"What are you doing?" I yell up to my daughter's loft. No response. I climb a few rungs up her ladder until I spy her lying on her bed. She has in headphones and her Apple computer is on a split screen." What are you doing?" I mouth. What's the point of using my vocal chords when she's so tuned in or tuned out, depending on how one views the scenario.
"I'm multi-tasking, Mother," she replies exasperatedly, as she removes the ear buds. "I'm doing physics and watching 'The Office.' I need a pedi. Will you hand me the toenail polish?"
I climb down her ladder and return to the kitchen to finish peeling potatoes from my Mother's beef stew recipe. Oh--my Mother! Now there's a woman who multi-tasked before the words became the phrase du jour.
"It's time to get up!" Mom yanked the covers off my ten-year old body.
"It's 7 a.m. and summer," I pleaded. "Why do I smell roast beef and potatoes? I smell bacon too!" I was confused.
"Listen up," Mom instructed. "You missed breakfast. I'm going out to butcher chickens. You and your sister come over in 20 minutes to help pluck the feathers and clean up the mess. After that, come back inside and wash up. The roast for dinner is in the oven. Lower it to 250 degrees and clean up the breakfast dishes."
I grabbed my covers and curled up under them. "I can't clean up the mess!" "The mess" is code word for bloody chicken heads. I flashed back to when I was five years old. I wanted to help butcher chickens--until I learned what it meant. I witnessed Mom cutting the heads off my most recent pets. I ran around the blood-spattered ground collecting loose heads. My attempts to reattach them back onto jerking, almost lifeless chicken bodies was pretty much how you envision it. "But what are you doing today if I have to do all that?"
I got the look--then the speech. "I have to gut and cut up the chickens, while I water the garden. Then I need to pick sweet corn for canning, while I hoe weeds in the cornfield. After dinner (noon meal in the country), I'm going out to disk the field over north because your dad has to go to town for a cattle sale. Then we ALL are going to pick green beans before it gets dark so I can start canning them. Tonight, I'm doing some patching if I can fix the sewing machine. Your dad's overalls all have holes in them."
As I focus on peeling my potato, I realize why I never quite feel like I'm accomplishing enough. Often, when Mom made dinner, she was also baking a pie for the church potluck, figuring out when the calves needed weaning, and cutting a dress pattern for me that was laid out on the kitchen table.
My mother's resume forty years ago would have read something like this:
Job title:
Farmer
Farmer's Wife
Mother
Description of farmer:
Sitting on a tractor 6-10 hours a day, pulling an implement to plant, sweep, bale, cut, pick, disk, harvest, fertilize, or plow. This occurs between the hours of 6 am and 10 pm. Attempt to fix broken equipment to save time and money before calling a "real" mechanic.
Push hay up to the cattle twice a day. Vaccinate cattle. Castrate cattle. Deep fat fry items removed from castrated cattle for a Mountain Oyster fry. (Best to google this term if you are unfamiliar with it). Chase cattle back into their pen when they inevitably figure a way out. Assist cattle in giving birth. Ensure windmills are turning to generate water for cattle in the pasture. Butcher cattle, after they are shot and hung up to age for a few cold winter days. Cut up beef (formerly known as a steer that was formerly a bull before castration) with an electric saw, hand saw, and butcher knife into hamburger, steaks (T-bones, rib eyes, fillets, strips), roasts, stew meat. Wrap and freeze butchered meat.
Farmer's wife's job description: All of the above, plus fix three hot meals a day. Laundry. Raise four children. Clean house. Plant vegetable garden. Water, weed, and pick vegetable garden: lettuce, green onions, radishes and squash. Pick and can other vegetables--green and yellow beans and corn. Can whole tomatoes, but also make and can tomato juice, tomato soup, tomato sauce, and salsa. Pickle any or all of the following vegetables and fruit: watermelon, cucumbers, okra, string beans, and green tomatoes. Can fruit (obtained from outside sources): peaches, plums, apricots, and choke cherries. Make jams from above mentioned fruits. Can meat, which includes sausage, corn beef, and beef for bar-b-que.
Raise baby chickens that, oddly, get delivered from the unhappy mail man from his mail car. "Louise, get these damn 200 peeping chicks out of my back seat!" The sweet, chirping, yellow balls of fluff were delivered in cardboard boxes, with holes on the tops and sides, not running around free range in the back seat of his car. After two months of growth (and TLC from me), said chickens were then butchered with a freshly sharpened knife. Yell at younger daughter (yes, me) as she runs around collecting bloody heads, trying to perform a miracle. (After all, they were her pets for two months before they became "eat'in age.")****
****The author realizes there are two very similar paragraphs about her pet, headless chickens. She simply wants to instill the image into the reader's mind next time they take bite of their cou au vin. Forgive her if she's overstepped her boundaries.****
Gather eggs from surviving chickens. Make noodles due to excess of eggs. Drape the three-feet long noodles to dry on any available surface, such as spare bed and pool table in basement. Clean chicken coops of prolific chicken shit. Spread shit (fertilizer) in garden.
Grocery shop in town once a week (don't forget anything because you're not running 20 miles to pick up a gallon of milk). Delegate chores.
"Susan (older sister), you hang the clothes on the line and iron the Sunday shirts and dresses. Watch your baby brother."
"Tammy, you fold down clothes and clean the kitchen. Gather the eggs."
"Spencer (older brother), you're in the field today."
In unison, we retort," But what are you doing today if we have to do all that?"
"Mom! I need my nail polish," my daughter's voice jerks me back to the present.
Ahhh! Multi-tasking. Such a 21st century concept, isn't it?
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
Monday, September 18, 2017
Book Clubs for the Decades
"Ch-ch-Ch-ch-Ch-ch," greets my ears on a sizzling hot New York evening. My book club host, Derek, clad in an Izod shirt, a pale shade of pink, stands, shaker in hand, shaking the evening's concoction. He expertly pours the cocktail into a martini glass and offers it to me. In this book club, we take our drinking, as well as our reading, seriously. The cocktail of the evening accompanies the featured book, The Chaperone by Laura Moriarty, set in the 1920's and '30's.
The laughter is so loud emanating from inside the Brooklyn apartment, I know the buzzer falls on deaf ears. I twist the door knob and step into a home I've never been to before. "I swiped right so many times, my finger got a cramp," declares Lindsay, my young 30-something book club host, describing her first (and only) venture onto Tender. Ahh, the joy of being with women 15 years younger, childless, and husbandless. Frivolity fades into the background as we reach for our copies of Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese.
"15C," I say, precisely, to the doorman in this Upper East Side white-glove apartment building. As the elevator whisks me higher, I smooth out my skirt and fiddle with my faux pearl necklace. "How did I, a flight attendant from Kansas, ever get mixed up in a book club with women who work at Christie's and discuss Monets and Donatellos?" I wonder. I glance around the room full of women. In honor of our book choice, Girl With a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier, everyone was draped in pearls of some sort. I suspect mine are the only fakes in the bunch.
I've been blessed to have been in three book clubs over the last three decades. I've heard stories of book clubs that ban drinking. Others assess a fee if the book hasn't been read. Some clubs last a few months, others for years. The "Christie's auction house" club had been together for a dozen years when my husband's friend, Lois, invited me to join. I believe they are still together 18 years later. To my young sensibilities, each member's home was more beautiful than the previous month. Dinners focused on themes taken from the book. At the last meeting I attended, we discussed A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry.* The food was not take out from the local Indian restaurant. No, the tandoori chicken was homemade by the host in a Tandoor oven that she had brought back from Delhi. I decided my apartment, cooking, nor art knowledge was up to snuff, so I recused myself from this wonderful group. (And most of my spare time was taken up reading Mother Goose to my two babies under two.)
My second book club was started by a friend of mine, Janet, and an acquaintance of hers. The acquaintance chose the first book for discussion: The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger. She also suggested reading the follow-up, Revenge Wears Prada as our second book club discussion. Janet gave her the same look Meryl Streep gave Anne Hathaway in the movie (The Devil Wears Prada) that said, "you absolutely, positively cannot be serious with that suggestion." With one member less the following month, and literary books on the horizon, this club lasted several years, several babies, several marriages and one divorce.
My third, and current group was started by Margaret, a book editor, Jennifer, my friend of 14 years, and her sister Rachael. The written word is precious to all of us in the club. No one wants to be the one who chooses "that book." "That book" being the one that is so trivial, so shallow that it gets him/her thrown out of the group. I believe my choice In the Land of the Long White Cloud by Sarah Lark put me on the block. I attempted a marketing spin the evening we discussed it. "I chose this book because I thought it would be a fun, lite summer read (akin to elevator music). It took us away from the humid air and crowded streets of Manhattan and whisked us to the hills and dales of rural New Zealand, circa 1880. Right, everyone??" We might as well have watched the mini-series, "The Thorn Birds," (though set in Australia) instead of reading this 800 page phone book.
Reading and imbibing seem to go drink in hand with all my book clubs, I'm happy to say. Karyn, the host when Peyton Place by Grace Metalious was discussed, mixed up a whiskey sour punch (her mother's recipe) in her crystal punch bowl that Dean Martin would have guzzled. Rules of Civility by Amor Towles was "discussed" at Bathtub Gin, a speak easy in Chelsea. Myself and three other book club members (I suggested the place), wandered aimlessly in front of an ice cream shop where the gin joint was suppose to be. I got worried I was going to be "that person." However, like prohibition, which was the backdrop for the novel, a door man sidled up to us, with our perplexed faces, and whispered, "Gin, ladies?" Suddenly, a back wall in the ice cream shop was ajar and we slid into the clandestine 1920's for a few hours.
I don't know how long this current book club will last. Already one member is in the process of moving. I guess book clubs are like life. One never quite knows how it will play out, what relationships will develop from it, and certainly, how long it will exist. We can only have fun and enrich ourselves while we are here.
*A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry has been mentioned in two previous blogs: Memory Block (March 24, 2013) and Kindles, Nooks, and Old-Fashioned Books (April 28, 2011).
The laughter is so loud emanating from inside the Brooklyn apartment, I know the buzzer falls on deaf ears. I twist the door knob and step into a home I've never been to before. "I swiped right so many times, my finger got a cramp," declares Lindsay, my young 30-something book club host, describing her first (and only) venture onto Tender. Ahh, the joy of being with women 15 years younger, childless, and husbandless. Frivolity fades into the background as we reach for our copies of Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese.
"15C," I say, precisely, to the doorman in this Upper East Side white-glove apartment building. As the elevator whisks me higher, I smooth out my skirt and fiddle with my faux pearl necklace. "How did I, a flight attendant from Kansas, ever get mixed up in a book club with women who work at Christie's and discuss Monets and Donatellos?" I wonder. I glance around the room full of women. In honor of our book choice, Girl With a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier, everyone was draped in pearls of some sort. I suspect mine are the only fakes in the bunch.
I've been blessed to have been in three book clubs over the last three decades. I've heard stories of book clubs that ban drinking. Others assess a fee if the book hasn't been read. Some clubs last a few months, others for years. The "Christie's auction house" club had been together for a dozen years when my husband's friend, Lois, invited me to join. I believe they are still together 18 years later. To my young sensibilities, each member's home was more beautiful than the previous month. Dinners focused on themes taken from the book. At the last meeting I attended, we discussed A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry.* The food was not take out from the local Indian restaurant. No, the tandoori chicken was homemade by the host in a Tandoor oven that she had brought back from Delhi. I decided my apartment, cooking, nor art knowledge was up to snuff, so I recused myself from this wonderful group. (And most of my spare time was taken up reading Mother Goose to my two babies under two.)
My second book club was started by a friend of mine, Janet, and an acquaintance of hers. The acquaintance chose the first book for discussion: The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger. She also suggested reading the follow-up, Revenge Wears Prada as our second book club discussion. Janet gave her the same look Meryl Streep gave Anne Hathaway in the movie (The Devil Wears Prada) that said, "you absolutely, positively cannot be serious with that suggestion." With one member less the following month, and literary books on the horizon, this club lasted several years, several babies, several marriages and one divorce.
My third, and current group was started by Margaret, a book editor, Jennifer, my friend of 14 years, and her sister Rachael. The written word is precious to all of us in the club. No one wants to be the one who chooses "that book." "That book" being the one that is so trivial, so shallow that it gets him/her thrown out of the group. I believe my choice In the Land of the Long White Cloud by Sarah Lark put me on the block. I attempted a marketing spin the evening we discussed it. "I chose this book because I thought it would be a fun, lite summer read (akin to elevator music). It took us away from the humid air and crowded streets of Manhattan and whisked us to the hills and dales of rural New Zealand, circa 1880. Right, everyone??" We might as well have watched the mini-series, "The Thorn Birds," (though set in Australia) instead of reading this 800 page phone book.
Reading and imbibing seem to go drink in hand with all my book clubs, I'm happy to say. Karyn, the host when Peyton Place by Grace Metalious was discussed, mixed up a whiskey sour punch (her mother's recipe) in her crystal punch bowl that Dean Martin would have guzzled. Rules of Civility by Amor Towles was "discussed" at Bathtub Gin, a speak easy in Chelsea. Myself and three other book club members (I suggested the place), wandered aimlessly in front of an ice cream shop where the gin joint was suppose to be. I got worried I was going to be "that person." However, like prohibition, which was the backdrop for the novel, a door man sidled up to us, with our perplexed faces, and whispered, "Gin, ladies?" Suddenly, a back wall in the ice cream shop was ajar and we slid into the clandestine 1920's for a few hours.
I don't know how long this current book club will last. Already one member is in the process of moving. I guess book clubs are like life. One never quite knows how it will play out, what relationships will develop from it, and certainly, how long it will exist. We can only have fun and enrich ourselves while we are here.
*A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry has been mentioned in two previous blogs: Memory Block (March 24, 2013) and Kindles, Nooks, and Old-Fashioned Books (April 28, 2011).
Thursday, July 27, 2017
Dance the Night Away
A girlfriend that resurfaces every few years called. It's one of those crazy, precious friendships that I pray lasts forever. It has survived 30 years and 3,000 miles. That's some mileage. We're both flight attendants, but with different carriers. We hadn't seen each other for a couple of years. She was flying to JFK from Milan.
"Can we see each other?" she asks. "If it doesn't work out, we can do it another time."
She had had cancer, for gawds sake! I thought of two other women with stage 4 cancer that I had known. "No, my friend. Now is the time. I'll rearrange. I'll cancel appointments. No excuses!"
Life's thrown her some curve balls: divorced from a man with an addiction, BRCA gene leading to breast cancer, injury at work, devastating hurricane in her hometown, but three wonderful and typical teen-agers and a zest for life.
My life: a little steadier. Same husband, decent health, and two wonderful and typical teen-agers and a zest for life.
I pick her up at JFK. She's now cancer-free and it shows. She looks healthier than when I saw her two years ago in LA, where she lives. We settle in for the two hour drive out to my week-end house on Long Island. How is it we talk and laugh as if we just saw each other last week? I guess that's why we'll always be friends.
On the drive, we talk about our past. We talk about our present--like what's for dinner! I prep her for my favorite restaurant where we are going in a couple of hours. "It's like gliding onto the set of The Great Gatsby, so we have to dress accordingly," I advise. I don't often care how I dress, but for evenings here, I do. I choose my Anne Fontaine crisp, white shirt with turned up cuffs and my $20 geometric tri-colored, Pucci-esque wide-legged, flowing pants. I bottom them off with my 3-inch strappy 80's style wedges. If I turn my ankle, I'm done for.
My friend has a flowing black and white long-sleeved dress that ends above the knees. It has a cut-out in the back. Her strappy sandals are slightly more practical than mine, by a quarter-inch, maybe.
We share the same lipstick she just bought in Milan. She pulls her wavy post-chemo hair into a band, wishing she had her sunglasses so she'd look more glamorous. We are both hoping to look a bit Italian, I think.
We drive 15 minutes in my convertible to the restaurant. The ocean-side homes on Dune Road are large enough to host parties for a couple hundred. On the bay-side, the homes are slightly more modest, but they make up for it by mooring their boats in their watery backyards. The drive is a lovely prelude to the evening.
We climb out and she asks should she lock the door. "I don't think locking it would be much of a deterrent." We laugh.
Dockers, the outdoor restaurant, has the same effect on everyone. Chill. Glamour. The Hamptons. We drink in the view--dark blue water, waving sea grass, and over-baked Hamptonites-- as we sip peach bellinis, our last cocktails of the summer.
Half-way through our lobsters, a band starts up---Mean Machine. Ugh! What a name. I just want to talk with my friend and stare off into the horizon.
She looks at me as the lead singer grabs the mic. "I'm dancing!" Off she goes, headed to the dance floor, bib still attached. I tear mine off and quickly follow. After all, it is the last unofficial hurrah of summer. Labor Day has come and gone, but the temperatures still register into the 80's. Summer does not want to leave.
My friend and I dance through Songs in the Key of Life ( Stevie Wonder). We Freeze Frame (RIP J. Geils) and revisit the Glory Days with Bruce. No beach dance night would be possible unless we put our toes in the water, ass in the sand with Zac Brown. When the band turns techno, I turn to sit. But I was alone. Apparently, techno is big in LA. I don't leave my friend. I know she wouldn't leave me.
She and I dance the night away, prolonging summer, loving life.
"Can we see each other?" she asks. "If it doesn't work out, we can do it another time."
She had had cancer, for gawds sake! I thought of two other women with stage 4 cancer that I had known. "No, my friend. Now is the time. I'll rearrange. I'll cancel appointments. No excuses!"
Life's thrown her some curve balls: divorced from a man with an addiction, BRCA gene leading to breast cancer, injury at work, devastating hurricane in her hometown, but three wonderful and typical teen-agers and a zest for life.
My life: a little steadier. Same husband, decent health, and two wonderful and typical teen-agers and a zest for life.
I pick her up at JFK. She's now cancer-free and it shows. She looks healthier than when I saw her two years ago in LA, where she lives. We settle in for the two hour drive out to my week-end house on Long Island. How is it we talk and laugh as if we just saw each other last week? I guess that's why we'll always be friends.
On the drive, we talk about our past. We talk about our present--like what's for dinner! I prep her for my favorite restaurant where we are going in a couple of hours. "It's like gliding onto the set of The Great Gatsby, so we have to dress accordingly," I advise. I don't often care how I dress, but for evenings here, I do. I choose my Anne Fontaine crisp, white shirt with turned up cuffs and my $20 geometric tri-colored, Pucci-esque wide-legged, flowing pants. I bottom them off with my 3-inch strappy 80's style wedges. If I turn my ankle, I'm done for.
My friend has a flowing black and white long-sleeved dress that ends above the knees. It has a cut-out in the back. Her strappy sandals are slightly more practical than mine, by a quarter-inch, maybe.
We share the same lipstick she just bought in Milan. She pulls her wavy post-chemo hair into a band, wishing she had her sunglasses so she'd look more glamorous. We are both hoping to look a bit Italian, I think.
We drive 15 minutes in my convertible to the restaurant. The ocean-side homes on Dune Road are large enough to host parties for a couple hundred. On the bay-side, the homes are slightly more modest, but they make up for it by mooring their boats in their watery backyards. The drive is a lovely prelude to the evening.
We climb out and she asks should she lock the door. "I don't think locking it would be much of a deterrent." We laugh.
Dockers, the outdoor restaurant, has the same effect on everyone. Chill. Glamour. The Hamptons. We drink in the view--dark blue water, waving sea grass, and over-baked Hamptonites-- as we sip peach bellinis, our last cocktails of the summer.
Half-way through our lobsters, a band starts up---Mean Machine. Ugh! What a name. I just want to talk with my friend and stare off into the horizon.
She looks at me as the lead singer grabs the mic. "I'm dancing!" Off she goes, headed to the dance floor, bib still attached. I tear mine off and quickly follow. After all, it is the last unofficial hurrah of summer. Labor Day has come and gone, but the temperatures still register into the 80's. Summer does not want to leave.
My friend and I dance through Songs in the Key of Life ( Stevie Wonder). We Freeze Frame (RIP J. Geils) and revisit the Glory Days with Bruce. No beach dance night would be possible unless we put our toes in the water, ass in the sand with Zac Brown. When the band turns techno, I turn to sit. But I was alone. Apparently, techno is big in LA. I don't leave my friend. I know she wouldn't leave me.
She and I dance the night away, prolonging summer, loving life.
Tuesday, April 25, 2017
Why am I reading dreaming in hindi while my son, Xander and are in Havana? Why not Hemingway? Why not Telex from Cuba? So every now and then, here in Cuba, I've felt like I am in India. Driving 2 1/2 hours west of Havana to Vinales* in the country-side, there are Brahman cattle in the pastures-the same humped-backed oatmeal-colored cattle that wander the streets of Mumbai. Across the street from our flat (thank you Airbnb), in La Habana Vieja (Old Havana) is a yellow house that could be transported from Kolkata. I remind myself I'm in Cuba, a Spanish-speaking country in the Caribbean only 228 miles and a half a century from the United States. Sin embargo, (nevertheless--my favorite Spanish word in the world) it is exotic and special. Along with India, it's a little of the Dominican Republic where I spent years of my life on layovers with American Airlines. Even a flair of New Orleans is present with the small, wrought-iron Juliette balconies dotting the second, third and fourth floors of the apartment buildings.
The buildings, in their past beauty, must have been breathtaking-sweeping staircases, echo-inducing, high, domed-ceilings. In their present decrepit state of crumbling stone, peeling paint, and occasional odor of propane gas, a different ethereal beauty emerges. It's a beauty where I long for a past that I never experienced. I yearn to be transported to the glitz and glamour days when the rich, creative, and powerful made Havana a stop on the circuit, the place to see and be seen. Would I be in awe if I walked into the El Floridita where Hemingway hung out or would I saddened at his state of drunkenness?
To add to that yearning of bygone days are the cars. You know what I mean. The 1948 Packards. The 1959 Chevys. The two-toned convertibles with fins. Our taxi to Vinales was a 1951 Ford. I sat in the back seat with my legs splayed out and my fingers interlaced behind my head. A spring occasionally kicked my butt when Josue, our driver, was unable to avoid pot holes. I felt like I was in my Grandpa's 1951 Ford pick-up that he'd pick me up in every day after kindergarten. I cranked down my windows to hasten the fresh air inside. For safety, I sat in the middle in case the 65-year-old locking mechanism keeping the doors shut, decided to call it a day. The freedom of no seatbelts, no dials to adjust the temperature perfectly, no radio to fumble with was intoxicating. Even if there were a radio, the loudly "purring" engine and whipping wind satisfied my need for audio stimulation.
I let my 6'2" son sit in front with Josue to practice the Spanish he'd been studying since kindergarten. The busy Havana streets were replaced with Brahman cattle and goats dotting the rolling, red-soiled hills. Peddlers were selling their goods of roasted chickens and fat, raw onions The modern highway colluded with horse and oxen drawn carts, motorcycles with side cars, the classic Buicks, Fords, Chevys and French Peugeots. One heart-stopping event happened when we turned to drive north for several miles on a small, more intimate road-one meant only for a horse and cart carrying hay from the field to the barn. Now our 1951 1.5 ton Ford is negotiating this lane as another similar vehicle is doing the same, coming in the opposite direction.
But first, let's get back to the quaint streets of Old Havana where pedestrians flatten themselves against the buildings to allow cars and trucks to squeeze past. Our quaint flat on Compostela street was very adequate, which is all one needs right? Xander did make the mistake of showering one morning. Alas, no hot water, regardless of what our host, Yurian, had said. I waited until evening to take mine. Yurian had not lied. The water dotting my skin was indeed, adequately warm.
The day of our arrival, Yurian met us outside the flat and quickly carried my one piece of luggage up two flights of stairs. Xander trudged behind us with his. Machismo (and age) take turns as to whom it benefits. To welcome us was his brother, his girlfriend, and his father. After some pleasant exchanges in Spanish, the men lit their cigarettes, after offering us one, and turned on the small tv to watch soccer. I wondered if we were going to reside with our host and his family in the 700 square foot flat with a full and twin bed and sofa in one room and a small sofa in the living room/dining room area. The magnet-decorated fridge was prominently angled in the corner. The men were enjoying their smoke and game when Yurian propped our door open to get a beautiful cross breeze flowing through the rooms.
Another neighbor opened her door. Oh, La Abuela, I thought. No, she wasn't Yurian's grandmother. However, they treated her as one. After introductions, she and I took a quick turn sashaying around her living room to the beat on her radio as Yurain told me she was 101! She could have taught me a few dance moves. Though she was spry, I wondered how often she negotiated the steep, winding stairs to the street. After a little more visiting and a display of fine cigars Papa had for sale, our host and his family did leave and went their way and we went ours.
Ours was to lunch on a rooftop café that Yurian recommended. I sipped my mojito and looked around our setting. Xander and I nodded and both smiled at our good fortune of being in Havana, eating our ropa vieja, (a delicious beef dish, though the literal translation is old cloth) and listening to a couple of local musicians. We learned that live music was as typical as an old man smoking a cigar on the street corner. If your home is across the street from these rooftop cafes, well, you get a free concert every night.
As we meandered around the cobble-stoned street, a way of life was revealed. People live openly, literally. The apartments on the ground often had their front door open to catch the seductive breeze from the ocean. Each door way was cine'ma ve'rite'---life in raw reality. Cats, dogs, birds, TV, laughter, young, old pregnant, shouts, music--all emanated from these open, yet private spaces. Nosy Nancy, Gloria Gogs-Too-Much, and Polly Peers-A-Lot were just a few nicknames Xander bestowed upon me because my headed swiveled uncontrollably, left to right and left once again.
I even found it difficult to relax on our tiny Juliette balcony. I constantly jumped up to see if a 1945 Packard was squeezing its way down our narrow street or decipher a pig's squeal from a child's screech. For those of a certain age, you could call me Mrs. Kravits.
Our first morning, Yurian (not just host, but tour guide and cook as well) came to prepare breakfast. I had requested 8 am. He told Xander that was too early. He arrived by 9. His coffee was exquisite so all was forgiven. I asked about his thoughts on Fidel who had recently died. The older set, like his father, remembers the better days. Where as the younger group, (he is 37) not so much. Obama had been there recently and wooed the crowds-along with Michelle and the girls. He doesn't like Trump, but didn't dwell on it. Unlike an Austrian woman we spoke with. Not only did she dis on Trump, but our Electoral College system as well. At least, she was informed.
With Yurian, we also meandered around the serpent-like streets, but this time with a purpose and explanations! One highlight was the Museo de la Revolucio'n. Prominently displayed were four nearly life-sized cutouts of four well-known politicians, President Batista and three US presidents. Two of them are related and I'll let you guess the remaining one. The display was entitled Rinco'n de los Cretinos (corner of the cretins).
What is Cuba without cigars? Josue, our driver to Vinales, drove to a UNESCO cigar farm--no chemicals or nicotine in the cigars! After a spirited explanation from an employee of the farm to Xander, a French woman, an Argentinian and myself about cigar growing, drying, aging and rolling, we then lit up. He rolled, cut, then dipped our cigars in honey--just as Che Guevara and Fidel used to, he assured us. Xander and I walked around on our own to the fields and drying barns.
Josue took us to a couple of sights that weren't on our radar. We visited Cueva del Indio (Cave of the Indians) and Mural de la Prehistoria conceived in 1959. A Cuban artist, a student of Diego Rivera, was commissioned for the job. One of the largest in the world, painted on a mountainside, displaying the story of evolution and reflecting bones that were found in the area.
Unlike the drive to Vinales that felt leisurely, Josue seemed to be putting pedal to the metal on the return. No more onion and roasted chicken peddlers on the roadside to distract us. Although, the horse-drawn carts seemed to be in abundance. With dusk descending on the rolling hills and highway, I thought the cart drivers were rushing to get home before dark. But it didn't feel like that when I watched their smiling faces and saw the spirited horses. In fact, it seemed like the darker it got, the more horses were on the highway. We came upon two horse-drawn carts riding next to each other trotting down the highway. Instead of one pulling behind the other, they split. One moved slightly to the left, the other, slightly to the right. As our Ford shot through the gap, I closed my eyes. But then, I thought, "If I'm going to buy the farm in Cuba, I want to see it happen." The twilight horse-cart riding felt like a dare-devilish activity for the locals to discuss over rum and cigars late into the night.
I also felt like a dare devil since Josue hadn't turned our headlights on yet. Finally though, we pulled over and he opened the hood of the car. My son turned and looked at me and said, "We've had a good run, haven't we Mom?" Or maybe that was his remark when the police pulled us over to the side of the road ten miles later to check Josue's paperwork.
Josue jumped back into the car, assuring us he twisted some wires and now the headlights were working.
I was a little thankful to see the lights of Havana getting closer, but it did mean our short time in Cuba was over. I told Xander I didn't plan on returning. Some places I want to preserve in my mind as I first embraced them. Cuba is on that list.
*Vinales should have a tilde over the "n". I clearly had challenges getting it there. Apologies!
The buildings, in their past beauty, must have been breathtaking-sweeping staircases, echo-inducing, high, domed-ceilings. In their present decrepit state of crumbling stone, peeling paint, and occasional odor of propane gas, a different ethereal beauty emerges. It's a beauty where I long for a past that I never experienced. I yearn to be transported to the glitz and glamour days when the rich, creative, and powerful made Havana a stop on the circuit, the place to see and be seen. Would I be in awe if I walked into the El Floridita where Hemingway hung out or would I saddened at his state of drunkenness?
To add to that yearning of bygone days are the cars. You know what I mean. The 1948 Packards. The 1959 Chevys. The two-toned convertibles with fins. Our taxi to Vinales was a 1951 Ford. I sat in the back seat with my legs splayed out and my fingers interlaced behind my head. A spring occasionally kicked my butt when Josue, our driver, was unable to avoid pot holes. I felt like I was in my Grandpa's 1951 Ford pick-up that he'd pick me up in every day after kindergarten. I cranked down my windows to hasten the fresh air inside. For safety, I sat in the middle in case the 65-year-old locking mechanism keeping the doors shut, decided to call it a day. The freedom of no seatbelts, no dials to adjust the temperature perfectly, no radio to fumble with was intoxicating. Even if there were a radio, the loudly "purring" engine and whipping wind satisfied my need for audio stimulation.
I let my 6'2" son sit in front with Josue to practice the Spanish he'd been studying since kindergarten. The busy Havana streets were replaced with Brahman cattle and goats dotting the rolling, red-soiled hills. Peddlers were selling their goods of roasted chickens and fat, raw onions The modern highway colluded with horse and oxen drawn carts, motorcycles with side cars, the classic Buicks, Fords, Chevys and French Peugeots. One heart-stopping event happened when we turned to drive north for several miles on a small, more intimate road-one meant only for a horse and cart carrying hay from the field to the barn. Now our 1951 1.5 ton Ford is negotiating this lane as another similar vehicle is doing the same, coming in the opposite direction.
But first, let's get back to the quaint streets of Old Havana where pedestrians flatten themselves against the buildings to allow cars and trucks to squeeze past. Our quaint flat on Compostela street was very adequate, which is all one needs right? Xander did make the mistake of showering one morning. Alas, no hot water, regardless of what our host, Yurian, had said. I waited until evening to take mine. Yurian had not lied. The water dotting my skin was indeed, adequately warm.
The day of our arrival, Yurian met us outside the flat and quickly carried my one piece of luggage up two flights of stairs. Xander trudged behind us with his. Machismo (and age) take turns as to whom it benefits. To welcome us was his brother, his girlfriend, and his father. After some pleasant exchanges in Spanish, the men lit their cigarettes, after offering us one, and turned on the small tv to watch soccer. I wondered if we were going to reside with our host and his family in the 700 square foot flat with a full and twin bed and sofa in one room and a small sofa in the living room/dining room area. The magnet-decorated fridge was prominently angled in the corner. The men were enjoying their smoke and game when Yurian propped our door open to get a beautiful cross breeze flowing through the rooms.
Another neighbor opened her door. Oh, La Abuela, I thought. No, she wasn't Yurian's grandmother. However, they treated her as one. After introductions, she and I took a quick turn sashaying around her living room to the beat on her radio as Yurain told me she was 101! She could have taught me a few dance moves. Though she was spry, I wondered how often she negotiated the steep, winding stairs to the street. After a little more visiting and a display of fine cigars Papa had for sale, our host and his family did leave and went their way and we went ours.
Ours was to lunch on a rooftop café that Yurian recommended. I sipped my mojito and looked around our setting. Xander and I nodded and both smiled at our good fortune of being in Havana, eating our ropa vieja, (a delicious beef dish, though the literal translation is old cloth) and listening to a couple of local musicians. We learned that live music was as typical as an old man smoking a cigar on the street corner. If your home is across the street from these rooftop cafes, well, you get a free concert every night.
As we meandered around the cobble-stoned street, a way of life was revealed. People live openly, literally. The apartments on the ground often had their front door open to catch the seductive breeze from the ocean. Each door way was cine'ma ve'rite'---life in raw reality. Cats, dogs, birds, TV, laughter, young, old pregnant, shouts, music--all emanated from these open, yet private spaces. Nosy Nancy, Gloria Gogs-Too-Much, and Polly Peers-A-Lot were just a few nicknames Xander bestowed upon me because my headed swiveled uncontrollably, left to right and left once again.
I even found it difficult to relax on our tiny Juliette balcony. I constantly jumped up to see if a 1945 Packard was squeezing its way down our narrow street or decipher a pig's squeal from a child's screech. For those of a certain age, you could call me Mrs. Kravits.
Our first morning, Yurian (not just host, but tour guide and cook as well) came to prepare breakfast. I had requested 8 am. He told Xander that was too early. He arrived by 9. His coffee was exquisite so all was forgiven. I asked about his thoughts on Fidel who had recently died. The older set, like his father, remembers the better days. Where as the younger group, (he is 37) not so much. Obama had been there recently and wooed the crowds-along with Michelle and the girls. He doesn't like Trump, but didn't dwell on it. Unlike an Austrian woman we spoke with. Not only did she dis on Trump, but our Electoral College system as well. At least, she was informed.
With Yurian, we also meandered around the serpent-like streets, but this time with a purpose and explanations! One highlight was the Museo de la Revolucio'n. Prominently displayed were four nearly life-sized cutouts of four well-known politicians, President Batista and three US presidents. Two of them are related and I'll let you guess the remaining one. The display was entitled Rinco'n de los Cretinos (corner of the cretins).
What is Cuba without cigars? Josue, our driver to Vinales, drove to a UNESCO cigar farm--no chemicals or nicotine in the cigars! After a spirited explanation from an employee of the farm to Xander, a French woman, an Argentinian and myself about cigar growing, drying, aging and rolling, we then lit up. He rolled, cut, then dipped our cigars in honey--just as Che Guevara and Fidel used to, he assured us. Xander and I walked around on our own to the fields and drying barns.
Josue took us to a couple of sights that weren't on our radar. We visited Cueva del Indio (Cave of the Indians) and Mural de la Prehistoria conceived in 1959. A Cuban artist, a student of Diego Rivera, was commissioned for the job. One of the largest in the world, painted on a mountainside, displaying the story of evolution and reflecting bones that were found in the area.
Unlike the drive to Vinales that felt leisurely, Josue seemed to be putting pedal to the metal on the return. No more onion and roasted chicken peddlers on the roadside to distract us. Although, the horse-drawn carts seemed to be in abundance. With dusk descending on the rolling hills and highway, I thought the cart drivers were rushing to get home before dark. But it didn't feel like that when I watched their smiling faces and saw the spirited horses. In fact, it seemed like the darker it got, the more horses were on the highway. We came upon two horse-drawn carts riding next to each other trotting down the highway. Instead of one pulling behind the other, they split. One moved slightly to the left, the other, slightly to the right. As our Ford shot through the gap, I closed my eyes. But then, I thought, "If I'm going to buy the farm in Cuba, I want to see it happen." The twilight horse-cart riding felt like a dare-devilish activity for the locals to discuss over rum and cigars late into the night.
I also felt like a dare devil since Josue hadn't turned our headlights on yet. Finally though, we pulled over and he opened the hood of the car. My son turned and looked at me and said, "We've had a good run, haven't we Mom?" Or maybe that was his remark when the police pulled us over to the side of the road ten miles later to check Josue's paperwork.
Josue jumped back into the car, assuring us he twisted some wires and now the headlights were working.
I was a little thankful to see the lights of Havana getting closer, but it did mean our short time in Cuba was over. I told Xander I didn't plan on returning. Some places I want to preserve in my mind as I first embraced them. Cuba is on that list.
*Vinales should have a tilde over the "n". I clearly had challenges getting it there. Apologies!
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