January 23, 2014--Snowbirding: In the Ghetto (Concluded)

Back at the Foodtown checkout counter, I made sure we had the package of nans, thinking that heated up they'd go perfectly with the Jamaican-style pork chops.

"Those look interest to me," the woman behind us on line said. "They are please?"

"Nans," I said. "They're Indian. They're made in a tandoori oven."

"What kind oven that?" I couldn't place her accent.

"A clay one. They use them in India."

"Indians?"

"Yes, the ones in Asia. From India. Not American Indians. Though these nans do remind me of Navaho tacos."

"Now I am all confuse."

"Sorry. I'm so excited by this market and by the nicest thing another shopper, Anna, did for us that I'm not making myself understood. She told us all about this wonderful Jamaican pork chop recipe. We bought . . ."

"I no eat pork myself," she said, making a face. "Beef is good and chickens and fishes. Any kind of fishes."

"We like everything. And this store sure has that. Everything." I was still feeling euphoric about our experience with Anna.

"I think I maybe get some of those brets," she said, placing a package of nans in her basket.

"You'll like them," I said confidently.

"Toast maybe?"

"I think so. They should be delicious toasted. With a little butter or dipping oil."

"That kind of oil, dipping, I do not know."

"It's just a little olive oil in a dish that you . . ."

Then, as if no longer thinking about the nans, she moved closer to me and whispered, "Can I say something?"

"Sure. Anything," I said softly, fully facing her.

"Not many of your kind come here."

With those words I was instantly on guard, not happy to hear about my kind.

Sensing that, touching my arm, she said, "No offended. I mean to say people from your backgrounds." I felt reassured.

"See everyone here?" I looked around. "I do not see any who look like you and your niece."

"Rona. She's my wife."

"No offended again. You look like love people." Warmly, she smiled up at me. She was tiny. Well under five feet. "I mean they live with all those gates."

I was confused. "Gates?"

"Houses with gates."

"Oh, you mean gated communities."

"Those kind. Why they live there and never come out here?"

"You know, I sometimes wonder that myself. One of the things we like so much about spending time here is all the diversity." Puzzled she looked up at me again. "All the different kinds of people." She nodded enthusiastically. "From all over the world. From places where all these foods and spices and teas come from."

"And these gate-people. They do not like it here?"

"They like Florida, but maybe not this place."

"Why not? This is America, no?"

"Good question. Though I'm not sure you'd like my answer." I half turned away from her.

"I might surprise. I do not bite." She was grinning.

"I think they're afraid."

"Of what?"

"That's another good question."

"Of what afraid?" she repeated.

"Of you," I whispered so as not to be overheard.

"Me? I tiny and am only 90."

"Ninety?"

"Pounds. And they afraid of me?" She was genuinely perplexed.

"That's what I think. They are afraid of anything different. Anyone not like them."

"So they put themselves behind gates?"

"Yes. As I see things, unfortunately yes."

"You had that person running for president last year."

"Barack Obama?"

"The other one. Mitts.

"Mitt Romney."

"He said we should go back to where we came from."

"Yes he did. He called it self-deportation."

"Is that what I am remembering?"

"Yes."

"So here they are putting themselves again to where they came from. Behind their gates. You said because they are feared."

"Like self-deportation," I said sighing, "In their case they choose to go back to the ghetto. And I don't mean just my kind. People from other backgrounds too."

"I don't know what that means, ghetto," she looked confused, more sad than frustrated, "But if you say so."

I shrugged, smiling uncomfortably as if apologizing. "It also makes me sad," I said, "And sometimes angry. But . . ."

Rona was waiting for me with a bag full of tropical vegetables, spices, and those wonderful looking pork chops. She signaled it was almost time to go.

The woman said, imitating my shrug, "Maybe there will soon be change."

"I hope so," I said as we paid and turned to leave, "I hope so."

When we were outside, I looked back through the window and saw her still smiling and waving the package of nans.

"What a place," Rona said. "All the world is here."