I was standing next to a green bus stop sign in La Pequeña Habana (Little Havana) in Miami. Tiny pearls of sweat dripped beneath the collar of my soaked-through, pink dress shirt.
Normally I take the car everywhere but the day before, my gray, beat-up clunker had broken down and I needed to run an errand in the city. In my hand, I held pages I had printed out of a Yiddish book that I intended to read on my hour-long ride. I’m not the type of person to gaze out of the bus window and daydream. I like to have something to do.
Suddenly, a young woman appeared — a curious figure with an oval, milk-white face. She was wearing a long, loose, light-purple kaftan, with a colorful, handwoven, Peruvian satchel thrown over her shoulder. On her head was a tall turban, exactly the same color as her kaftan. Not one single strand of hair was visible.
The first thought that crossed my mind was: “A turban in this heat? … Nebekh (poor thing)!”
“Excuse me, but why are you reading something in Hebrew?” she suddenly asked. Considering I’m blond and green-eyed, I guess she thought I wasn’t Jewish. “It’s not Hebrew. It’s Yiddish,” I said.