“Mayami, mijo,” a Cuban lady says. The 305, reads a guy’s cap. Out the window we see waves lapping against white sands. Then, further west, massive street murals. South of that, the Freedom Tower, where my grandparents, my mother, and count - less other exiled Cubans first received help when they arrived in this country. Directly across is the Kaseya Center. Rubén Blades ’06H was there in May, cantando con alma de barrio, chatting about his Gabriel García Márquez-inspired album and how he’d tried convincing “Gabo” to cowrite it. Oh look: gators sunbathing on a golf course. Our plane lands. And there’s clapping! Join in. It’s music. Down there: that’s Miami.
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