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My Beautiful Miami

I made my reservation for my flight to Miami for September 4, 2004, already dreaming of palm trees and those sensuous, comforting ocean breezes I had come to associate with Miami. But as bad luck would have it, Hurricane Ivan blew in the same week, and South Florida was being assaulted by eighty-mile-an-hour winds that shredded the palms and flooded the city streets. My gold Lexus, which I had shipped out on a flatbed truck, found itself caught in the centre of the action in Tampa but eventually made it unscathed to Miami.

I rebooked my flight for a week later. Jack and I continued to cohabit, brought closer together by the devastating news that our beloved cat, Muffin, with whom Jack had fallen hopelessly in love, had an enlarged heart and was not expected to survive much longer. We were both completely distraught, but taurine supplements miraculously saved him, and Muffin lived an additional nine years, with Jack waiting on him as befitted the precious feline that Dervin, our live-in help, used to tell me was “a reincarnated prince” and certainly no ordinary cat!

As I bid adieu to the three males who for so long had been central to my life and my luxurious Beverly Hills existence, I experienced a heady mix of euphoria, at the thought of the freedom and the tropical paradise awaiting me, and a lump in my throat to think that the secure, familiar life I had once considered a fairy tale had suddenly come to an end. I was flying far away from those who loved me, and whom I had loved in return, and was now heading off alone into the unknown.

• • •

The Ocean Club, situated near the tip of Key Biscayne, a sixteen-mile drive from downtown Miami, was indeed the tropical paradise I had envisioned, and once my huge cardboard boxes filled with clothes, books, and art had been unpacked, I set out to explore the city. After breathing the often-smoggy air of Los Angeles for fourteen years, the air here smelled delightfully clean and fresh. I knew no one there other than my Cuban realtor, Maria, but was confident that I would soon make new friends. Perhaps all my family moves during my childhood had equipped me for this.

The condo, which I had rented sight unseen, had spectacular views from every angle, and I revelled in the splendid sunrises and sunsets over expansive ocean views that never failed to inspire me. I resolved that I would never live in a place where I could not enjoy this treat of nature, the best artist ever. It all contributed to my delight at having chosen a new home on the edge of the ocean. In 2004 I was in love with Miami and had no inkling of all the problems that were in store for me.

If I arose early in the morning, I could swim alone in the warm pools and watch iguanas and lizards emerging from their shrubbery hideouts on the central island. I floated on my back, gazing up through the palm fronds to the tropical skies. How had I been so lucky to be airlifted into this paradise? If I desired a change of scene, after only a two-minute walk I was on a sun-warmed, sandy beach that led to the lighthouse and park at the tip of the island, where sailboats and motor boats pulled up, and where they served café con leche, rice and black beans, and Cuban-style fried plantains.

In no time I had befriended some of the other residents of the Ocean Club, whom I met while in the outdoor restaurant, the state-of-the-art gymnasium, or the local town. A Haitian girl and I became friends while dancing Argentinian tango at one of the milongas, and a few classical guitarists welcomed me once they discovered I was living in their midst. Still, over and over again I encountered people who asked me with a look of disbelief, “You moved from Beverly Hills to Miami?” Could there be something about this city that I did not yet understand? I paid no real attention to these questions, though, continuing to enjoy my exciting new life.

In Key Biscayne I was delighted by the flamingos and egrets that strutted nonchalantly along the pathways, and soon I was riding my bike along Crandon Boulevard and happily prattling away in Spanish with bank tellers and garage attendants, thrilled by the adventure of discovering this new city that I had seen so much of on Univision, the popular Spanish network that, along with CNN en Español, I had become addicted to in Los Angeles.

My obsession had begun while perfecting my skills with a language that I had loved ever since living in Mexico as a teenager. In the Latin world, everyone talks at the same time, constantly interrupting each other. Such behaviour is not considered disrespectful, just the acceptable way of communicating. I remembered Jack’s frequent criticism of me for my “bad habit” of not letting him finish his sentences, and my mother’s reprimands if she saw me jumping in too soon on television interviews. Here, however, this practice was not considered a fault, but the norm, and somehow this style of fast-paced communication suited my naturally impatient nature just fine! If one observes the English language morning news shows on NBC and then switches to Univision or Telemundo’s Latin broadcasts, one sees the two styles are night-and-day different. The Spanish-speaking hosts and guests exude passion and excitement, and nobody feels offended. If someone is making an important point, I would consider it poor manners to interrupt, but in casual conversation, almost all the Latin-based languages seem to function this way — one only has to listen to a group of animated Francophones or Italians!

• • •

Key Biscayne was actually 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 every woman should experience at least one young Latin lover in her life!

• • •

I was growing tired of the long commute back and forth to Miami, so after one year there I left the Ocean Club and rented a new condominium on Brickell Key called Two Tequesta, an apartment where I enjoyed a splendid view of the harbour from the twentieth floor. Finally I was closer to all the cultural happenings.

It was only after my first evening there that I discovered my building was under the direct flight path into Miami’s very busy international airport, and with a sinking feeling I realized that the planes roaring past my condo throughout the night and rattling the walls and windows were probably going to disturb my sleep for the coming year. Also, in spite of my protestations, an irritable Argentinian who lived directly above me continued her habit of clattering around in high heels on her marble floor at three or four in the morning. I resorted to earplugs and a wave machine, but being a light sleeper, I was frequently awakened. I concluded that once my year’s contract expired I would be better off buying my own place — preferably one where there was no risk of noisy overhead neighbours.

Hurricanes Katrina, Rita, and Wilma all hit Miami during that second year. Each time, I fled north to Toronto or New Jersey, only to find upon my return that the city was a disaster, with power outages, smashed office windows, and in the case of Wilma, just about every beautiful palm tree in the downtown torn to pieces by the winds. Their brown tattered branches hung forlornly like shredded flags. Miami was in disaster mode and the neighbours recounted horror stories of power outages and elevator entrapment. Thank goodness I had had the good sense and foresight to take off at the mention of the word hurricane! After receiving my colourful epistles describing the destructive “Acts of God,” Prince Philip wrote to me that it was “almost as though nature wanted to punish humanity … as if she wanted to warn us to be a bit more considerate toward the natural world.”

The city eventually recovered, and in between working on my music I continued to enjoy Miami’s social scene — a private concert by Plácido Domingo at the elegant old Biltmore Hotel; Art Basel, Miami’s annual international exhibition; a Steinway concert series; the French, Latin, and Jewish film festivals; an arts salon opening by my new friend the Russian–Italian artist known as “Anastasia the Great”; the Heart Ball and fundraiser at the Surf Club; a concert by the New World Symphony; the Dragon Boat Festival; and the Miami City Ballet.

I often attended the tango milongas, bathing in the sensuous music I had become so familiar with. During that time Willy Chirino, one of the most loved Cuban singers in Miami, invited me to play a couple of numbers at the James L. Knight Center at a concert celebrating Cuba’s independence from Spain.

How could I possibly miss this opportunity? I composed a short Cuban-style intro to my piece “Asturiana,” and in spite of fighting my right-hand fingers, I somehow pulled it off in front of the appreciative audience of over two thousand. I was the only non-Latin to play, and it was fun to be in the midst of all the backstage chaos with guitars being unpacked in every corner and sexy backup singers squeezing curvaceous figures into satiny costumes.

An elderly Cuban guitarist, somewhat star-struck, approached me in the green room. “You are that amazing Canadian guitarist who came to Cuba twenty years ago … I saw you on TV, right?”

“Uh uh,” I replied, “I’ve never been to Cuba; you must be mistaken”

I fibbed on strict orders from the concert manager and Willy Chirino’s wife, Lissette, who had threatened to remove me from the program should I let it slip that I had ever set foot in their troubled homeland. I had obliged and even removed any reference to Cuba or Fidel Castro from my website. The subject of Cuba was a tremendously contentious issue in this city.

The guitarist kept giving me furtive glances — “Estoy seguro que fuiste tu! ” (I’m sure it was you!)

Finally, as I was packing up my guitar case about to leave, I went over and whispered into his ear. “Si, era yo, pero te pido, no diga nada a nadie aqui! ” (Yes it was me, but don’t you dare tell anyone here!)

He gave me a big hug, beaming from ear to ear, and told me how much he had enjoyed seeing my TV special that had been broadcast frequently on Cuban television.

• • •

Such encounters reminded me of how much I missed playing regularly and made the difficulties that I was experiencing even more heartbreaking. Every day I sat in front of mirrors trying to analyze why my right-hand fingers could not execute arpeggios as smoothly as before. Sure, I had just performed my piece “Asturiana” before thousands, but I knew that my fingers were fudging the hard parts and barely making it at times. I consulted a variety of therapists from Reiki healers to New Age energy specialists, and even a woman witch doctor who burned sage and spat on my legs, supposedly a ritual for cleansing bad energies! Nothing seemed to improve my right fingers, and in spite of “Livin’ La Vida Loca” I was constantly battling the utter despair I felt about losing of my ability to play the guitar. It was as though I had lost the most significant part of my life, and that in some cruel karmic joke my talented hands and my best friend, the guitar, had somehow betrayed me.

Researching for hours on the internet, a tool I was still unaccustomed to at the time, I finally decided to check what, if anything, had been written about musician’s focal dystonia. To my surprise, I found extensive information and numerous posts from fellow musicians, many of whom had seen their careers and happiness destroyed by this condition. Why had I not wanted to believe the Scripps Institute diagnosis and its dismal conclusion? I kept hoping they were wrong and that by persevering I would eventually be able to find a solution that would enable me to keep playing.

Although I discovered much that discouraged me during my internet searches, I also came across some reasons for continued hope. After reading that the doctors at National Institute of Health (NIH) in Washington, D.C., had achieved a modicum of success with certain musicians, and that after thirty years away from the stage pianist Leon Fleisher was back performing, I flew to Washington for a consultation and a treatment with the protocol they were using on musicians … Botox! A series of painful nerve tests ensued as a needle probed my forearm searching for the exact muscle they planned to temporarily paralyze so that I could gradually retrain when it started coming back to life — a tedious three or four month process.

When it came time for the treatment, a hulking Transylvanian entered the room, a fat needle in his hand, and with perfect, Dracula-like intonation said, “Are vee now ready vor me to inject zee toxin?”

I shuddered.

A fellow guitarist who was also coming for his FD Botox treatment had accompanied me into the room and had been holding my hand during the torturous muscle probes. I squeezed it extra hard! The dosage of this nerve paralyzer was much larger than the tiny amounts used by cosmetologists to relax wrinkles, and I worried about whether, years from now, this botulism strain might possibly impact my health.

After my injections were done, my friend took his turn, and I reciprocated clasping his fingers tightly. Somehow having a hand to squeeze helped the pain, and on two of my subsequent visits I stayed at the home of this guitarist friend and his wife. My heart went out to him; the poor man’s life had been rendered miserable since he could no longer play his electric guitar. We commiserated and shared our sorrow yet remained hopeful that the Botox and subsequent retraining could work miracles.

I flew up to Washington four times to be treated at the NIH, but Botox never worked for me. The reality was starting to sink in. My brilliant career was about to end, not with a bang but with a whimper. So there I was: The guitarist who had dazzled world leaders, been praised by the New York Times for her “flair for brilliance,” sold out the Cairo Opera House and been hailed there as “The New Segovia.” The woman who had been voted five times by Guitar Player magazine as “Best Classical Guitarist” in their international poll, and who was now a member of their “Gallery of Greats,” could no longer play many of the pieces that had made her famous. The complex arpeggios, trills, and tremolos that had wowed the critics and fellow guitar players were now all discombobulated. For a perfectionist with a formerly virtuosic technique, losing the ability to play my beloved guitar the way I used to was beyond devastating.