have to fight to get a spot, and don't have to worry about overzealous metre maids, which is saying something in cutthroat South Beach.





The view from the glass parapet.

Like the Eiffel Tower, if you dare, you can get on your tippy-toes and peep down at the street below.

I fear no big shakes here either, since that is I do believe, our local electric plant.

(Just beyond, to your right, you can see the Regal Cinemas South Beach 18 theatre, which is another saga in glass yet to come on Sundries)

But just as I snapped this picture, I felt a rustle of feathers brush against me, startling me, whereupon I almost lost my balance! And me with minor Vertigo!

What on earth?





Ohh, poor little thing.

I suppose such things happen -- doves and pigeons get stuck inside the Crystal Palace all the time.

Good job PETA haven't gotten wind of such a thing, because I fear the little creatures get flustered trying to find the exit, and with a sickening THUD, I heard this one beat itself against the glass windows visible just to your right. I didn't dare look to see if it had survived.

What else can you expect when Windex is on sale for $2.69?


BONUS SHOT: The Crystal Palace at night.





That's where guys head to, when they've tired of standing around club Mansion or Privé for hours, checking out other kinds of birds.


EXTRA EXTRA SHOT: Long view.





RELATED:

Don't forget to stop by my blogger pal, Ron of Fluffy Stuffin', to check out his magnificently scrumptious Zingerman's deli and gourmet market update.

Check out the queues in FREEZING Michigan, for those no doubt delicious Reuben sandwiches (and other comestibles).

Happy Silver Anniversary, Zings!

Roadside

If there's one reuniting factor all my South Florida travellogues have in common, it's the colourful, and loving eyes I bring to our landscapes, down here.

It's true that I try to compose a visually stimulating array of photographs, from my many journeys around the area.

I do so specifically for you, my Sundries reader, hoping you can enjoy these pleasing sights as much as I do.

But I can also tell you that there is no artifice in these shots. They lay before me, and later you, like an open sesame of discoveries, one more vibrant and deserving than the next.

I have, of course, spoken of our next travellogue destination before.

Homestead was the topic of a May Day blogpost, which briefly showed you just how changed this rural part of South Florida had become, in the decade plus since Hurricane Andrew.

The area was LEVELLED, more than you can ever imagine Hurricane Katrina having done so to New Orleans -- which, of course, was more a question of water damage, than structural damage.

Homestead got both, and it got it good and hard.

Many thought the city, never prosperous, would struggle to re-build, and later to re-open, but it did both with such determination, and not a bit of funding from all concerned, that today, it's still redneck, blue-collar, working class, call it what you will, but call it a success first.

I was there a few weeks ago, just visiting the general area which I hadn't really done so since my Habitat for Humanity work in 1993. That's a long time, but in truth it's not unusual.

Rare is the South Floridian who doesn't live or work there, who gets down to that neck of the woods, which my mother not unwryly calls, "The End of the World".

Yes, there's very little to do there, despite the Homestead Speedway, and outreach campus of Miami-Dade (Community) College.

And it also can be a wee bit dangerous, since there is genuine poverty in Homestead, or what passes for poverty in America -- the struggling, Mexican migrant worker communities, and black population of cheek-by-jowl town, Florida City.

By the way, there's a rule about Florida that you should know we locals sometimes refer to. If it's got "City" in its title, it might just not be the safest place for you to be in.

Lemon City, Carol City, Florida City...

Perhaps not the safest places, as I say, but they have their own piquant, local charm, which I hope to show you in due course.

Now Homestead, being a rural town which is surrounded by the descriptive, and moneyed Southern white neighbourhood called The Redlands, is all country roads.

Sometimes you can go for seemingly hours without seeing another car in front or behind you.

It can get disorientating, if you're not used to it, as this British girl sometimes and still, isn't. There is hardly a non-built-up area in the UK, which would come close, to the desolate breadth of American country roads.

But faint heart and lack of compass has never stopped blogger lady.

So off I went, into one of these country roads, not knowing what I'd find...yet, knowing I would find something, something for you.

And sure enough, I did.


THE HOMESTEAD ROADSIDE TRAVELLOGUE






It took me several paragraphs of introduction above to describe Homestead's ruralness, which one photograph here can make you understand in a second.

Two men, two horses, a trailing dog, and endless space. Homestead.

It just doesn't get simpler than that.

Do you know what I love about the country, which maybe you do too?

I love how time stands still there.

It's as if the hand of time passes over it, and favours its city cousin to alter beyond recognition, from one decade to the next.

Tell me this scene wouldn't be at home in the 19th century, or the 15th century, or any century before the advent of mechanised transport.

The pickier amongst you might quibble about the corrugated iron shed in the back, or the t-shirts the men are wearing, or indeed, the fact that one is a heavy-set white man, and the other, a svelte black man, the combination of which dates it to a ballpark century.

But for me, this scene is without timestamp, and because of that, it's endlessly beguiling.






But in the 21st century we are, as my reveries of centuries past evaporated in one instant, when seeing this van up ahead.

I have a touch of the rebel inside me, I've always known, because I love nothing better than to beat the system.

It doesn't have to be in big ways. Perhaps a waiver of a late library fine here, and a wink about a token not used there.

But something that makes me feel a bit marginal, a bit naughty, such as loving the idea of an informal economy.

I know, I know.

Spare me your diatribes about lack of taxes, and deregularised, undocumented workers, which often make up a large part of this sector. I've heard it all before, and I still want informal economies to exist.

Anyway, I don't like the IDEA of taxes, and nothing shows one personal initiative, drive, and greed, which are the very motors that run any capitalist economy, than a guy selling stuff from the back of his truck.

Renesito here, or his able assistant, is offering passing motorists your pick of Key West lobsters. Mmmm!

Not the poor, bound up dears you see in supermarket tanks. Oh no, this is as fresh and as illegal as you can get.

What's not to love about this intrepid langostero?






Nevertheless, I passed on the lobsters and shrimp, since as you know, I'm a veggie and fruit person myself.

It's then when I saw IT...the reason for my travellogue, staring at me bright and greeny, on the opposite side of the road.

Now, you may remember my most recent travellogue: a visit to Coconut Grove's Fresh Market.

The scene which I chanced upon here, is about as different from that well-to-do experience, as you can get.

There's no air conditioning in this outdoor hut thingie.

There's no Coconut Grove matron emerging from her car washed Mercedes.

And there is certainly not the same kind of inventory available, as the cornocopia of goodies to be found in The Fresh Market.

Perhaps for its unusualness, though, I found it as wonderful an experience shopping there, as I ever could in the antiseptic, but not unseductive Miami one.






One look at these succulent green bell peppers, was enough to convince me to stop the car, turn around, and go back to get them, in one smooth motion of my car.

I was always a sucker for legumes.





Corn leaves me less intrigued, though.

They seemed a bit sad, this last pile of corn still on their cobs, waiting for the last person to take them home, butter them up, and eat them to the core.

I like corn on the cob, what newly-minted American does not, but I passed on this offering too...





...for it was for the green bell peppers, and the tomatoes that I had come!

Guess how much for just a whole bag's worth of peppers and tomatoes, each? 2 bucks!

Why you can't get ONE pepper in a chain supermarket these days, for a buck, and here I was being offered nearly a bushel! So I exaggerate, sue me.

By the way, see the vendor up top, selling some vegetables to the red-haired older lady in front?

He seemed like the owner, or the son of the owner, and though he was Mexican, he wasn't your archtypical Mexican roadside worker.

For one, he had on good, clean clothes, and though perhaps not white, he was not indigenous either, as the rest of the gentlemen inside the hut, were. He also spoke with a more cultured accent.

Later, I was to overhear a conversation with whom I presumed to be the boss man, and it went a little like this, in Spanish, of course.

"Do you have my W-2 form ready?"

"Yeah, I put it in your mailbox this morning."

"Thanks. I have to send it to Tallahassee next week."

"Don't claim more than 2 dependants, since they get suspicious after the 3rd."

"Yeah, so I heard. Oh, my cellphone. Thanks patrón, I'll be back tomorrow!"

Seems I'm not the only person, who likes to beat the system.






Having maxxed out my credit card, I mean, paid the four bucks for my tomatoes and bell peppers, I was about to leave, when the boss man told me, in English:

"We also have some great strawberries available.

3 dollars if we "build" you a pack, or 2 dollars, if you want to pick 'em yourself."

Seriously?! Awesome!

Short of being offered to pat the prize pig at a petting zoo, picking my own strawberries from a field was this city girl's dream come true.

So he handed me my little blue carton, and I handed him my 2 bucks, which really broke my bank account this time, and off I went, into the wild blue and green patchy yonder.






If only my old Headmistress could see me now.

She'd say, "That Vicky. I told you, I told you. Barefoot, pregnant and picking strawberries. And STILL unmarried!"

(I keed, I keed. Please, like I would have passed on the shrimp if I were pregnant)

My careful, expensive education had prepared me for much. But it hadn't prepared me to be a temporary migrant worker.

Respect.





Whew, picking berries is not as easy as I thought. It's thirsty, sweaty work, and so I started to leave with perhaps less than a full basket.

But what is it that my liberal dad always told me to do?

"From each according to his ability, to each according to his need."

Screw that, I went in for seconds!

Some system beater I would be, if I hadn't.

Nevertheless, at the end of my cotton pickin' exertions, I took shelter in this inviting, clean, white chair, and had me some soda pop, being relieved of all of 50 US cents.

The last time I had spent so little, total, shopping...was well, I don't recall when.

Maybe when I went into a 7/11 for a packet of gum, only I hate gum, so not even.






Remember that lady busy clearing the joint of corn, up top?

Well, girlfriend had a sweet ride.

Jeez, we went from Homestead to Southfork Ranch, in one sweep of JR's magic wand.

She had better not have been famous!






So here we are, finally at the end of our latest travellogue together.

I gathered my berries, my veggies, and with visions of future repasts to come, I followed the Texas Longhorn limo out to the dirt road, each of us going on our merry way.

Only hers seemed a damned sight merrier than mine, the cow.

Never mind, I still had all that country road to get lost in dreams in, endless miles stretching before me, just green pastures, and WHAT!

Barbecue Ponies???

Man, where are PETA when you need them, right? Probably picking strawberries in a field some where real poor and stuff. Oh, the humanity...





Oh yeah!

The strawberries.

I forgot to show you my sweet little carton of strawberries, which entitles me to the appellation of "guest worker", if I hadn't already a Social Security card.

Now, I know what you're thinking...

Vic, they're kind of mangy, IF colourful.

Yeah, well, see, in my hurry to return home to tell my friends and family about this sojourn, I actually left these little lovelies inside my car.

But just as soon as I remembered where I had left them, I took a nice photo for you.

Two days later.

Yum!

Thanks for accompanying me through yet another quirky, never dull, and sometimes downright tasty Sundries travellogue.

I am at your service.