Sunday, August 05, 2007
Mandis and Eggs
Not too much has changed in 20 years: pictures of the Puri Saren--now known as the Puri Saren Agung--on Jalan Raya, Ubud, Bali.
To round out my "Bali Tetralogy" (Bali: A Love Affair; Bali Kopi; The Dogs; and my Java-based Mad Dogs and Englishmen: The Search for Wayang Beber), I sheepishly present you with Mandis and Eggs:
MANDIS AND EGGS
BY GEORGINA
My rain shower sprinkle of a showerhead was dotting me with cooler and cooler water the other day. Uh, oh. Coming out of my tub, I immediately thought: hot water heater.
I tried the sink: same. The bidet: same. (And its flow is usually liquid steam.) Rushing to the kitchen, the sink yielded the same results. Returning to the bathroom, I tried the tub hot water faucet again. Tepid water. Oh, no.
Stay calm, I told myself. Give it a while. Then try again. Then—if need be—check the hot water heater outside, get a repair number, call someone. Anyone.
I knew for a fact the hot water heater hadn’t been touched since 2000 or so. One more thing in this house that has an about to expire five year warranty on it. I sighed.
Why fuss? I also asked myself. It’s hot outside. But, wait: it’s the principle of the thing. Or, rather, it’s an almost twenty-year-old memory.
Mandis. And eggs.
So what’s a mandi, you’re wondering. A mandi is the Indonesian equivalent of a tub. A square, tiled, sink-like structure with a spigot, and a bucket on its edge, the idea is to fill the bucket with water, and then sluice it over your body.
And that’s your bath, with—needless to say—cold water.
Other than squat toilets, this was the other terror that awaited me during my first trip to
In the late eighties, middle echelon touristy hotels in the southern part of the
Why weird? Because not only were the shells a darkish hue, but so were the so-called “whites.” I couldn’t stand to look at them, let alone scoop them out and consume them.
My husband didn’t mind. He cheerfully ran around, taking pictures (especially of food), and eating that tepid food, including those weird eggs.
He was doing a good job of putting up with my complaining, too. That is, until a Balinese mandi and eggs proved to be too much for a squawking tourist to bear.
We’d arrived in Ubud, the cultural center of
Following our instructions, our travel agent had made reservations for us at a hotel that boasted “hot water.” The Puri Saren turned out to be the puri (palace) of the local prince. My husband was all but jumping up and down.
We were led to our bungalow, at a respectful distance (and decline) from the residence of the prince. We had a bird’s eye view of the central courtyard, where, under shelter, the masks and other paraphernalia used in religious performances were housed.
The man who kept assisting us appeared to have been assigned to us: a member of the prince’s retinue, no less.
Look! Look! My husband kept exclaiming, pointing in every direction. We even have a SERVANT…
I just sighed, and kept protesting. This bed all but takes up most of the room! It’s too hard! It’s too hot in here!
WHERE’S THE BATHROOM?
There it was, to the side. A Balinese bathroom, as it turned out, with shrubbery encasing what would have been one corner of a Western bathroom. It was very private, very beautiful… and very open.
It had a normal toilet. Thank heavens. And it had a tub. Uh, oh. Good, though, I sighed, thinking of the hand-held showerheads I’d just endured. I turned on the water.
Cold. Not just tepid, but cold water was coming out of both faucets.
I screamed. What’s wrong,
THERE’S NO HOT WATER!
My husband rushed to find our “servant.” Yes, the hotel was supposed to have hot water, but they were having trouble with their generator, the man gracefully acknowledged, with that slightly apologetic laugh to let us know he meant us no harm.
What came next was my own torrent. OK, I won’t take a bath.
Suit yourself. Whereupon my husband climbed in the tub, used the mandi bucket, and gave himself what he jokingly referred to as a Western mandi.
I snapped away, taking discreet pictures of him sluicing water over himself with that bucket.
Making our way around Ubud later that evening, I was becoming stickier and stickier. Returning to the Puri Saren, and that stifling room with its hard bed, only made things worse.
It was then that we discovered the true function of a Balinese bathroom: to let all the mosquitoes in.
Sweaty, sticky, I climbed in the tub, turned on the water. BRRR! Sweaty, sticky, exhausted, I tried to fall asleep on the hard bed. NO. With the door left open to the bathroom, all we succeeded in doing was in letting all the mosquitoes in. NO.
That long, hot night was surely one of the most miserable of my entire life. In the morning, I told my husband I’d had it. WE HAD TO FIND A DIFFERENT HOTEL.
WE? You mean, YOU, Georgina! YOU go find us a hotel. FINE!
I stormed off just as our cheerful “servant” was bringing us our next round of weird eggs, tepid fruit, and (admittedly) delicious Bali kopi. The man looked at me, not quite knowing how to react.
Going up and down Jalan Raya (the main street), I managed to find a place that, indeed, had hot water (I tested it). Very proud of myself, I returned to the Puri Saren.
I DID IT – I FOUND A PLACE WITH HOT WATER! I told my husband.
He shamefacedly turned to our “servant,” offering his apologies.
Take our luggage, I told my husband. NO! YOU TAKE IT! It’s the price you have to pay, he said. We even had our own SERVANT, he plaintively continued.
So I trudged to the new hotel with our luggage, a little at a time. Where I found the strength (as we didn’t travel that lightly), I don’t know to this day.
We spent the last night on Bali that year at the Nusa Dua Beach Hotel. We ate from a sumptuous hotel buffet, mingled with upper-crust tourists, slept in air-conditioned splendor, and—yes—I took a long, hot shower. Maybe two.
However, walking along the hotel’s carefully manicured paths, I realized, even then, how artificial it all was.
I don’t fully remember, but I bet you the Nusa Dua egg whites were white. The coffee was watered down Bali kopi. And we sure as heck didn’t have our own servant.
Back to the present: miracle of miracles, within half an hour, I had my hot water back. Almost scalded myself with the bidet spigot.
Must have taken a very long shower, thinking about the Puri Saren.
Silly girl.
Copyright, 2005 by Georgina Marrero 1225 words All Rights Reserved
So now I have a pentalogy on my hands, don't I?
Mad Dogs and Englishmen: In Search of Wayang Beber (1987)
MAD DOGS AND ENGLISHMEN: IN SEARCH OF WAYANG BEBER
BY GEORGINA
“Only mad dogs and Englishmen venture forth beneath the noonday sun.” An apt corollary to “the sun never sets on the
In 1987, my ex and I traveled to
Days in
Upon our return to Yogya, we said goodbye to the Hotel Garuda and its austere, yet beckoning, Dutch Colonial ambiance. Two more destinations awaited us on the
I distinctly remember Solo’s small, hometown feel. This was due, in large part, to the friendly, albeit reserved, nature of the city’s inhabitants. They know they are the most refined Javanese. Instead of lording it over their guests (tourists such as ourselves), they graciously shared their customs and culture with us. They are fiercely proud of their heritage and enviable position. The Solonese even employ two forms of dialect, High and Low Javanese, in their daily speech as a means of distinguishing among the existing social classes.
Their proud, yet gentle demeanor in the way we were greeted at the Kusuma Sahid Prince Hotel. The way the tour guide led us through the kraton, or palace (since the royal family remained loyal to the Dutch, the current raja [prince] does not wield any real power within the Indonesian government). Even the way we were given directions. Above all else, the residents of Solo are imbued with a politeness that goes hand in hand with their refinement. Their demeanor commands—outright demands—respect.
The Solonese nature is reflected in the city itself. As in many cities in both the East and the West, in Solo the old and the new manage to peacefully coexist side by side. Wide avenues with bustling traffic, including British-style double-decker buses, are only paces away from narrow alleys which can be accessed only by pedestrians and those who ride/drive two-wheeled vehicles. A modern shopping mall might be found juxtaposed to a traditional pasar (market). One can have a Dutch breakfast, a Chinese lunch, and the evening meal at one of the many street warungs (food stalls), where the chef prepares the food to order and then one dines sitting on little benches/stools beneath kerosene lamps. The energetic, bustling warungs are, however, not incompatible with the city’s underlying stateliness. Solo, ever in sync with its inhabitants, pulsates with a rhythm all its own.
We were scheduled to depart for
“Wayang Beber – at Jl. (Jl., or Jalan, means “Street”) Sawo 8 no 162, Perumnas Palur made by craftsman Subanono” my ex had listed as a shopping selection in his detailed, carefully wrought itinerary. Back at our hotel, we proceeded to bargain with a becak driver for our ride to find the wayang beber.
The becak is the Indonesian version of the Chinese rickshaw. The driver perches atop an elevated bicycle situated at the back of the vehicle. With sheer pedal-power, he transports anywhere from one to (I’ve seen) four passengers, who sit on a (preferably) cushioned, canopied bench-seat in front. A jolting journey: every time I rode one of these things, I was sure I was going to fall off!
Our driver—a bronzed, wizened fellow who was probably in his forties but looked sixty—looked at the address, which was presumed to be only about three kilometers away. We settled on six thousand Rp. (rupiah)—around three US dollars—round trip. We got underway between eleven a.m. and noon.
The closer we got to the city limits, the more we began to wonder if our driver knew where he was going. He was seriously huffing and puffing. The streets began to wind and slope more and more. The driver finally beckoned to my ex that he should walk alongside for a little while. I was really concerned about the man’s state of health by this point. Rivulets of sweat were streaming down his entire body. He appeared to be more and more weakened with each step.
I suggested that I walk. No, under no circumstances would he permit me, a woman, to walk! The becak’s canopy offered me shade only down to my knees. Of course, I was wearing shorts. Consequently, the blazing sun proceeded to bake my knees (especially) and legs a bright ruby red. My poor ex fared even worse—a freshly boiled
It was around one-thirty p.m. We had traveled much more than three kilometers (actually, more like twelve to fifteen). Our driver finally stopped. In the middle of a little side street with an open sewer running parallel to the line of dwellings (we were now in the “suburbs”), it appeared we had finally reached our destination. Upon enquiry, we discovered that the craftsman Subanono no longer lived in Solo, or anywhere else on Java, for that matter: he had moved to
Disappointed, exhausted, hungry, parched, sun-scarred, and, worst of all, empty-handed, we had no choice but to return to our hotel…and as quickly as possible if we were going to make our flight! Our poor driver must have felt worse than us at least a hundredfold. Surprisingly—or, perhaps, not so—the knowledge that his ordeal with us was almost at an end enabled him to return us to the Kusuma Sahid Prince with amazing alacrity. He had us back at the hotel between two-thirty and three p.m. He rightfully expected us to double his fare for all of his pains. My ex parsimoniously settled on ten thousand Rp. (around five US dollars). The man left us ruffled and disgruntled.
We departed for
It just goes to show you don’t have to be an Englishman to be mad.
2003 postscript: Last October’s bombings in
Copyright 2003, 1999, 1995 1525 words All Rights Reserved
What is it with me and dogs?
The Dogs...or, Letting Go (1994)
Dogs on Sanur BeachTHE DOGS… OR, LETTING GO
BY GEORGINA
I have always been a consummate planner. I don’t believe anything can – or should – be left to chance. Therefore, when I embarked on my fourth trip to
While in transit to Ubud,
The summer before, I had reflected on Balinese dogs: “One of the most visibly manifested forms of bad karma can be observed in Balinese dogs. These poor ‘mangy curs,’ as I like to refer to them, are dirty, hungry, and often have ugly sores on their bodies. Worst of all, they have the saddest-looking eyes I have ever seen on either man or beast. It’s almost as if they know they are bad spirits who have been reincarnated in this shameful fashion in order to atone for their past sins.” The Balinese either ignore the dogs or keep them at arm’s length, at best. I had seen very few healthy, well-groomed canines on
I had a room reservation at a hotel in Mas, a village known for its woodcarving. As lovely as the hotel was, it was about six miles from Ubud. Both exhilarated and exhausted, still mildly jet-lagged in spite of a two-day stopover in Singapore, I somehow managed to remember that a confrontation would have done me irreparable harm in the eyes of the Balinese. Therefore, as nicely and apologetically as I could, I explained my plight to the hotel staff. I wanted – I needed – to be within walking distance of Ubud. Fortunately, the manager’s wife worked at just such a place! One brief phone call ended my – and everyone else’s – discomfiture. The nature of the Balinese is such that everyone in the vicinity had taken an interest in my predicament. In his or her own way, each person had contributed to the solution. True to form, the taxi driver had not departed. He drove me to the Pondok Impian (“Sleeping House”).
It was after eight p.m. already and quite dark. The genial staff even gave me a room without making an imprint of my credit card! The upcoming bureaucratic tug-of-war involving my voucher did not concern me. I was just delighted to have arrived. I had already adapted. I had already started to grow! I felt buoyant. I was hungry. I wanted to celebrate my good fortune with a nice dinner. On the way to the hotel I had spotted a place called the Kokokan Club. It turned out to be a lovely Thai restaurant. By the time I finished eating, it was about nine-thirty to ten p.m. I started to head back to the Pondok Impian.
There were very few lights along the road. I used my flashlight to guide the way. I was all but humming to myself. I felt so good, so pleased with the successful resolution of what had earlier seemed to be an insurmountable problem. All I wanted now was a good night’s sleep.
The dogs appeared as if from nowhere. I couldn’t see them, but I heard them. They were growling – a low, menacing, guttural noise. Right at my heels, a huge pack of them – for all I knew – were almost running over me! I could almost feel their breath on my ankles. Never have I been so scared in all my life! “They’re going to bite me, and then I’ll get rabies, go mad, and die!” raced through my head. The “fight or flee” instinct overtook me. I couldn’t fight, so I fled… toward the closest lights I saw.
My heart was pounding. However, I knew the most important thing was for me to get out of the dogs’ way! The closer I got to the lights, the more I sensed I wasn’t being as actively pursued. Rushing headlong into the area illuminated by those lights, I discovered a modern, yet typical, Balinese compound. There was a courtyard surrounded by separate buildings, with each one serving a specific function.
The lights turned out to emanate from a porch that gave onto two small rooms. At least, there were two entrances. The doors were closed. Frantically, I yelled out, “Hello! Is anybody in? Help me!” After doing this a few times and getting no response, I tried the right door. It was locked.
Seemingly afraid of the lights, the dogs no longer posed an imminent threat. However, I knew if I stepped out of the circle of light and ventured forth onto the road again, I would run the risk of becoming their prey once more. I was still so terrified I didn’t even want to be on the porch: I wanted to be inside. I tried the left door. It was unlocked. All thoughts of etiquette aside, I let myself in.
I had never been so happy to enter a room in my life! This little, tiled, brightly lit, room appeared to be the study of a young, modern, Balinese couple. It was a cozy little place, with books in both Indonesian and English arranged neatly on bookcases, a picture of the couple’s beautiful little daughter, many little knickknacks, and even some of the child’s toys and games. The general ambiance of the place was gratifying and comforting. I had found a little home away from home! The only thing that kept this little study from being the perfect haven was the lack of a chair. As I had already resolved to spend the night, the floor would have to serve as my bed. I would depart at daybreak, when, at least, I would be able to see my purported predators.
Safely ensconced in my little cocoon, a new form of fear overcame me. It had finally dawned on me that I was trespassing! Therefore, now possessed with the fear of discovery, I created numerous scenarios and dialogues in my mind, just in case the family came back and found me, an intruder, in their house. “Time flies when you’re having fun,” goes the old adage. When one finds oneself in what one perceives to be dire circumstances, one doesn’t notice the passage of time, either. Glancing at my watch, I was astonished to discover it was almost eleven p.m.
Fear, anxiety, and frustration were quickly giving way to exhaustion. I was suddenly very tired, yet leery of falling asleep and running the risk of being “discovered.” I decided to write my “hosts” an apology note. Just in case, still “unearthed,” I did manage to “escape” at dawn. With a brown flair pen, I wrote the following note:
Dear Kind Family,
Please forgive my intrusion into your house.
I was on my way back from dinner back to my hotel.
The dogs began to bark – I became very scared that I
might be bitten! I am traveling alone. Once again,
please forgive me. If I did any damage, please contact
me at my hotel.
Georgina
Pondok Impian
Room 205
I then turned off the lights, lay on the tiled floor, and decided to await my fate. It felt infinitely better to be at the mercy of a Kind Balinese Family than between the jaws of potentially rabid dogs! The next thing I knew, I heard voices. Human voices. They appeared to be young voices speaking in a foreign tongue. Rushing out of the room, I yelled, “Help! Help!” as loudly as I could. The young Balinese couple had not found me. Instead, it was a group of young Dutch tourists. I had never been so happy to see fellow human beings in all my life!
The young men in the group offered to escort me back to my hotel. I did return to the study, however, to pick up my apology note. I realized I needed to keep it as a “memento” of my escapade. En route to the hotel, the dogs barked once again. This time, however, they were outnumbered. As during the daytime, they were more afraid of us than we were of them. I thanked my saviors profusely. If they were amused, they also seemed to realize I had just been through – for me, at least – a nightmarish experience.
Back at the Pondok Impian, I managed to relate my misadventure to the night clerk and a friend of his. Although neither man spoke much English, they were also amused. By the time I returned to my room, even I found humor in the situation! I was, nonetheless, thankful to be alive. I marveled at what I perceived to have been my resourcefulness, my ingenuity, and my flexibility. Twice that first night on
P.S. I bent only so much: I never again went out at night alone, on foot, outside the well-lit parts of Ubud. And I probably never will.
2003, 1996, 1995 by Georgina Marrero 1770 words
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Bali Kopi (1995)
The Grand Bali Beach Hotel, Sanur, Bali (or, at least that's what it was called in 1995).Bali Kopi--or is it, Kopi Bali? No matter. I just read that the Excelso brand is the Indonesian equivalent of Starbuck's. Oh, well...Hoping--wishing--that I'll return before too long: twelve years is long enough, don't you think? I wonder if Ktut is still driving his bemo in Sanur?
BALI KOPI
BY GEORGINA MARRERO
Bali Kopi:
I had already spent almost three weeks in
Ubud,
My psyche craved rejuvenation. What better source for this than the Grand Bali Beach Hotel in Sanur? This sparkling new complex stands on the site of the old
My Balinese teacher-friend and erstwhile tourguide drove me to Sanur. My capriciousness was working to his advantage: he was excited at the prospect of my staying at the
My room overlooked the ocean. That first morning, during low tide, I observed Balinese and tourists alike wandering far out on the sandbanks. The sun had already risen, but the horizon was still a mixture of blue, gray and pink. The slightly murky water hazily reflected the sun’s rays. A picture of tranquillity. I contemplated wandering outside myself.
Instead, I had breakfast at the Bali Kopi coffee shop. As the American Consulate is next door to the hotel, I went over and hoped the Consul might be able to help me with my project. He wasn’t in.
Feeling dejected for the umpteenth time this trip, I wandered into the street. What could I do next? I knew I wanted to go to Denpasar to do some book shopping and to Kuta to get coffee and buy a Hard Rock Café T-shirt for my assistant postmistress back home. Most of all, I didn’t want to pay the hotel taxis’ prices—after all, I was no longer a tourist.
Thus I found myself on the street when, lo and behold!, I spotted a bemo. A bemo is a minibus/van, a widely used means of transportation on the island. Very crowded on market days, these vehicles are often filled to the brim, with humans and fowls alike. I approached the driver and attempted to bargain, to get a “good” price for the trip to Denpasar and back. We agreed on 15,000 Rupiah (Rp.), roughly equivalent to $7.50 before the recent economic crisis. We were off and running!
My driver’s name was Ktut, which means he is the fourth (or possibly, eighth) child in his family. Of medium build, a little stout, and fortyish, he spoke (and, it turned out, understood) a negligible amount of English. I asked him to take me to the Gunung Agung and the Gramedia bookstores. As I had never explored anything before in Denpasar besides the airport, I was content to just sit back and enjoy the breeze, the sights, sounds, and smells of the capital of
In a very nice, very friendly, very Balinese way, Ktut asked me if I liked
Ktut had reached a major street. He drove up and down it slowly. I began to realize he did not know where the bookstore was. He began to stop anyone on the street, trying to get directions. Finally, we got some help. It turned out we were on JALAN Gunung Agung—in other words,
I had screamed out, “TOKO BUKU (bookstore)!” a few times already. In case it’s not obvious by now, I really don’t know Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian Language). We were well matched: me, with my Indonesian; Ktut, with his English. As frustrated as I was, I nonetheless realized I was beginning to have FUN! Another amazing realization hit me: Ktut was having fun, too! He nodded in (mock?) exasperation during my rantings and ravings. And then, grinning broadly, he retaliated with an expression of his own: “
Ktut kept a patient vigil in his bemo as I shopped. It was still early in the day when I rejoined him. A brilliant idea popped into my mind: why not hire him to take me to Kuta so I could get the T-shirt and coffee, after all! Even before we left the parking lot, we had made a new deal…for Rp. 15,000 more. It was on to Kuta!
Why didn’t I want to spend more time in Kuta? Kuta is the most commercialized spot on the
Street vendors now hound you with trayloads of fake designer watches and other cheap knockoffs. Many of them are professional pickpockets. The Balinese say they all come from other islands, particularly Java. The shopkeepers’ philosophy is no longer, “How much do you wish to pay?”, but, rather, “You’re not offering [us] enough.” And then, there’s the Hard Rock Café.
I had promised my assistant postmistress a Hard Rock Café T-shirt. The Kuta location was the logical choice. I handed Ktut a “to-do” list: Hard Rock Café; Excelso (the coffee store); and Baliku (a clothing store where wonderful cotton batik kebyar [mixed batik] garments are sold). Items one and two were easy—we both grinned happily when I returned to the bemo with my Bali Kopi. By the time we got to item three, the clothing store, I had decided I wanted to go to not just any Baliku, but to the GUNUNG Baliku! The one almost right in front of us was not good enough!
We reenacted our Denpasar scenario. This time, I screamed out, “GUNUNG TOKO BALIKU!” The poor man struggled heroically to comply with my request. I stuffed an extra Rp. 5000 in his pocket as a reward.
No two ways about it, I was having fun! It was getting late. Ktut had been at my beck and call for over five hours. He wasn’t complaining, but I’m sure he’d had enough. As we drove back to Sanur, I got one of my last glimpses of the Balinese countryside: the perfectly aligned and sculpted rice fields and terraces are still there. The roads and highways are still thronged with humanity: on foot, on bikes, on motorbikes, in an ever-increasing number of cars. At sunset, I could still see farmers—men wizened more often than not by the sun, rather than by age—carrying bags slung over their shoulders, coming out of their fields with scythes and other tools of their trade. Sarong-clad men, doing traditional work. My Balinese teacher-friend had informed me that the men still wear traditional clothing within their family compounds, but that, in their outside work, pants are now much more the norm. “But aren’t the sarongs more comfortable?” “No.”
Back at the
The next morning, at low tide, I wandered far out on the sandbanks myself.
1996 (revised 1999) 1535 words All Rights Reserved
Friday, August 03, 2007
The Near Miss
Hidden Bay Condominiums, where I lived for the bulk of 2002.I'm about to live in a condominium again...albeit a very different one: 1) in another city; and 2) in a series of old apartment buildings that went through a "condo conversion." The tale that follows--"The Near Miss"--came out of me during the 2003 Christmas season. Just, because...
I spent the better part of January of 2002 involved in “construction.” Quite proud of myself, I found myself supervising the installation of the tile floors, the granite backsplash, the painting, and the wood floors in my new condo at
Only the wood floor guy was totally professional – and efficient. But then, again, he was the most boring.
The tiling and painting were turning into one prolonged, intertwined adventure.
Dario – a charmer with a winning smile – had recommended some “painters” to me. They turned out to be his wacky roommates, and their artistic friend. As I perceived them to be gauchos, one and all, they’d had to listen to my tales about my father and his Carlos Gardel worship.
These muchachos were charging me about half of what “professionals” would have. However, they were taking forever. Day after day, they had to wait for the tiling crew to get the key from the concierge, Jack. Jack: Mr. Hidden Bay, in the flesh. This courtly, (not always) unflappable, former hotel owner greeted one and all as if he were welcoming them to his own home. Although he knew we were bending the “rules,” a bit, he looked the other way.
Alas, late one afternoon, I heard a knock on the condo’s door. It was Robert, one of the security guards. “No work after five p.m.,” he sternly informed me. I pouted. He said, “OK, just a little bit longer – but not past six p.m.” I could have hugged him. My motley crew continued to work until they could barely see their hands in front of their faces. After hours, they congregated by their car, and – I believe – drank. Crazy Argentineans, I told myself.
At long last, the work was all finished. Several days before I was scheduled to move in, I entered my condo to admire my handiwork. I tried to close a door. To my horror, I discovered that the doors were too long! The tiles hadn’t interfered with them, but it appeared as if the wood did. I rushed down to the lobby, distraught. “Jack, Jack, what can I do?” Jack merely pointed at Artur, who was working on some lights in the grand foyer, and said, “Ask Artur to help you. He’s a good man.”
Artur – who’s from Uzbekistan – came up to the condo, peered through his glasses with this quizzical half-frown, half-worried look I got to know over the next nine months or so, told me he could do the work on his lunch hour… and gave me a price. He wanted cash. His fee appeared to be reasonable.
He returned later on, used first his own saw (which burned out), then that of a friend (or was it
Over the ensuing months, Artur returned to my condo – time and time again – to help me take care of this or that. I always gave him cash. There was some terrible politicking going on among the unit owners… and, especially, between some of them and the very beleaguered property manager. The meetings of the Condo Association were horror shows. I stayed out of the fray as best I could.
Hidden Bay was getting to me. By April, I realized I couldn’t live with the “pall of the Holocaust” hanging over me. More and more, I was beginning to realize why my mother had shielded me as best she could from her past. Meeting Havi’s grandparents – both
Several weeks later, I went to
Undeterred, I kept searching. Finally, I unearthed a Yizkor (Memorial) Book on
Back in Aventura, I discovered that things at
I wasn’t getting any better, either. I was trying, though. Construction gave way to decoration: I purchased a cherry console and some beautiful wallpaper at Ethan Allen. I had no idea wallpaper was so expensive – it cost more than the actual labor! I was writing, again: a poem about the Centenary of Cuban Independence (in Spanish), and an outfit-by-outfit description of my entire Barbie doll collection. A veritable “fashion show.” I also assisted Arts Ballet Theatre of Florida by interviewing and then writing companion pieces – in Spanish and in English – on one of Miami City Ballet’s prima ballerinas. I needed to get my writing practice wherever I could find it. And – little did I realize it – Carrie Bradshaw was slowly but surely planting a little seed in my mind.
And then I visited my cousin. That was another turning point for me. This one hit hard: I saw my father’s bitterness and my mother’s negativity staring back at me. Deep down, I realized they lay within me, too.
“Love at a Distance” I had equated for a long time with my relationship with my mother. My visit to
Sylvia Maria's and
A year and four months later, I realize I was expounding on both sides of who I was. Fortunately, they’re giving way to who I am.
A near miss? Indeed. I needed to transport my “delicates” from Aventura to
In that wonderful Bahamian lilt of his, Robert had been kind, patient, and understanding with me during nine months. He had never made me pout again. Horace adored him, which I knew – by then – to be the best possible sign of a person’s worth. He took me to the U-Haul rental place at the corner of Biscayne and
“Vans fit in the parking garage,” Robert informed me. So he proceeded to drive the van into the underground lot. We began to hear the grating of metal on metal, but we continued. Finally we came to a halt. We couldn’t move. We were stuck.
Artur appeared as if from nowhere. He was horrified. “What are you trying to do?” The van was wedged right under the system of pipes containing the water that fed the building’s sprinkler valves! One more inch – nay, millimeter – and we could have had five hundred gallons of water, per minute – rushing at us!
He helped us back up, slowly. Very slowly. The enormity of what had almost happened didn’t hit us immediately. Instead, we broke into giggles. Nervous giggles, in retrospect. Outside, on the loading deck, we finally allowed ourselves to breathe.
My “delicates” made it to
I saw Laszlo one last time, during a return visit this past summer. I had spoken with his stepson before I had left
Four months ago, I invited Robert, his lovely young girlfriend, Gerta, and Cristina, another of
I made them veal porkolt. I’m not sure if it was fully to their taste, but I AM sure it was the first time they ever ate Hungarian food four blocks away from Calle Ocho!
I think I’m finally beginning to hit the bull’s eye on a regular basis, Grandpa.
Georgina
Saturday, December 27, 2003
