I was sweating through my shirt, standing in line at a Cuban café in Little Havana the other evening, pretending not to stare at the glass case of guava pastries. The line was long—Miami long—and yet it somehow moved, as if with an invisible rhythm. People shuffled forward, paused, allowed someone to slip through just for “una cortadito,” then fell back into place without complaint. No one barked orders; no one explained the rules but everyone seemed to know them. Bang!, and