Why was I in the library trying to study that night? My mind wasn’t on pharmacology. The burden of the Ashton project was lifted, and I had received A’s on my first exams. When I looked up and saw her coming, my heart missed a beat.

     She was a cute medical sophomore that I’d seen around. I smiled, she smiled back, and we held each other’s gaze as she walked by. She slowed, sat down and sank into the sofa near my carrel. Quick, Ben, she’s opening a book. Say something. Say anything.

     "Oh, it’s so late to be studying."

     "Yes. Too late to study, but too early to quit," she said with a resigned smile.

     My dream girl. Expressive face, dark straight hair tied up in a ponytail. Slim and about my height. Dressed in stylish beige slacks and a loose-fitting blouse

     I smiled and told her, "I know the feeling."

     "Well, you see, I have this roommate, and she has this boyfriend, and they are in this hot-and-heavy stage. It would be hard to study there even if I wanted to."

     "My place isn’t very conducive to study either," I said, quickly thinking up a quip about rocking the boat.

     She cocked her head to the side for a second. "It looks like you are pretty well set up with that computer plugged in and with all those books. Are you working on a dissertation?"

     Friendly, honest intelligence. I hoped against hope that she wasn’t someone’s girlfriend.

     "I’m not that far along yet," I said.

     "What are you studying?"

     Fine-featured, open and sympathetic face.

     "Pharmacology," I answered.

     "We’re just starting Sophomore Pharmacology. I’m Rebecca Levis," she said, moving forward in the couch and extending her hand.

     "I’m Ben Candidi. Pleased to meet you, Rebecca."

     As our hands touched, mine tingled. Rebecca was the type of girl I could get real serious about. Perhaps the feeling was mutual.

     "What year are you in, Ben?"

     "First year," I answered. Her dark green eyes studied me for a second. I could see the wheels turning, trying to figure out how much older I was than 23. "I worked six years in a forensic laboratory. Came down here after my B.A. from Swarthmore in chemistry and physics."

     "I went to NYU in pre-med and anthropology."

     Once more, Swarthmore to the rescue!

     "The anthropology part sounds interesting," I said.

     "Yes. It’s been my hobby for a long time — and important part of medicine. I want to go into family medicine."

     She explained her preference fluently and genuinely. What a find! Depth. Educated but not bookish. And my type. None of that superficial pre-med mentality.

     "I’m interested in a sort of anthropology," I said. "Cultural anthropology. It’s been one of my hobbies for the last six years."

     "But you can’t be taking courses. They don’t even have an anthropology department here. I checked."

     "I don’t need a department. I’ve been doing field work. We’ve got it all here — practically on our doorstep."

     Rebecca wrinkled her brow and shook her head slightly, as if to warn me not to bullshit her. I pressed on.

     "Miami has Spanish culture, several kinds actually. And Haitian — a French Creole with a lot of African mixed in. And Bahamians and Jamaicans — two different kinds of English culture with strong African roots. And we’ve got all the standard European ethnic groups."

     "We have a lot of Caribbean peoples in New York too, but I wouldn’t call it ‘field work’ when I see them on the street." Rebecca said this insistently but politely.

     "Seeing a group of Puerto Ricans in thick coats unloading trucks at the vegetable market in New York in the winter is one thing. But seeing a Cuban refugee, not here longer than a year or two, dressed in raggedy jeans and a T-shirt, pushing carts and selling bags of Key limes at traffic lights is something else. The palm trees, the banana trees and the subtropical climate make all the difference."

     Pretty long winded, Ben. Hopefully, you haven’t blown her away. I smiled and gave her a chance to catch up. She stared down at the floor for a long time and then quickly looked into my eyes.

     "Do you speak Spanish?"

     "Pretty well, in fact. I speak it every time I get a chance."

     Rebecca smiled in approval.

     "I studied French. I never got a chance to speak it. One summer my family was going to France, see the cathedrals, Versailles and everything. But things came up, and we didn’t do it," she said dreamily.

     The girl to sail around the world with!

     "Well, Rebecca, you can speak French, a sort of primitive French, right here. That’s the interesting thing about Miami — the opportunity comes to you. Try striking up a conversation with one of the janitors . . . or wait for your clinical rotation."

     "Yes, it's all very interesting. I wish I had more time but . . ." she looked down at her books and notes, "with all this studying . . ."

     "I know what you mean — being stuck in a deep hole with orders to keep on digging. That’s one of the things that I thought about when I was considering whether I should . . . I mean, thinking about whether I could . . . aim for . . ."

     Rebecca was watching me carefully and patiently and, yes, sympathetically.

     "I know what you mean. I’m about eighty thousand dollars in debt right now, and this is only my second year. I’m wondering how I’m ever going to pay it back when I go into family practice, especially with the big health insurance mess and the government talking about ‘cost containment.’ You’re looking at a pretty tired and discouraged Jewish girl."

     What a combination! Pretty but not vain; intelligent but not overcritical; polished but not afraid to show her feelings. And from New York, but without any kind of an accent. I had to see her again. Inspiration came to my rescue.

     "Rebecca, why don’t you take this Saturday or Sunday afternoon off, and I’ll show you the Versailles, the Hall of Mirrors and a Romanesque cathedral with stained glass. Then I’ll show you some Caribbean culture, and we’ll make a physical anthropology dig — all within two miles of here."

     "And how are you going to do all that?" she asked incredulously.

     "Trust me on this one. I can show it all to you — within two miles of here."

     "But . . ." She clutched the book to her breast and looked down. Consolidating her feelings?

     "Do you have a bicycle?" I asked. "We can do it on bikes. Then you’ll get some exercise as well."

      Rebecca made me a very happy guy when she said yes. But was it out of interest in me, or was it curiosity about my outlandish promise? The date was for Saturday morning, only three days away. I would meet her at her apartment in the high-rise "Medical Towers" near Bryan.

     How exciting to show the secrets of my adopted city to Rebecca. With Miami, too, it had been love at first sight. I thought back to that sunburned, hung over, hectic and sleepless Spring Break in Ft. Lauderdale eight years ago, and the side trip to Miami. After I graduated, I moved down and took the first scientific job available — at the M.E. lab. Over the past six years I had taken enough photographs and assembled enough historical material to write a book. I just never got it organized. Hopefully, Rebecca would be ready and willing, because I had a heck of a show ready for her.

     Thursday and Friday passed slowly. And the minutes passed slowly waiting at the reception desk after the guard called Rebecca’s apartment. Then the elevator door opened to reveal a vivacious girl with a good-looking 10-speed — a picture worthy of a full-page fashion ad in the Miami Standard — pretty face behind aviator sunglasses, framed by a white stiffened cloth visor, slim athletic torso draped with a thickly-woven blue T-shirt, hips unrestrained in loose-fitting white shorts, slender and graceful legs, and a bouncy step assisted by a combination of thick-soled tennis shoes and abbreviated socks. My ensemble was more military, based on khaki shorts with multiple pockets.

     "I should really thank you for this, Ben. It’s the first time I’ve ridden my bike in Miami. The area around the Medical Center is hostile to a girl on a bike."

     "We’ll get better riding territory when we cross the Miami River."

     We mounted up and rode single file, Rebecca ahead, I guarding the rear as we negotiated serious traffic. A few blocks to the south brought us to the drawbridge crossing the Miami River. Rebecca pedaled energetically, cutting a nice figure with her slender legs, slightly broad hips and a bouncing ponytail. Ten blocks brought us to Flagler Street, the heart of Little Havana. Rebecca pulled over.

     "Ben, did I read that street-sign right? Did it really say "Ronald Reagan?’"

     "Sí, sí, Senorita. Es la Avenida de Ronald Reagan," I said, laying it on a little thick. "You see, he ate lunch in that restaurant."

     "The one with the sign that says ‘Guarapo, $1.25?’ What is ‘Guarapo,’ anyway?"

     "I was planning for you to find out, but first you need to get thirsty. We go seven blocks south and then head west."

     It was such fun to have Rebecca ride ahead and see her reactions to the new sights on this gorgeous morning. The sidewalks were filled with women making their Saturday morning rounds of the shops, just like in the Old Country, and with men standing around talking to friends and puffing on good, hand-rolled cigars. After a few blocks on S.W. 8th Street, Rebecca called back, "Ben, let’s stop here. There’s a memorial. What is that torch?"

     "An eternal torch of remembrance. ‘For the Martyrs of the Assault Brigade, April 17, 1961,’" I translated.

     "Oh, yes, the Bay of Pigs."

     "To them it’s like remembering the Alamo."

     The monument was encircled with a ring of chain suspended from the tips of upward-pointing artillery shells. And the memorial filled a broad center strip of 13th Avenue. We walked our bikes down the center, past an enormous tree, to the end marked by a large wall of quarried coral with an enormous relief map of Cuba. I translated "La patria es agonia y deber," quoted from Jose Marti.

     "Ben, that tree has an amazing root system, above ground and coming out like pinwheels. They look like dendrites . . . I must have too much neurophysiology in my head, but just look! At the trunk, the roots come almost up to my hips."

     I told her it’s a Kapok tree and that she should look there for Santeria offerings. Rebecca walked around the tree, stepping over the roots with the grace of a ballerina.

     "Ben, I think you are making fun of me. There’s nothing here but an old pair of shoes, a partially smoked cigar, some kernels of corn and a quarter."

     "Yes. Those are Santeria offerings. I hope you didn’t touch them, because that would bring you bad luck. You see, a Santero gets rid of his bad luck by casting something off as an offering to his favorite god. If anyone takes the offering, it will bring him bad luck."

     "And the cigar?"

     "An offering of smoke to the god. It was probably just lighted and puffed on once."

     "Right. That’s how it looked. And the corn?"

     "Feeding his favorite god. The Santeros believe that the gods have to be continuously fed and be given presents, or they will die out."

     "And the pair of shoes? They looked almost usable."

     I thought it might be a form of welfare. You offer the shoes to your favorite god, but if some poor guy has such hard luck that he really needs them, he can take them. We talked about the African and Catholic roots of Santeria and how it differs from Voodoo — no effigy dolls, and no poisoning people with tetrodotoxin to make them into zombies. Rebecca was interested in the Santeria gods, so I told her about the supreme Olodumare. And I told her about his host of orishas: Chango, Yemaya, Ochun and many more. We discussed cultural relativism and both agreed that cutting carotid arteries of goats and pouring their blood on your head is not the right thing for human beings to be doing. The thought made Rebecca visibly nauseous.

     Around the corner was Los Pinareynos Fruteria, a veritable Garden of Eden that crowded the sidewalk with mounds of pineapples, mangos, carambola, Key limes and the usual citrus. I selected two four-foot sugar canes and handed them to the man. He fed them into a rolling press and juice flowed from a spout underneath.

     "This, mi senorita, is Guarapo," I said with a flourish.

     A couple of blocks farther west, Rebecca discovered Maximo Park, a concrete slab surrounded by a big iron fence. Inside were old men playing dominoes.

     "Let’s go in and look, Ben."

     "The City won’t let us. You need a special I.D. saying you’re Cuban and retired. And I’ve never seen a woman in there. Like a fraternal lodge. Supposed to recreate Havana in the old days."

     A few blocks farther west we crossed Avenida Teddy Roosevelt. We ordered two cafe’ cubanos at the service window of a café and discussed whether Teddy was an imperialist or a freedom fighter. I chatted in Spanish with some loitering viejos in straw hats, T-shirts and jeans. A mural on the outside wall of the café depicted the street scene quite accurately. We saw two Mariolitos, Mariel refugees, both in raggedy jeans and T-shirt, both with hair tied by a bandanna, both were selling limes. But one was in the mural and the other was in real life.

     "I see what you meant, Ben, about the environment bringing out the Old Country culture."

     Our anthropological date was a success. We biked past some 1950s vintage tourist motels, now used for nocturnal, polyglot affairs conducted in the international language of no words. Then we rode into the Woodlawn Cemetery, which was to be the high point of the tour. Rebecca stopped at another Kapok tree and discovered a Santeria offering — a clay pot, decorated with bits of broken shells, depicting a human face. The Kapok’s dendritic roots were chest height at the trunk and radiated 20 feet. One gravestone was completely captured by the roots: "Juan Fernandez, born Dec. 19, 1885, died in Miami Oct. 9, 1920."

     Old by Miami standards, the cemetery and its tombstones were a wealth of local history: Of "Dra. Pieda C Bock, 1902," a Spanish-speaking lady doctor, and of Elmer and Carmen Haynes whose love story bridged cultures and decades. And the stones also told the story of snobbish resistance to polyculturalism, trumpeting formal English-sounding names and bearing the inscription "of New England." They reminded me of Goeffrey and Margaret Westley’s snobbish resistance to Miami culture.

     Along the winding road to the heart of the cemetery, Rebecca discovered the grave of Carlos Pria Sucarras, 1903-1977, who was once President of Cuba. And she found a mausoleum bearing the name Bacardi and another whose archway announced "Somoza Portocarrero." We peered in through the a small glass window in the large iron door and made out six vaults. One was inscribed "Anastasio Somoza Debayle, Presidente de Nicaragua. 5 de Diciembre 1925, 17 de Septiembre, 1980 ‘Amo’ a su Pueblo." Another vault was inscribed "Hope Portocarrero Debayle. Beloved mother of Anastasio, Julie, Caralinas, Carla and Robato Somoza. June 28, 1929-Oct. 5, 1991."

     Yes, it was the Nicaraguan dictator.

     As we walked our bikes around the last bend in the road, a colossal mausoleum came into view.

     "Rebecca, I hope that you accept this as a Romanesque cathedral."

     "Amazing! Stained glass and a spire. How did you find this?"

     "I’m interested in local history and culture."

     It did look like a Romanesque Cathedral, with its high walls of quarried coral stone, its arched entranceway, tarnished copper roof, square tower and asymmetrically placed stone steeple.

     The interior bespoke the vacuous elegance of sanitized death followed by heaven. A long hallway with polished white marble floor and walls ended with an intricate, stained-glass window. Lining the walls, the inscribed doors of the vaults told the stories of war heroes, school teachers, millionaires, philanthropists and the plain salt of the earth that we are all destined to become. Studying the inscriptions was a sobering experience. We both fell silent, lost in our own thoughts. The piped-in background music could have doubled as the sound-track of Walt Disney’s Bambi — just the right stuff to bring tears to your eyes. Rebecca broke the silence.

     "You’ve given me a lot to think about today, Mr. Benjamin Candidi."

     We went out through the back entrance and strolled through the Jewish section of the cemetery.

     "Now, Ben," she said with spirit, "it’s my turn to be the tour guide. What’s different about this section?"

     "The absence of statuary. Judaism does not allow graven images."

     "Hey, you know a lot about religion!" she said enthusiastically. Then she asked thoughtfully, "Are you Catholic? I would guess so with a name like Candidi. Just like you can tell that I’m Jewish from my name, Levis. Are you religious?"

     "Yes, privately. My experience as an altar boy forced me to think about religious doctrine at an early age — and I didn’t like to hear about ‘burning in Hell.’ By the time I was thirteen I had everything figured out. I try to live my life as a Judeo-Christian." Rebecca nodded in understanding. "I don’t like things that artificially separate people," I said with conviction.

     She looked down pensively, then crossed her arms and hugged herself. My candor had embarrassed us both. Ask me an important question, and you get a direct answer. That’s my style. As we returned silently to our bikes, I worked out the implications. With the Mensa girls, things always became complicated at this stage. They shared my proclivities for analyzing everything.

     After I unlocked the bikes, Rebecca supplied the needed lightheartedness. Focussing a congratulatory smile several inches over my head, she exclaimed, "Mr. Benjamin Candidi, you kept your promise. You showed me Europe and the Caribbean, all within two miles of that stupid old med school. And I thought that you were making up a line."

     "Now wait up," I answered, matching her lighthearted tone, "I haven’t fulfilled my promise yet. I haven’t taken you to the Versailles and the Hall of Mirrors."

     She objected that it was impossible, but a couple of blocks west of the cemetery I showed her the Versailles Restaurant — a flat-roofed squarish building, but painted up to look like the original palace. Mid-Saturday afternoon was prime time at this high-volume, reasonably priced Cuban eatery, but luckily we got a table in the Hall of Mirrors.

     The luncheon was like in a fairy tale, with Rebecca my charming princess, an exquisite conversation partner who listened carefully and replied in kind, her pretty and expressive face communicating feeling with her every word, sharing thoughts and dreams, and occasionally rewarding me with her lilting soprano laugh when something I said touched her fancy.

      On the way back we stopped at a park on the Miami River. As egrets played pigeon, as pelicans played scavenger, and as the tugboats pulled tramp freighters up and down the narrow river, I told Rebecca about the spring break, my love affair with Miami and the story of the Diogenes. Around five o’clock we were standing in the spot where this fascinating day began.

     "Thank you so much, Ben, for the nice time."

     "Rebecca, I hope . . ." I purposely let my words dangle.

     "That we can see each other again? Why, of course, Ben. Give me a call in the middle of the week."

     She made me a happy guy. Well, almost!

     I would have been happier still, if Westley had called me up and said it was "bingo" for one of those 13 toxins on my short list. Burk must have been taking his own sweet time analyzing them.