a bedroom community, somewhat removed from the city, ideal for raising families and for those desiring a quiet family life, so I decided I needed to drive downtown to attend as many cultural events as possible. I made contact with people from the Miami Opera, joined the Museum of Contemporary Art, went to lectures at the library, was invited to the book circle of Northern Trust, attended the symphony, went along with my new Salvadoran friend, Roxana Flamenco, to the monthly Coral Gables “Art Walk,” contacted the Canadian consulate and the School of Music at the University of Miami, and checked out concerts at the Catholic church and the Beethoven Society. Pretty soon my life was a whirlwind of social activity. I met a wide variety of Spanish-speaking people who were intrigued by my fascination with their language and culture, their cuisine, their art, and above all their music.
A friend from Los Angeles, Hector Villalobos, the manager of Mexican superstar Marco Antonio Solis, invited me to attend the flashy BMI awards. There I became acquainted with Julio Iglesias’s producer, Ramon Arcusa, as well as both his long time engineer, Carlos Alvarez, and his concert promoter, Arie Kaduri. Ramon and I exchanged emails, and over coffee at Bal Harbour he complimented me on several of the Spanish songs I had written, and even helped me polish a couple of lines to one I had written called “Por Este Amor.”
“If you want to find success as a songwriter Liona, remember to only write love songs,” was his advice.
At a Julio concert, which I had attended with Ted Miller, a young Greek-American with whom I often practised singing, I sat for almost an hour while Julio sang his entire sound check to me. Was I dreaming or was I in heaven?! I was enjoying a private concert by one of the world’s great singers at one of the major Miami Beach hotels. Afterward, Ted and I had a chance to see Julio with his future wife, Miranda, and their adorable new youngsters. The man certainly knew how to create gorgeous songs and equally gorgeous kids!
After only a short time in Miami I had become acquainted with just about every major player in the Latin music scene, from producers Emilio Estefan and Kike Santander to the legendary and most revered of all Mexican song- writers of “Ésta Tarde Ví Llover” fame, Armando Manzanero.
Here Cuban salsa ruled, and I practised my dance steps in places such as Bongos and Mango’s although I much preferred the atmosphere I found in Little Havana and at private parties, where live music was always a given. How very different from all those staid Beverly Hills and Toronto parties where live music was the exception rather than the rule. Music, and especially guitar music, was an indispensable part of their culture and daily lives.
Pretty soon I had also rubbed shoulders with every newscaster and music star in the area, from Don Francisco (the Ed Sullivan of the Latin world), to Raúl Velasco, Fernando Arau, Giselle Blondet, and Cristina Saralegui (the Cuban-American Oprah Winfrey), all of them embracing with warmth this strange Canadian who chatted away in Spanish and was obviously familiar with the important roles they represented in the landscape of Latin American pop culture.
A friendship developed with Sanford and Dolores Ziff, Miami’s philanthropic power couple. Sanford had amassed a fortune after founding the Sunglass Hut, and along with Dolores, he invited me to many of the big events taking place in the city. Between the Ziffs and other new friends, I was overwhelmed with invitations to various functions: cocktails at Nikki Beach; the Andalusian Food Festival; a showing of Chihuly glass sculptures at the beautiful Fairchild Garden; and a polo game on the sands of Miami Beach.
On a more sombre note, I played at the funeral for the Ziffs’ son. To my continued chagrin, even though I still struggled to play my beloved guitar every day, my right-hand fingers were not improving, Nevetheless, somehow I managed to perform two simple pieces, a short Carcassi Etude and Erik Satie’s Gymnopédie No. 1. While living at the Ocean Club, I also enjoyed taking some singing lessons from an elderly Venezuelan vocal coach who showed me exercises that I diligently practised at my piano.
I spent a few days over Christmas at my buddy Ted’s parents’ peaceful avocado and lychee farm, a nice change of pace from life in Miami, and they took me to the Southern Command’s Air Force Ball where Ted sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I occasionally called Jack to see how he, Muffin, and the family were doing and to let them know I was surviving living alone in Miami.
Adding to my busy social life, I was invited to a couple of elegant dinners at the Versace mansion with the World Presidents’ Organization, a group to which, thanks to Jack, I still belonged, and I attended several events sponsored by the Canadian consulate, including the Miami Book Fair, where I sat at dinner one evening chatting with writer Margaret Atwood.
But it was still the Latin element that most attracted me in this city that was brimming with recent arrivals from Colombia, Argentina, Venezuela, and Spain. They were animated, sexy, colourful, and a world away from my Anglo roots. Over time, though, I would come to see the flip side of all this pasión. There were the constant infidelities, jealousies, and betrayals, as well as corruption among many of the denizens of Miami, a city that was after all built with a lending hand from the drug trade. But I suppose, looking under the surface, what city does not have its share of scandals, and what culture its weaknesses? All I knew was that I was smitten by everything I discovered in this exciting Latin world.
I became an expert in accent recognition, instantly identifying Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, Colombians, or Cubans when they spoke in their mother tongues or in English. I also met people from Chile, Ecuador, and Argentina. I loved them all with a passion that even I could not really understand. Part of it was their appreciation for beauty and for music, and a zest for life that I had often found lacking in Canada, and in the materialistic world I had been part of in Beverly Hills.
I befriended the interesting Colombian writer Enrique Cordoba, and the Ecuadorian journalist Victoria Puig de Lange, read their books, and appeared on a couple of all-night radio shows to which people from all over Latin America called in. To my amazement, all the callers seemed familiar with my music through radio and the concerts and TV shows that I had done over the years in their various countries.
I had rarely lived in such a social whirlwind, and although I enjoyed the novelty of these experiences, I had never been a great lover of parties. My happiest times in the past had always been playing or writing music and sharing it with someone special.
After being introduced by one of my neighbourhood acquaintances, I started to date a handsome, thirty-four-year-old Venezuelan. A wealth management specialist by day, Frank lived for the songs he played and composed on his cuatro, a small, Venezuelan guitar-like instrument. He had always been fascinated by British films, English literature, Indigenous Andean music, Joan Baez (who, to his delight, had written him a long letter), and older women … quite a strange combo, but it worked for us for a while.
He had a beautiful smile, soulful brown eyes, and skin that felt like silk. We serenaded each other, watched movies, collected eggs from the cage of chickens and roosters he kept in his back garden, and danced for hours at a wonderful Venezuelan wedding where everyone, even the groom, and Frank too, took turns performing love songs. As the groom sang Julio Iglesias’s “Abrazame” to his beloved, I remember thinking it was the most exciting and romantic party I had ever attended in my life!
After a couple of months, however, my young friend travelled to Machu Picchu, where he fell in love with the culture, adopted a small family, and decided to give up the world of finance in favour of a life devoted to helping the local kids and old people and teaching them music. I wonder if he is still there. I hope so. He was a special soul and I was lucky to have spent some happy times in his company.
Six months later I had a brief romantic adventure with an even younger man, a thirty-two-year-old guitarist and singer from Medellín, Colombia. He was tall and slim, with a beautiful smile, soulful brown eyes, and thick dark hair he tied back in a ponytail. My new friend was making his living writing music and playing private concerts around Miami. I took him to Luis Miguel’s concert at the American Airlines Arena and was impressed that he knew every single lyric by heart. One balmy moonlit night he sang to me and played his guitar as we drifted in a boat in the middle of a lake behind his house. The sky was filled with stars, the moon was full, his kisses divine, and his passionate Spanish serenade of love songs would have made any girl dissolve with desire. If given a chance, I think