by David Gittlin

Created on: March 29, 2009

The moment arrived unannounced during a set of solitary yoga postures on my plush, living room rug. A long stretch to relieve the tension of the day popped something open inside me. It was not a ligament or a tendon. It was my hardened heart.

In the Hollywood version of the story, the hero manages to crawl to the phone, call 911, and then wakes up in a hospital bed after a miraculous, life-saving operation by a brilliant, open-heart surgeon. The experience impresses upon our hero a number of crucial life lessons. After the crisis, the hero's character and actions towards others change profoundly for the better.

Fortunately, life does not resemble a Hollywood B movie, notwithstanding my intense desires for this to be the case at the time. My physical heart had not split open. A more subtle heart had opened, and with it, a door to a new world and another destiny.

It all started with Jorge, the new employee I would never have gone to lunch with if my usual lunch-buddies had not run off somewhere without me. Jorge was Mexican, the only Latin guy on the second floor executive suite of Wallco, a wallpaper distribution company that hired mostly white Anglos in 1981, when Miami's transformation into a multi-cultural city began in earnest.

Jorge, like me, was in his early thirties, average looking, average height, dark hair, brown eyes, thin mustache - an easy to get lost in the crowd kind of guy. I had no idea his unheralded arrival would trigger a seminal occurrence in my life.

Wallco hired Jorge for its fledgling export division. Jorge's mission was to open up markets in South America and the Caribbean -approximately one quarter of the world-all by himself. He had the ability to speak Spanish and, I presumed, Super-human sales skills coupled with a pioneering spirit. I didn't envy Jorge one bit.

I considered myself above Jorge. I was the high and mighty Marketing DirectorJorge the lowly new sales recruit. I had served my time in sales. I was grateful beyond words not to have to spend my days selling wallpaper sample books to dealers who had no more room in their stores for them. I figured, if nothing else, I could learn something about the export market by going to lunch with the new recruit. Besides, Jorge was the only soul left on the second floor other than myself.

Jorge suggested we eat at a nearby natural food restaurant. This sounded much better than tamales or burritos, or whatever weird, bready, spicy stuff Mexicans ate. I happily agreed.

Over salads and grain

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