A promise in Florida

I met a man today who made me a promise.

I was sitting in the garden patio of a small café in St. Petersburg, Florida, finishing a lunch of grilled mahi mahi and a drinking glass of not very good wine. It was the quiet hour between the lunch and dinner crowds, and the waiter had long since retreated to the TV golf game inside. I was alone.

The place reminded me of Europe. No particular country or town, just a general feel of somewhere that slows down in the afternoon and so you can sit in the shade and let the breeze take the edge off the mid-afternoon heat.

I sipped my wine and savored the moment away from my family and work and even friends. Then, almost as if to complete the scene, the screen door opened and an old man came out.

I watched him walk, with broad-legged steps and just the hint of a bend to his back, across the patio and to a basement door. He was European, I was sure. There was something about the lines on his face, the fall of his thin shirt and his gait. American men age differently.

On his way back from the basement, he smiled. And when I returned the smile, he stopped in front of my table.

"Buon Giorno," he said.

His name was Tom and he was from Albania.

"My son's name is Tom." I said. "Good name."

He smiled and stood a little taller.

"You work near?" he asked.

"No, I don't live here," I replied.

"Where are you from?"

"I'm from New York."

At this, he threw his arms in the air like he'd just discovered that I was a long lost cousin.

"New York! I was in New York yesterday. Seven days. New York. I must sit down."

He pulled a chair around to my table.

He had been in the States for six years, seven in December. He was an electrician, but here, he said, motioning to the café, "I am only maintenance."

He had three children. So did I. He could not believe this.

"You look 17, maybe 19," he said.

I smiled and sat a little taller.

"My son is seven," I tell him. "He is the oldest."

His oldest child was 29. The boy lived in South Africa. He hadn't seen him in 10 years.

He stopped his story and looked at me.

"Ten years," he said. "My wife cries for our son."

We sat for a moment in the breeze. A far-off radio played "The Stroke" by Billy Squier. A car horn honked.

I was enjoying my few days of solitude, of eating slowly and ordering a glass of wine after lunch. But 10 years. I saw my son's face, his skin bronzed from a summer of swimming, his eyes bright as he gave a breathless recounting of the latest mythical battle going on in his head. These days, it was usually something to do with Kronos.

Ten years. I looked at Tom. I thought of my son, my Tom. Would I lose him like that one day?

"I can't imagine," I said, even though I could, and I was.

I wanted to go home. See my son. Wrap him in my arms.

We talk bit more about New York and his wife and how much he loves America.

And then it was time to leave.

"Will you come back," he asked me.

"I don't know," I said. "I will try."

"Please come back," he said. "Tomorrow if you can."

"I will try," I said. "But if not, I should be in town next year. If I am, I will come back then."

"OK," he said. "Next year, you come. I will be here. We will drink wine. One for me, one for you."

"That sounds nice," I said.

"I promise you," he said. "You come and this time I will give you the wine."