Pedro suggested a Cuban restaurant in the neighborhood where he had grown up and his mom still lived. He drove the crew car while I got a leisurely view of South Florida. On my right were several cruise ships at anchor in Biscayne Bay.

"We can go to a fancy place where the setting is beautiful. The food's good but expensive." Pedro's easy smile and clear eyes told me that he was back on his own turf.

"I'm going to follow your lead. This is your town, you're driving." My excitement was as broad as the sun that swiped the Miami area with its eighty-five degree temperature. The second day of our tour placed us in Pedro's backyard. We were off duty for the next twelve hours. Dispatch couldn't even talk to us until nine in the evening.

"Then we'll go to Molina's. Let's stop by my mom's house. She'd love to go with us."

His mom's small house faced a playground and a deserted baseball diamond. I stood by the car while Pedro climbed the locked gate. He seemed surprised at the Beware of Bad Dog sign with its hand-drawn Labrador wearing a spiked collar. His mom's home was compressed on either side by other single-story houses. The emerald patch of grass and well-maintained bushes gave it a singular air of hard work and beauty.

"Nobody's home. Even the guy in the back who rents from my mom is gone. Do you mind if we stop back later? I know you want to get to South Beach."

"I don't care if we drive around your mother's neighborhood for the rest of the day."

On the way to the restaurant we passed other homes of brick and pastel shades, fantastic plants crowding the yards. I saw only a few people: an old man standing in his front yard with the mail in his hands, a few children on bikes, and a man washing his car and the suds rolling on a thin stream of water into the hot street.

At Molina's we were seated at a corner table, and except for our conversation, I heard nothing but Spanish for the next hour. I pointed to items on the menu and Pedro carefully described each dish and the fondness Cubans have for these combinations. He suggested the plantains instead of the yucca. I opted for the mysterious yucca root.

Our waiter was a tall, older man with short gray hair at the temples. His tight potbelly acted like a cat's tail for balance. He turned, walked, tuned into our conversation with sudden grace. His prominent belly seemed linked to invisible ball bearings. He spoke entirely in Spanish, waiting patiently for Pedro to reveal my culinary thoughts. I decided on a plate of roasted pork with rice, beans and yucca. The Cuban coffee I was served was perfectly sweetened.

Except for a man and woman seated near the center of the restaurant, the place was quiet with a couple of servers leaning against the wall near the kitchen door. The electricity from the busiest hours still lingered near the white tablecloths and straight-back chairs. The ceiling fans lazily circulated the cool air.

The food arrived in three separate dishes: a soupy bowl of black beans, a plate of rice, and a larger dish of cut-up chunks of pork. Except for the yucca, Pedro had ordered the same dinner. I tried some of the fried plantains and found them to be sweet and delicious. I never asked, but the white yucca appeared to have been boiled. It was a fibrous vegetable with an earthy taste.

I asked for a second cup of Cuban coffee and our waiter seemed amused. He glanced my way as he made a comment to Pedro.

"He doesn't see people order the espresso one cup after another," Pedro said.

"Let him know that you're driving." I didn't need it for the caffeine buzz, I simply loved the taste. But when I finished the second cup, I felt wired to every household appliance in South Florida.

The bill came and I grabbed it before Pedro had a chance to look at the amount. "This is on me."

The waiter understood I was picking up the check. As he passed me, he lightly tapped my left shoulder.

"He tapped you." Pedro was surprised. This barely noticeable, quick tap made Pedro rise in his seat and lean toward me. He was on the verge of saying something then smiled and settled into his chair.

On the way to his father's house, we passed small groups of Cubans displaying signs, waving the Nationalist flag. They were protesting the latest government decision to return the rafters to Cuba.

"They're going to try and shut down Miami next Tuesday," Pedro said. "My views have changed a bit from my parents'. Don't be surprised if the conversation runs into politics."

"Hey, I want to hear it all. I've got my own opinions. But today I don't feel like exposing my half-baked political ideas. Today, I just want to look around, to listen."

Even with the air conditioner blowing we kept the windows down, enjoying a wind that pushed up from the first circle of hell where virtuous pagans tended flower gardens.

"You know what I miss the most living in Ohio?" Pedro said, "The sun. I adjusted to the cold winter pretty quick, but I couldn't take all those overcast days. My wife nearly went crazy with depression. It's hard enough to move away from your family. But no blue sky for days on end?"

"Well, I love those overcast days. I grew up in Ohio. The moody skies matched my moodiness as a kid. I feel more energy on cloudy days. Sometimes the sun just flattens everything out. Shreds up your energy, your purpose."

"You must really hate this place."

"Not at all. The weather is too violent down here with thunderstorms and hurricanes. The beautiful weather is constantly interrupted. It's a sunny day in winter that's awful."

My statement delighted him. He started laughing as we rode the exit ramp off the freeway. The sun was forever buried in Pedro. It was the best place for the sun to be, inside one's self, a solar Holy Ghost. If called upon, it would rescue him and his family from Ohio's winter or other mundane terrors.

We pulled into the short driveway and the car lurched forward as Pedro threw it into park. The car nearly filled up the front yard. This was another yard crowded with flowers and enormous plants. A couple of faded flamingos stood in the white gravel of some ancient ocean. Pedro's stepmother opened the door. She hugged him and politely nodded in my direction.

The three of us walked into the family room at the rear of the house. Pedro pointed to a comfortable chair. From where I sat I could see more lush plants and several trees protecting the house in a jealous embrace. A sliding glass door, to my left, led to the backyard. His stepmother handed me a glass of ice water; her aloofness was inoffensive, she began talking to Pedro in Spanish. Pedro's first language made him more sober, like a father making inquiries after a long day at work. After a few minutes, Pedro broke into English and shed the seriousness of their talk. He explained that he and his stepmother held different views on the people fleeing Cuba.

She was past the age of ever being pretty again, yet her dark features and silver-streaked hair were strongly female and handsome. She was a matriarch, not cut from stone but from the flesh of generations.

Pedro kept surfacing from their talk to see how I was doing, or if I needed anything. I told him I was perfectly content. When he suggested we take a look at the backyard, time, responsibility, even movement had little meaning; I simply turned my head and found myself outside, awake to another summer vision.

"This is our mango tree." Pedro introduced the tree like a beloved grandparent.

I gently grasped one of the unripe fruits. "What a burden this tree has. Such a small tree for this massive fruit."

"My father says you can hear the mango tree sigh after all its fruit has been picked."

"Then it must moan for months."

Pedro shook his head. "That sounds like something my mom would say. You two should get along well."

The backyard was enclosed on all sides by a tall wooden fence. The afternoon heat felt like a second skin. I stopped in front of another tree that occupied the center of the yard near the back wall.

"My grandmother planted this lemon tree thirty years ago. She lived a few blocks away and came over all the time to take care of it." Pedro squinted, looking at the tree's crown. "This one is the family favorite. We can't even swear when we're near this tree."

"It's a beauty." I could make out the dark-green fruit. The sun's power seemed capable of ripening the lemons by late afternoon.

"This here is the heartbreaker." Pedro walked slowly toward the stump of a tree with a monstrous plant growing from its severed body. "Remember that bad hurricane that ripped through South Florida? It took out my avocado tree. I guess we should feel lucky, some of our neighbors lost their homes. My dad used to mail me the avocados and mangoes when I was at school. I really thought of this tree as my own, like having a dog or a cat. I used to love just looking at it."

The lush, tentacled plant had a fierce presence. It had the look of something dropped from the hurricane, a force of nature that fed on the energy of the decaying tree.

The patio screen door slid open and a man with a full head of gray hair emerged from the cool shadow of the house. He silently called Pedro with a smile. Father and son embraced and I was introduced as we entered the house.

His stepmother said good-bye and left for work. I took my same chair. Pedro told his father that I was his captain. His father gave me a nod of respect and asked his son to sit next to him on the couch. Once again I was ignored in a pleasant way as the two of them spoke in Spanish. His father's arm rested across the back of the couch, his hand would turn, showing his palm, as if to take Pedro's words directly into his body. He lowered his head as his son spoke and brushed back his hair. I remembered what Pedro had said about his father, the struggle leaving Cuba, living in Spain for several years to prove his qualifications for citizenship, and then coming to America only to have his credentials as an engineer wiped out. Pedro recounted this story early in the day as we drove the city streets, both of us enveloped by a giddy sort of freedom. As a child he was spared the hardship. He grew up in the midst of summer: a good home, clothes, college, the pursuit of dreams.

Pedro said that his father's life had made him old before his time. Sitting across from his dad, I watched a man who recaptured his vitality on a daily basis. He was slightly taller than his son and his short-sleeved T-shirt highlighted his muscular build. When he reached for his water glass, it was a slow, graceful movement. He was the kind of man who knew that if a great burden drenched you in sweat, the evening would eventually come, a moment of stillness and relief. His father's face registered something inextinguishable. I never found out his age and in my thoughts I disagreed with Pedro. He hadn't become old before his time. His time was now.

When we got up to leave, Pedro's father came to my side and asked me about our evening trip. I told him it would be a short flight to Gainesville. "I like evening flights. There may be some isolated storms, but they're usually easy to circumnavigate." I also mentioned the fine job his son was doing. We shook hands, and as I turned around to follow Pedro out the front door, his dad lightly touched my left shoulder.

His father stood at the door and waved as we climbed in the car. Pedro shook his head as we slowly drove away.

"I felt bad that we excluded you so much. Let's try my mom again. I'll introduce you to someone who'll talk your ears off.

"It's odd, but I felt welcome. I usually get pissed when people ignore me. Not this time."

We approached the empty baseball diamond and spotted his mom's car parked in the driveway. The door opened by degrees as we climbed the steps of the small front porch. A woman who rubbed her eyes like a child waking up met us. Her first words were a complaint. The ends of her black hair were wet and she smiled, pointing to a couple of chairs for us. Pedro's mom had been struggling with a flu bug.

The living room was spacious and neat. Its size seemed incongruous with the compressed image I had of the house when we arrived. She hugged Pedro and began talking to us of her troubles. Layoffs at her factory were imminent, and she spoke candidly of her money fears.

Pedro interrupted her. He wanted to know what she thought of the new immigration policies that had the Cuban community ready to shut down Miami in a few days. "I know they want to come here for the jobs, the food. But what a mess there'll be if we let all the rafters into this country."

Her hands caressed the top of her legs down to her knees. She wore black shorts and a sleeveless white blouse. She looked up and smiled.

"They're not leaving because of food or even some miserable job. Would you leave this country tomorrow if you lost your job? No, of course you wouldn't." She leaned forward to rub her calf, massaging herself as if to drive the illness out. Her large breasts pressed against her legs. "They have no freedom. That's why they leave and risk their lives." Without hurry, she straightened herself. Another smile emerged, one more enigmatic. Her girlishness mixed with maturity.

"They're leaving a place where they can't even speak up in their own backyards. The drabness of their lives is secondary. Now Castro's people, the ones in the party, they have a purpose in staying, even in hard times. They move with the ups and downs of jobs, material things. But these rafters don't leave because some products become scarce. We can't refuse the people searching for their freedom."

"But we need to do something different." Pedro's tone was respectful. "The embargo, all the hate toward Castro has changed nothing in Cuba. Are all these demonstrations just for revenge? To cut off the head of one man and shove it on a stick?"

His mother shrugged. "Honey, get me a glass of water. Fred, would you like something to drink?"

"Water would be fine."

"You don't want to hear about politics," she said.

"Sure I do. It's different the way you talk about it."

"It's not always cordial. But he's my son. I'll listen to whatever he has to say." She folded her arms across her lap. She looked directly at me then scanned the room, intent on pulling some feeling out of thin air.

"We Cubans mix all of our passions. But today I fear getting old more than anything else. Things are better now for women, even older women. I grew up in a time when things were more limited. My regrets come and go, it's the fear that's so troubling. I hit forty-five, and I became afraid of everything. There's the same old problems - money, your children, your health - but then you start thinking what will happen twenty years from now? How will I work, will there be enough money? Maybe a mole appears on your stomach and you can't remember ever having that mole. You exhaust yourself in fear. My only defense is to squeeze everything I can from each day." She extended her right arm and squeezed an invisible rope before her eyes. I could see her getting hold of something plant-like and full of juice. "I don't know why forty-five. But for me, that age made my heart tremble."

When Pedro returned he asked if the family was going to have its traditional pig roast over Memorial Day.

"Of course. And thank God your uncle will be cooking. It always turns out beautiful when he cooks." His mother used her hands to create the backyard full of people, the commotion of a special day. The two of them constantly interrupted each other about the art of roasting such a large animal.

Unlike the pig roasts I was accustomed to, the pig was split in half and laid flat between two wire meshes. A long pit was dug and lined with charcoal. Two poles ran the length of the wire frame, enabling the cooks to easily turn the pig.

"The real skill is timing the drinking with the cooking. Start drinking too early and you burn the pork," Pedro said.

"That's why your uncle is such a genius. He can be drinking all day yet he never forgets when to add to the fire or turn the pig."

"Fred won't be around for Memorial Day, but I took him to Molina's. He had the pork and he loves black beans."

Pedro's mom got up from her chair and walked into the kitchen. She returned with a brown paper bag. Inside were two large cans of Cuban black beans.

"Just heat these up. Make some rice or meat with it." She hugged me. A few minutes later we said good-bye and headed for the airport.

That night we curved around a few isolated storms. The air was smooth just beyond the areas of heavy rain and lightning. The remainder of the tour was evenly paced without any early wake-up calls. Pedro and I averaged four legs of flying a day and our passengers were a tad more friendly. It seemed as though the world had become momentarily affected by our long afternoon in South Florida.

Back in Columbus, we finished our paperwork and got our release to head home. I was in the parking lot throwing my suitcase in the back seat of the car when Pedro walked up.

"I hope to fly with you again," he said. "If you're ever in town, on reserve, give me a call. My wife can cook the same food you ate at Molina's - even better."

As we shook hands, Pedro lightly tapped the back of my hand.

Copyright © 2003 Fred Tribuzzo

About the Author

Fred Tribuzzo lives in Ravenna, Ohio, with his amazing wife Susan and an unpredictable cat named Sarah. Fred is a commercial pilot who has flown the fastest corporate jet ever made, the Cessna Citation Ten, and now flies the Boeing Business Jet. Unlike the major airlines, his job is unique in that he can be dispatched anywhere, unexpectedly, for trips ranging from thirty minutes to ten hours. And though his days are busy, there's the possibility of extended time off and exploration of new places as fate intervenes with weather delays or as passengers change their plans.

Authoring his first book, "An American Sky," has given Fred a better appreciation for the humanity in others and the untiring view of America from coast to coast.

Image: "In the Jungles of Florida," Winslow Homer, 1904

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