City of hope
Report #2 from Stefano Martino, a sometimes bumbling free-lance correspondent traveling throughout the U.S.
CITY OF HOPE
Dateline April 5, 2003 Stefano Martino, Free-lance correspondent
As a free-lance correspondent I love to travel whenever and wherever a story arouses my curiosity. After spending a week in Alabama a few months ago, I’m flying south to visit the fifth largest city in South Florida. A place most Americans don’t know exists.
The flight arrived on time and that puzzled me, it wasn’t supposed to happen. Those I met prior to boarding assured me airlines never arrive on time in Miami. Although after informing them of my destination, I became suspicious when the jovial group recited “Hialeah means a lot of rain.”
I soon realized the seemingly nonsensical statements were designed to disconcert the new kid on the southern air route, sort of an initiation ritual among correspondents. Anyway, after my last bone chilling adventure in Alabama I was ready for anything. My new assignment brought me further south and warmer to write about a small city described as strangely foreign and butt of jokes.
Initial research uncovered a colorful and dramatic past. Northerners visited Hialeah during the 1920’s to enjoy the Spanish sport of Jai Alai and Greyhound racing. In 1921 with a population of only 1,500 it mesmerized aviator Glenn Curtis and cattleman James H. Bright. The city was ultimately incorporated in 1925 and the famous 220 acre racetrack was built the same year. Hialeah racetrack quickly became a Mecca for well-known personalities such as Harry Truman, Winston Churchill and J. P. Morgan.
In 1926 a huge hurricane caused major destruction but couldn’t break Hialeah’s spirit. The name’s derived from an Indian word meaning “High Prairie” not “a lot of rain” as my humorous co-travelers suggested. Presently a multi-cultural community, Hialeah occupies 20 square miles and has over 210,000 residents, many of which are Cuban.
I also stumbled upon some disconcerting facts. A Cuban exodus dubbed the Mariel boatlift took place from April 1, 1980 to September 25, 1980 involving 124,776 migrants including 14 dead. The voyage across the Florida straits from Cuba included roofers factory workers and blue collar workers but not without Fidel Castro’s touch. The crafty Cuban leader ordered a multitude of undesirables from jails and insane asylums to join the massive exodus. I don’t know the significance of this but I’ll soon find out.
Hialeah’s history leads me to believe there must be something exotic or mystical about the place.
Outside the terminal I did what I normally do upon arrival in any strange city, I took a deep breath. The air seemed almost tropical along with the pungent aroma of coffee.
I boarded a taxi displaying an identification placard designating a dark haired Latino named Jose Miranda as my chauffeur. Probably in his late thirty’s, he spoke good English with a slight accent and seemed knowledgeable. After mentioning my destination, he asked for a compass point. I somehow pictured a smaller place and never gave much thought to map coordinates so I inquired where a reporter should start. He explained that a short distance from the airport an older section covers the southern part and recommended the northwestern sector. As he moved out of the terminal he gave me a curious look and prodded my intentions. I later learned Cubans in the community regard strangers with extreme suspicion. Fear of Castro spies creates a cloud of paranoia.
After about ten minutes he must have scratched me off his spy list because we suddenly started trading stories. He mentioned experiences with tourists and I in turn offered my travels. I included an incident in Colorado as one of the reasons for my journey to this speck on the Florida map. It occurred inside a mountain casino. A middle aged woman playing a poker machine constantly gazed curiously at a Latin male sitting next to her. Obviously simmering with curiosity, she paused long enough to ask,
“Where you hail from boy?”
The response was “Hialeah” and after a few seconds of thought the lady asks,
“What part of Mexico is that?”
The story must have tickled my driver or ticked him off. The vehicle suddenly zigzagged several times before returning to normal. After that I kept my mouth shut until we came to a hotel called “Park Plaza”, described by Jose as the best in the city. Before departing he advised me not to repeat the casino story and not go around acting like a “Gringo”. He totally confused the heck out of me but as the vehicle moved away he shouted,
“Don’t worry you’ll figure it out” and sped off laughing. It was as if he was reading my mind or predicting my future?
I decided the only way to get the feel of the city is on foot and after checking in, I ventured into this mysterious locale. The first thing attracting my attention is advertisements, the majority written in Spanish. There was one hand written sign in the window of a small hardware store, it read “We rip air escryn” I’m not making this up. Curiosity got the best of me and feeling slightly stupid, I approached the middle-aged proprietor. Unable to speak Spanish I pointed to the sign and shrugged my shoulders. He, unable to speak English pointed to some metallic screens and said, “We rip-air”.
We-repair-screens, how stupid of me but given time, I could have figured it out, in about a year maybe. This caused some concern since the only Spanish words I know are “Hola and Adios” and completely useless if you can’t add anything in between since the first word means “hello” and the second “good-bye”. Jose informed me not to worry since many residents are “Bi-lingual.” Strange, the word has a sexual ring to it. With this information I decided to continue my quest for the evasive “Bi-lingual creatures” of Hialeah. I moved with apprehension and the word “Gringo” imprinted in my mind, hopefully not penetrating skin.
The next thing assaulting my senses is traffic. I gazed upon a street running east to west, saturated with every type of vehicle imaginable, a main thoroughfare that transverses a huge shopping area. On the north side of 49th Street, Westland Mall stands out among all other structures. The south side of the street is composed of retail outlets and businesses. The entire commercial setting stretches for over a mile east to west. One ad said it all in both languages “If you can’t find it here you’re not going to find it anywhere.”
You didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out the peril involved in attempting to cross the multi lane roadway, akin to crossing the Indy 500 on the last two laps. I gazed in awe and marveled at vehicles maneuvering in bizarre manners. For example, several stop signs are treated as “Go” and if you happen to be the lead vehicle facing one of these signs it’s advisable to watch the car behind you. Drivers sometimes become impatient, begin moving around your left and suddenly appear in front making a right turn, scary. At traffic lights, move quickly as soon as the signal changes to green, otherwise one mille second later you’ll hear a symphony of horns blaring. Oh the sweet sounds of New York traffic. Locals seem well versed and accustomed to the vehicular antics.
On many occasions, pedestrians yell at intimidating drivers and offer a word I heard quite often. In several incidents it sounded similar to “Car-a-hoe” and I interpreted it to mean “throw your car in a hole” but things got a little confusing when I heard it used in other situations. It was yelled in anger by pedestrians and drivers, in humor with each other and by men when a pretty girl walked by, weird. A nearby Police officer, attempting to settle a small traffic dispute was kind enough to explain, and recommended not repeating the word. The officer compared the word to a widely used English expletive I prefer not to identify. It’s moments like this I fantasize using a guide but sometimes an interpreter interferes with the mystery and adventure usually found around the next corner.
Another important custom mentioned by Jose is never hurry in Hialeah. The populace is laid back and more so in a business environment. So, quoting a common adage, when in Hialeah relax and go with the flow. I visited a local department store and encountered everyone speaking Spanish. The moment I opened my mouth to ask for help in locating some shaving cream and razor blades, everyone turned silent. They stared as if I had just landed from another planet until a nice elderly man approached, “Meester wat yu nee?” I’m writing phonetically.
I repeated the items and he stared at my lips as if trying to lip-read in Spanish. Afterwards he escorted me to a shelf full of roller blades and a display full of whipped cream. I later learned a bilingual employee was following us throughout the store and afterwards directed me to the correct area but only after enjoying a good laugh along with co-workers. I felt like a kid in school, the one walking around with a sign taped to his back saying, “Kick me!”
At the check out counter, I said “Can I pay with my American Express card?” The smiling female cashier yelled “Oh, un Americano.” With a heavy accent, she asked where I was from and if I worked for the FBI. After informing her I was a reporter, she loudly exclaimed, “Un reportero!” causing stares and some milling of shoppers.
The queries came from different directions, “You been to Cuba? Have you seen Fidel? Are you here to write about us?” Surrounded, I nodded as they began straining to make me understand, I straining to understand and vice versa. Humorous at first, it soon veered into a more serious discussion on how and why they were here. I tried hard to decipher their stories. Some spoke about relatives forced to remain on the island and others somberly mentioned the deaths of comrades attempting to reach Florida. It was a little unnerving and a rude awakening. I came to write about a small piece of real estate and found myself in a vortex of human anguish.
I left the store with altered emotions and moved throughout the community with echoes of lament encircling my senses. Further down the road, heading east, my ears must have picked up the word “Cuba” at least a hundred times and gazed at an equal amount of unfamiliar flags. A beautiful flag composed of a single white star on a red background with wide blue and white stripes. I later discovered they were Cuban flags, proudly displayed in many ways. There were bumper stickers, windshield stickers, small and large flags on cars, homes and businesses. I was in awe, these people had left their homeland but their homeland had not left them or should I say their hearts
I stopped in a MacDonald’s for something to eat and yes the young staff turned out to be bi-lingual. Gazing at customers I gathered my thoughts. What I experienced so far unnerved me. The entire situation is totally unexpected. No amount of research could have prepared me for the outpouring of anguish from the minds and hearts of the people.
The jokes tacked on these surroundings seem downright insulting but I’m obligated to include at least some mention of the practice.
A long time ago a comedian used Hialeah in a bit and if I remember correctly it was the late Johnny Carson wearing a colorful turban on his head. The monologue went something like this, “I’m a well versed traveler and have visited many strange lands including Egypt, Tibet and (pause) Hialeah.” It was funny then and unfortunately still is. The reaction I received on the plane leads me to believe there’s a long accepted form of humor towards the entire community. Whether it’s envy or merely a reaction to absurdity it’s hard to tell. On the plane, a passenger residing in the Kendall area of Miami offered a list of situations, possible explanations for the jocular sentiment attached to the mere mention of Hialeah.
“The city is considered something of an enigma. Zoning laws seem to be disregarded on a regular basis. Homeowners add to properties whatever suits their fancy, sans permits. Construction’s running amok on the northwest section. Single family homes and townhouses are built zero lot, cookie cutter style and crammed together with only two parking spaces per dwelling. More than one visitor creates a parking problem. Homeowners quickly replace grassy areas with concrete to create additional parking space. Whenever it rains, the lack of grass creates an undiscriminating flood, covering streets as well as parking lots in shopping centers. An increase in population nurtured a nightmare of heavy traffic. The end result is a legion of frustrated drivers aggravating a situation with makeshift rules of the road. A simple drive to any local supermarket at any time on any given day is a mission. There are documented instances of people being shot in parking disputes.”
I listened with skepticism. After all they’re mere tales to be confirmed and most likely aberrations or downright lies. My fellow traveler concluded by simply saying,
“The place’s a joke icon.”
Not a nice report but its human nature to make fun about things you only hear about and don’t actually experience or understand.
I decided to shelve humor for a moment. My journey has taken a different more serious perspective. Hialeah, disregarding the Indian version of the word, I believe means “Hope” for a lot of people who have never given up seeing their homeland free. Encountering pedestrians, I stared at old and young and wondered how many stories dwell in each. Cuba’s policy of not permitting relatives and friends to travel freely to the United States must be overwhelmingly frustrating, enough to drive a normal person into a state of depression. Standing in the midst of displaced humanity creates a strange sensation. I tried envisioning myself in their situation and suddenly felt admiration for their courage.
Continuing eastbound, I turned left on northbound Red Road and right on 68th Street heading east. On the route I encountered a variety of vendors precariously selling vegetables, fruits and flowers in the middle of major intersections. I saw pick up trucks transformed into mobile produce markets traveling through neighborhoods with public address systems announcing their presence. Makeshift ice cream trucks also joined the commercial entourage. I lost count of the many seemingly Cuban businesses passed along the way. Everything seen leads me to believe these people refuse to give up. They represent hard working Cubans and a tenacious desire to prosper.
I crossed Palm Avenue, a street separating east and west and found myself in the east sector of the city where I encountered a huge park named after aviatrix Amelia Earhart. In 1937 prior to her doomed flight around the world she bid farewell to the U.S. from Hialeah. I wonder what percentage of the population is aware of this fact or who she was.
A short distance down the road I encountered the biggest flea market I’ve ever seen and seemingly more than a weekend enterprise. The locale resembles an encampment, with countless sellers occupying permanently installed spaces resembling small shops. I spoke to a gentleman named Juan selling shoes and clothing. He recalls selling junk back in the 70’s when spaces were simply white rectangles painted on asphalt. The locale grew slowly into what today is a mammoth village of commerce. Juan also added the area on weekends is a sea of humanity including thousands of vehicles. One of the main reasons for its popularity is the customary no sales tax on bargains within the market, sort of a free trade zone. Prior to departing I asked Juan if I seemed “Gringo”, he responded by offering me a strange quizzical look and a long uncertain “noo” hoping it was the correct answer. As I walked away I imagined Juan shaking his head thinking, “Loco gringo.”
From there I strolled down a street with three names. The sign shows, Le Jeune Road, N.W. 42 Ave. and East 8th Ave. An elderly woman waiting for a bus explained Hialeah is in Dade County and the area’s marked accordingly. My guess it’s done to confuse Canadian tourists and guys like me. Or it could be just another icon for humor.
I decided to return to the Park Plaza via another route, Le Jeune Road. Whatever it’s called took me south and it wasn’t long before I stood across the street staring at the Hialeah Police department headquarters. The building created visions of thousands held against their will less than a hundred miles off Key West. Our system doesn’t permit law enforcement groups to terrorize citizens desiring to leave the country. Cubans on the island aren’t so lucky. Botched attempts are rewarded by death at sea or a stint in a Cuban jail. My return to the hotel was completed with a different set of eyes and feelings.
Later in the solitude of my room, I searched through notes and came to one conclusion. Hialeah, with its peculiarities and humor is a living breathing entity and matrix to a multitude of Hispanics. Cubans represent the majority, proud of their ethnicity and a hard working vivacious group. Sometimes they’re erroneously described as hot tempered and loud. The many residents encountered leads me to believe family is foremost in their lives and continuously brood for those left behind in Cuba. Hialeah is definitely a “high prairie” full of souls searching for exactly the same dream as the men and women who wandered into our American prairie long ago. And the next time I visit Colorado and someone asks where I hail from, I’ll answer proudly. “For a brief moment, the great city of Hialeah, in south Florida, in the good old United States of America, good buddy!”
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