Last Train Home

Last Train Home

Mateo Vaccaro Biernat

9/29/22

The train was hot and full of people. The population of Miami had been baking in the sun like a batch of alfajores that whole summer, and that mid-July afternoon had been especially taxing on my 14 year old self. I really should have prioritized not getting heatstroke rather than completing my outfit with that goofy red hoodie, but looking back, there’s a lot I would’ve done differently during this time. What I mostly recall is how directionless I felt, as I was about to enter an important transitional period of my early teen years: high-school. Looking back on my experiences in middle school, feelings of emptiness, fake friends, and the death of my grandpa in Argentina are the ones that stand out the most. Once I had graduated, the future seemed to be looming menacingly in the distance, and soon enough every summer day was lasting less than the last, making me increasingly anxious for what was to come.

That day I’d been invited by my best friend from middle school to skate around Coconut Grove, which was a typical activity for me. Thanks to the distance between us and my severe lack of funds as a kid though, I would typically ride the metro all the way from Palmetto station to his house. The ride wasn’t an issue, as I’ve always enjoyed looking out the window while I listen to music, but I always seemed to arrive just on time to catch my train, this time being no different. Upon arrival at Palmetto station I was blinded by the golden beams from the sunset, which embraced the whole building in a warm light. Flying up the steps, the guard laying back in their chair looked up from their phone to give me the side eye while I refilled my metro card and walked through the turnstile. This station was typically empty, as it’s the very last one on the track, so I had no trouble finding room to sit as I made my way to the train.

Thoughts were bouncing around in my head as I threw my legs up on the empty seats, ironically picking “Last Train Home” by Pat Metheny to listen to as the metro pushed off the tracks and I gazed towards the sunset. How would I make friends? Were the teachers going to like me? Would I be able to live up to what was expected of me? Unsure of myself, I continued to reflect as the scenery shifted from warehouses to small homes, with people slowly beginning to filter into the train until it was nearly full only a few stations into my ride. I pulled my legs off the seats I was taking up and began observing people as they sat down around me. I knew from the distinct smell of cigarettes and backwoods that a construction worker had gotten aboard, looking sleepy as they scrolled through social media in silence. The old hispanic ladies would always shuffle in holding an array of bags, while they talked to someone on the phone about their kids. Sometimes groups of teens would join the trip, discussing drama and whatever their plans were for the night with great enthusiasm. They each seemed to make me nostalgic in a different way, and I was beginning to feel like the days of being a kid were falling through me. Deep in thought, I failed to realize that someone had sat next to me.

The man must’ve been around 50. He had very short, gray hair and blisters all over his hands. He was wearing cargo pants and beat up boots, along with a dark tee which was tight enough for his stomach to peek out from below it. I guess my emotions were written all over my face, as he shortly asked me in spanish how I was doing. Not wanting to talk too much about my personal problems, I replied that everything was fine as we broke into small talk and I asked him where he was from. The man revealed he was Cuban, which wasn’t strange to hear in Miami. Hell, most of my friends growing up were Cuban, so I asked if he was born there. Almost immediately he responded that he was, and began to loudly reminisce how much he suffered at the hand of his country while he lived there. Countless Cuban families have experienced extreme poverty due to their corrupted government, and his was no different, as he revealed they sometimes had nothing more than rice to eat. It made sense to me why he’d feel resentment for his country with the way they treated him, so I listened intently as he continued to rant about all of his negative experiences there for several minutes. Eventually, he reached the point in his story where there was no longer any hope for him in Cuba, so he took the massive risk of boarding a life raft with his wife, successfully being able to land in the U.S after a difficult journey. It wasn’t easy for him at first, as he felt scared and insecure about how his life would unfold in this new country despite the opportunity that came with it. In time though, he was able to adapt to his surroundings and told me he couldn’t be happier with the way his life turned out, bursting with pride as he showed me pictures of his kids on his phone. This made me smile.

Now for the life of me I could not tell you the name of this man, but the way his story made me feel was seared into me at that moment. Once he arrived at his stop and waved goodbye I still had a bit of a ride ahead of me, which gave me the chance to consider the implications of his story. The Cuban man had taken a massive leap of faith, plunging himself in the murky waters connecting his past and his future, all in search of a better life for his family. In comparison, the idea of high school suddenly didn’t seem all that threatening, giving me a newfound confidence to carry me through those difficult first weeks. Moreover, through this interaction, I was able to mature a bit and adjust my view of the world. Despite its almost oppressive heat and never ending traffic, Miami really is a unique place where you can encounter people from all over the world, and I’m lucky to have grown up where I did.