Of Mangoes and Swap Meets

Last Saturday, I took the train one stop south to Douglas Road, read the bus routes posted in the station, waited ten minutes for the 37—long enough to sweat through my shirt—and then rode it for 20 minutes in the wrong direction.

I intended to go to the International Mango Festival, a yearly event to celebrate the fruit that most of Miami seems content to let fall and rot. The festivities are in their 14th year, according the Miami New Times, a longevity undoubtedly fueled by visiting Mango fanatics like myself. Of course, a true fanatic would be able to read the bus schedule.

What did I miss? Hundreds of mango trees, mango lovers, mango workshops, mango cooking demonstrations and more than 150 varieties to aid you in reaching mango-assisted (induced?) orgasm.

Instead of such trembling delights, I rode north into the outskirts of Coral Gables—City Beautiful, as christened by the residents. Approximately at the point where I decided that riding the whole bus loop would be neither aesthetically stimulating nor time-effective, we passed the Coral Gables Swap Meet. I got off the bus.

I blame excessive early childhood exposure to flea markets for my low resistance to all things bazaar. I remain convinced that treasure always lurks in the musty boxes of the fresh-air antique trader, among their yellow comic books, their bins of bicycle parts and chipped and mismatched dishware. At one time I carefully assessed every moldy sofa I encountered, prompted by a Roald Dahl short story about a priceless chaise lounge discovered by a restoration expert. (Clearly I missed the moral—the antique was rendered valueless when the sellers cut its legs off in an attempt to help the greedy and prevaricating buyer.)

The old fire rose again as I strode into the maze of stalls that stretched across the parking lot. Mysterious treasures were surely waiting to be discovered. Alas, that day I was disappointed. (The hope, of course, lives on.)

...to be continued