My bike ride in south Florida in 2014

This blog is about memories, and one memory that’s been popping up repeatedly lately—not sure why, maybe prompted by a bit of music or the country’s birthday or ICE/immigration chaos—I’m remembering a bike trip, my first solo tour, in Florida beginning of February 2014. I was in south Florida, perhaps a day away from the Keys, and had a Couchsurfing host lined up for the evening at a kind of farm. Of course, I had an address, but I’m not sure I yet had a smartphone, only a flip, which can give GPS. I could use it in a pinch.

Anyway, I was south of Homestead in a smallish town and though I’d ask directions—always fraught. Locals rarely know where they are and if they don’t bike have no idea of how to get somewhere without accessing major roads. But, I thought I’d take a chance. There was a mother and son walking down the sidewalk. She had her arm through his and he wore Western-style clothing: a cowboy hat, boots, jeans, white dress shirt. They looked respectable, in other words. What I didn’t count on because I’m Anglo-centric is that they didn’t speak English. Much of southern Florida is Spanish-speaking, Italian in some places—hahaha.

The young man, teenager whips out his phone and looks up the address and gives me the information. Both the mother and I have kittens at how smart he is. We practically clap our hands. Each in our own way are so proud of him and he beams, humbly. They continue on down the walkway with heads held high. They do things; they’re exceptional; they helped a stranger.

I think about them to this day. Hooping they aren’t harassed by my government, hoping they are welcomed, find their place. They certainly helped me find that weird farm I stayed at with the shaman and his followers. Sheesh.

Another story.