kind of wish you could live forever.”
“No, not quite,” Melissa thought, as she clutched Joe’s hand even tighter. “LOVE forever would be more like it.”
In less than an hour after leaving the Everglades, they had arrived at the airport in Miami. The first step was to turn in the rental car. Also, Melissa made it a point to check her luggage—far in advance of the flight’s departure time.
Soon afterward, she and Joe were headed off for a bit of last-minute sightseeing.
They visited for a while at the famed flamingo exhibit in the nearby town of Hialeah. Although the Hialeah racetrack itself was closed and would not begin its yearly thoroughbred meeting until February, the exotic bird exhibit on the grounds was open all year round.
Hundreds of beautiful pink birds make their home alongside the racetrack’s two man-made lakes.
Occasionally, a group of flamingos will soar skyward, flying off for a few seconds in a wave of color before landing effortlessly on their long, spindly legs.
“They look like one big pink cloud, don’t they, flitting across the sky?” Melissa commented, “as graceful in the air as they are on the ground.”
“The fact that they’re pink sets them apart, I guess,” Joe noted. “It makes them unusual. No one would care if they were gray, or if they were blackbirds, or pigeons.”
“Sort of like blue food, is that what you’re saying?” Melissa countered. “That’s why I always love to eat blueberries. They look so neat. And, really, there isn’t any other food that’s blue.”
“No other food, you say?
“Hmmmm, now you’ve got me thinking,” Joe admitted, deliberating. “Before the end of the day, I guess I’m going to have to come up with the name of another kind of blue food.
“Just you wait, lady. Just you wait.”
The final stop on their itinerary was at yet another of southern Florida’s many wagering emporiums—the Miami jai alai fronton, where they relaxed over lunch.
“Horses, dogs, jai alai, they’re all separation centers,” Joe wisecracked, in reference, sarcastically, to the separation of money from wallets.
The game of jai alai, extremely popular in the Miami area, is of Basque origin, Joe told her.
Distantly similar to racquetball, it is played either as a series of singles matches, man against man, or in pairs, with two teammates doing battle against two other teammates.
Instead of a racquet, though, each player uses a wicker “cesta,” a basketlike mitt strapped to the wrist. The ball, called a “pelota,” is caught in the cesta and hurled toward a wall at speeds that can reach in excess of one hundred miles per hour.
Just as in tennis, the ball must be returned by an opponent before it bounces twice. Two bounces or a failure to catch results in a lost point.
“The word ‘fronton’ refers to the building in which jai alai is played,” Joe explained. “Aside from animal racing of one kind or another, this is the only other sport in America that you can bet on—legally, that is.”
Melissa enjoyed watching the games, seeing the short-sleeved, helmeted players jumping, running wildly, and literally climbing walls to return a steady series of difficult shots. The balls most often dropped were low, spinning volleys that hit the cestas and popped out.
Melissa also noticed that the “standing room only” section, with its fifty-cent admission charge, was jam-packed with fans. “Most all are men,” she noted, while surveying this Miami crowd. “Cigars, gray beards, and rumpled baseball caps. From the looks of this group, yuppies aren’t the targeted audience for jai alai.”
“Definitely an older crowd,” Joe said, “with few women.”
“It’s great fun to watch this game,” Melissa beamed. “And everybody here seems to be really getting into it, what with all the loud yelling.”
“Half of the cheers are in English,” Joe added, “while the others sound like Spanish.”
“I think I hear a third
“No, not quite,” Melissa thought, as she clutched Joe’s hand even tighter. “LOVE forever would be more like it.”
In less than an hour after leaving the Everglades, they had arrived at the airport in Miami. The first step was to turn in the rental car. Also, Melissa made it a point to check her luggage—far in advance of the flight’s departure time.
Soon afterward, she and Joe were headed off for a bit of last-minute sightseeing.
They visited for a while at the famed flamingo exhibit in the nearby town of Hialeah. Although the Hialeah racetrack itself was closed and would not begin its yearly thoroughbred meeting until February, the exotic bird exhibit on the grounds was open all year round.
Hundreds of beautiful pink birds make their home alongside the racetrack’s two man-made lakes.
Occasionally, a group of flamingos will soar skyward, flying off for a few seconds in a wave of color before landing effortlessly on their long, spindly legs.
“They look like one big pink cloud, don’t they, flitting across the sky?” Melissa commented, “as graceful in the air as they are on the ground.”
“The fact that they’re pink sets them apart, I guess,” Joe noted. “It makes them unusual. No one would care if they were gray, or if they were blackbirds, or pigeons.”
“Sort of like blue food, is that what you’re saying?” Melissa countered. “That’s why I always love to eat blueberries. They look so neat. And, really, there isn’t any other food that’s blue.”
“No other food, you say?
“Hmmmm, now you’ve got me thinking,” Joe admitted, deliberating. “Before the end of the day, I guess I’m going to have to come up with the name of another kind of blue food.
“Just you wait, lady. Just you wait.”
The final stop on their itinerary was at yet another of southern Florida’s many wagering emporiums—the Miami jai alai fronton, where they relaxed over lunch.
“Horses, dogs, jai alai, they’re all separation centers,” Joe wisecracked, in reference, sarcastically, to the separation of money from wallets.
The game of jai alai, extremely popular in the Miami area, is of Basque origin, Joe told her.
Distantly similar to racquetball, it is played either as a series of singles matches, man against man, or in pairs, with two teammates doing battle against two other teammates.
Instead of a racquet, though, each player uses a wicker “cesta,” a basketlike mitt strapped to the wrist. The ball, called a “pelota,” is caught in the cesta and hurled toward a wall at speeds that can reach in excess of one hundred miles per hour.
Just as in tennis, the ball must be returned by an opponent before it bounces twice. Two bounces or a failure to catch results in a lost point.
“The word ‘fronton’ refers to the building in which jai alai is played,” Joe explained. “Aside from animal racing of one kind or another, this is the only other sport in America that you can bet on—legally, that is.”
Melissa enjoyed watching the games, seeing the short-sleeved, helmeted players jumping, running wildly, and literally climbing walls to return a steady series of difficult shots. The balls most often dropped were low, spinning volleys that hit the cestas and popped out.
Melissa also noticed that the “standing room only” section, with its fifty-cent admission charge, was jam-packed with fans. “Most all are men,” she noted, while surveying this Miami crowd. “Cigars, gray beards, and rumpled baseball caps. From the looks of this group, yuppies aren’t the targeted audience for jai alai.”
“Definitely an older crowd,” Joe said, “with few women.”
“It’s great fun to watch this game,” Melissa beamed. “And everybody here seems to be really getting into it, what with all the loud yelling.”
“Half of the cheers are in English,” Joe added, “while the others sound like Spanish.”
“I think I hear a third
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