La Loquita del Zig-Zag

My Third Soul

2007-12-16T20:36:00.000-08:00

My Second Soul, Horace, December 2002.

SOULS

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Almost thirty years ago, my then husband and I did two things. One, we moved into our first apartment. And, two, we began to have cats. This may not seem that unusual to most people, but we’d both grown up scared of cats.

We developed a fondness for Siamese, so we obtained our first one. A lilac point, we named her, Purpurea Tullia, or, The Purple Tullia. When she began to have her heats, we decided to breed her. I’ll never forget what the breeder said to us over the phone after a successful mating session: Tullia had been burned. The person meant, bred. I must have been hard of hearing, even then.

One cold winter day, Tullia went into labor. We waited, and waited, by the cardboard birthing box we had so carefully prepared for her. Out came kitten number one, then number two, then, finally, number three. A smallish litter: we were somewhat disappointed.

My husband quickly noticed that kitten number three did not appear to be breathing. Not hesitating for a second, he shook the kitten gently in order to clear its nasal passages. The runt of the litter, this little fellow quickly became our favorite (and of course we kept him). We gave him the grand name of Graf von Mittendorf.

The Mitten, as we called him, was the grandson of a Grand Champion. Of a Grand Champion bellower, that is: he inherited his grandfather’s lungs. He was also an attention-grabbing hog. In the middle of the one and only Tupperware party I ever gave, The Mitten came into the middle of the room, jumped on top of the fireplace, and scampered away with a peacock feather we’d placed there for special play occasions.

Sadly, FIP claimed Tullia. Healthy one day, sick the next, and… well, within a week, we had to have her put down. I remember seeing her with the IV thrust into her little paw. Tears were streaming down my face. We still had the now grown-up Mitten with us, until we became dorm tutors and had to pass him along to a worthy home. Fortunately, we found one with a Siamese with whom The Mitten became fast friends.

When we were on our own again, the first thing we did was to get new cats. Colleagues of ours lived on a farm nearby, inhabited by the usual assortment of barn animals. So a little multi-toed white ball of fluff came home with us. We named him, Tweed (after Boss Tweed of Tammany Hall fame).

A wonderful little soul, Tweed loved all animals, and everybody. However, we still wanted a Siamese. Was there one to be had in our Upstate town? Yes: in an old lady’s basement. So, one evening, my husband descended into that basement and managed to corner a little spitfire whom we aptly named, Iskra. Iskra means “spark” in Russian.

A seal point, Iskra quickly developed into a little love. When my mother came to visit, Iskra spent a great deal of time on her lap. Right after Christmas, we had to go to a conference. Leaving Tweed and Iskra alone, we returned to find Tweed running around and meowing piteously. Where was Iskra, we wondered.

We lived in an 1830’s farmhouse at the time. Charming, all the way down to its uneven floors. The cats had gotten in the habit of cozying up on top of our waterbed. And that’s what Iskra had tried to do: get into our bedroom. We found her lodged under the door.

This was the first real death in my life.

Screaming, I called my parents. My mother was so moved she even wrote a poem about Iskra. My husband gently lifted her and placed her in a garbage bag. It was very cold out. We didn’t know what else to do.

Except that, several days later, we managed to find two new Siamese kittens. One, a blue point, my husband named, Zunz. This was the name of a well-known expert in my husband’s academic field who, as the story went, had sauntered into his university’s bookstore and haughtily proclaimed, “I am Zunz.” The name fit the cat (although he actually had a rather sweet temperament).

The other kitty was a tortie point Siamese. He had huge saucer-like eyes, so I named him, Patella – “kneecap” in Latin – or Patty for short. He turned out to be the proverbial scaredy-cat, gracing us with his presence for only brief slivers of time.

In Iskra’s memory – and to protect ourselves – we now had three babies. Tweed, ever the lover of all animals and everybody, patiently waited for the little upstarts to accept him. They did.

And so we moved across the country. We drove: the cats flew. Life continued as usual in our new home. We barely saw Patty. We experienced such a huge infestation of fleas in our basement that, when we went to do our laundry, we invariably returned with our legs full of bites. But we loved our boys, and that was that.

It was time to move again. Major strategy planning went into our cat move preparations. The plan this time was to move first, and then have the cats shipped to us. Out of the blue, our vet called us: Patty had FIP. Poor little thing whom we knew primarily by her shadow – or, as my husband liked to say, “Patty’s making his debut.”

Zunz and Tweed made it to our new home. Multi-toed Tweed was not only almost deaf in one ear, due to constant problems with ear mites, but he also suffered from chronic respiratory infections. We were constantly treating him with some antibiotic or the other. He began to lose weight, and was soon a mere shadow of his former fluffy self. It was time, the vet said. We sadly put our little caretaker to sleep.

So what was to become of Zunz, all by his lonesome? George soon came to live with us. With the exception of Tullia and The Mitten, our other Siamese had probably not been purebreds, but George was. A perfect seal point specimen, with sapphire blue eyes, pointy ears, and a long snout. My husband renamed him, The Bat.

Zunz and The Bat followed us back East. Three years later, I departed. My husband kept the boys.

But I couldn’t be without a cat of my own for too long. Three weeks to the day after our divorce, I came home with my own little ball of white fluff. I named him, Horace. He was seven weeks old.

Siamese were in my blood by then. When I first showed up at the Animal Shelter the day before, I had my eye on a little female tabby. The next day, she didn’t appear to be as friendly, so I stepped into a room that held a “kitten tree.” And there he was: on one of the branches, I spotted a little Siamese in the making.

Not hesitating, I picked him up, placed him on my shoulder, and, before I’d even left the room, proclaimed: “You’re Horace.” And that was that.

This little seal point mix and I bonded from so early on, in so many special ways, that if I let myself, I could write a book. Let it suffice to say that I caught his anaphylactic shock reaction after his first series of shots fast enough that I turned the car right around and went back to the vet. I was always careful about his shots from then on.

On the other hand, Horace knew something was up the afternoon my dear friend committed suicide so he and his partner wouldn’t have to endure the agony of his illness any longer. When he shot himself, my little cat jumped up onto my rosewood breakfront, knocking down a Chinese tea set. Four teacups broke. I am convinced beyond intuition that he did so at the precise moment.

A highly intelligent, perceptive, playful, sometimes cooperative, and sometimes deliberately mischievous, kitten, Horace got in the habit of jumping way up high, on top of the kitchen cabinets, especially when we moved to our first townhouse. He periodically ran out the front door, only to return after I frantically searched for him under all the cars in the parking lot, plaintively calling out, “Horace, Horace,” and sobbing all the while. And then, of course, he showed up at the front door – after I’d exhausted myself – all on his good time. I’m sure we were a spectacle to behold.

As he was a handful, I sadly decided to have him declawed in front, which is something I had never done with any other cat. The vet declawed and neutered him simultaneously, when he was about six months old. I’ll never forget that, when we got home, his little paws were bleeding a tiny bit, and he made sure I saw it. I cried. I was always convinced that he didn’t let me forget it.

Horace had another interesting habit, a presage of things to come. He loved to leave little deposits everywhere. When I was gone for several days, I came home to find the apartment covered. What could I do? Even then, I provided him with more than one box. But he’d earned a new nickname: The Poopy.

The Poopy eventually became, The Pootie. This was the nickname a neighbor gave to her equally rambunctious son. Continuing to jump on cabinets, let alone all his other antics, I decided the best solution would be to get him a companion.

When I’d had Horace about a year, I paid another visit to the Animal Shelter. Looking around, I was at a loss, until one of the staff members suggested I bring Horace and let him pick out his own companion. So that’s what I did.

And whom did Horace pick out? A snowshoe point Siamese male whom I named, Lucretius. How did I know he was the one? Horace both wagged his tail and hissed at him. An excellent sign, under the circumstances.

Lovers? Of course not. Friends? From time to time. Let’s just say these two had an uneasy truce. Although Horace was the alpha cat, Lucretius tried to bully him. But Horace ultimately always fought back. Fortunately, two babies declawed in front – in all fairness, had to repeat the process with Lucretius – couldn’t do each other much harm.

Upon Lucretius’ arrival, Horace had been bountiful. Once, out of sheer desperation, I used a room spray to try to eliminate some of the odors. Alas, now it was Lucretius’ turn to have an allergic reaction. The following morning, I discovered he was barely breathing. Rushing him to the vet, he spent the day in ICU. His lungs were full of water. Needless to say, I never sprayed anything again.

We moved South. This time, I flew on the plane, and the boys were in the cargo hold. I remember picking them up, spending a night at my mother’s (and keeping them away from my mother’s equivalent of Methuselah, Boqui the tuxedo cat, who ultimately lived to be twenty years old), and then settling into our new life.

I traveled quite a bit for several years. A lovely couple across the hall took care of my boys – their payment was special presents from wherever my meanderings took me. But several very special events served to remind me of my special connection with my Second Soul.

Number one: Horace chipped a tooth. I lost a crown. Same location in our mouths: believe it, or not. Number two: when I was in an accident, he hugged me when I came home. Outright put his paws around me when I held him. Number three: he hugged me again upon my return from my first solo trip to Bali. However, after my third trip – a month long – he exhibited a totally different response. Horace proceeded to hiss and snarl at both Lucretius and me for thirty hours, one hour for each day I’d been gone!

We then moved Upstate. No 1830’s farmhouse this time, but, rather, sardine-like townhouses with paper-thin walls. I took the boys out to experience snow. No surprise, Horace turned out to be the more intrepid of the two.

My neighbors informed me Lucretius used to jump to the high window facing the street, awaiting my arrival. He was sleek and slender. Unfortunately, Horace was becoming pudgier and pudgier. That’s when I switched to Feline Maintenance Light. However, as I continued to lazily use a self-waterer and feeder, he kept eating. Genetics, let’s call it.

But it was he who used to accompany me in the bathroom, jumping up and sitting on top of the toilet seat, next to the sink, or even in it, sometimes. He loved his tiny trickle of cold tap water. And he loved to lay, paws out, on his namesake rug.

Paws out always meant he liked someone. I had a special friend while I lived Upstate. Once, when he became sick, Horace waited for him outside the bathroom. Paws out. I paid attention to his body language from then on.

Paws out. I’d taken a picture of him while we were down South. In it, he’s under my coffee table, facing my mother. Paws out.

Washington, D.C. came next. Once more, me in plane, cats in cargo hold. I still remember when the airline cargo staff brought my babies out to me and we took a cab to our new home: an old grande dame of an apartment building named The Greenbriar. With a flourish, the doorman brought the cat carriers into the building on a luggage carrier. Everyone oohed and aahed. I was so proud.

It was 1997. In between sixes and sevens, I was restless. I couldn’t accommodate myself to doorman living. So, three months later, I moved to our third – and, as it turned out, last – townhouse together.

August 30. Still in boxes, I wandered out that evening. Going up to Bethesda, where I couldn’t find a parking spot in the trendy restaurant district, I was then heading down Wisconsin Avenue when I heard the news over the radio: Diana, The Princess of Wales, had been in a car accident.

Finding myself in Georgetown, parking on P Street, I was on my way to Clyde’s on M Street when I felt it. A chill. It was after ten p.m.

The story was everywhere. Finding a seat at the bar, I discussed it with the bartender, a very sensitive fellow who was a student of Latin American affairs. Getting home as quickly as I could, I turned on CNN, and called my mother.

It was while I was on the phone that CNN announced Diana had died.

A Diana follower since 1980, I was thunderstruck. As millions, I genuinely grieved. I couldn’t sleep. The cats picked up on all of this, of course. Lucretius, with his limber limbs, began to jump to and fro on the boxes. And then it happened: he jumped on Horace, who, in turn, jumped on me as I lay in bed, and drew blood.

He hadn’t meant to, of course. Something came over me. Perhaps it was my nerves, the cramped quarters, or whatever, but I decided to call an old friend who loved the boys. I asked her if she wanted Lucretius. She said, yes. Several days later, I placed him in his carrier, put him on an airplane, and shipped him to New York.

One soul had just helped another soul achieve his mission: to be alone with me. Of course, Horace reacted in his own special way. The opposite of his usual, that is. He couldn’t go. The vet prescribed Propulsid. We both returned to normal – to our “new” normal.

The Pootie continued to tell me who was good, bad, or indifferent toward me. We survived my Smithsonian research project, my Capitol Hill forays, Monica. He didn’t like it when I was glued to the “black box” – a.k.a., my Mac laptop. At least he didn’t run out the door as much. I always used to find him, sitting or hunching pretty, on the bed, on a chair (his special armchair from which I was always vainly trying to remove his cat hair), on the floor, when I returned home. We had become conjoined, intermingling souls.

On the night of November 6, 1999, Horace acted very strangely. He kept pacing around and around the upstairs as I vainly tried to fall asleep. “What’s wrong?” I asked him. We both finally knocked off, exhausted.

The next day, November 7, was even more life changing than when Diana had passed away. That night was when I realized something had happened to my mother. Had Horace inadvertently perceived something through me?

Boarding The Pootie at my vet, as I had on numerous occasions, I returned South to my parents’ house. A friend of mine sent him down to me about ten days later. Rocking back and forth in his carrier, he let her know he didn’t like her tape selections. She told me she found it highly amusing.

The latter part of that month was extremely difficult, but my cat rode its down spiraling low with me. And, on the night of November 28, he slept right next to my head, on the side of my pillow. My mother had passed away that afternoon.

Once again settling into new patterns, the kitten came out again, albeit at a slower and gentler pace. He ran out the door whenever he could. He spent time out on the patio, eyeing – but never hurting – the lizards. And one day he did the extraordinary.

I don’t know what possessed him one sunny morning. Eyeing a bird above the cathedral ceiling patio roof, he decided to go after it. Jumping in the air, he landed… in the pool! Horrified, I was ready to go in to rescue him, when he surprised me (and, I daresay, himself) by swimming across the breadth of the pool. After two attempts, he finally scrambled out and ran into the house, looking for all the world like a wet rat.

Poor little thing. Running in, myself, I fetched some towels and tried to dry him off. I only partially succeeded. He spent the rest of the day shaking his little paws dry. And he didn’t go back out on the patio for a very long time.

He continued to be my extra sensory antennae: when an old family friend tried to make nice with him, he did something I’d never seen him do before. He turned around, showing her his little behind, and walked away from her. I’d known she didn’t like me for thirty years: did it really take a little cat to confirm this for me?

We moved several times. The first place – townhouse number four, now that I think of it – he tried to make the best of it. I couldn’t, didn’t: I should have paid more attention to his body language. The second place, a first floor apartment, we both loved.

I’d bought some leather furniture. He eventually made the chair his own. Yes, he scratched it, clambering on top. But he loved it – it was Horace’s chair. He also loved the very private patio, where we spent many an afternoon just lolling about, with me reading while he peered upward every time planes zoomed overhead on their way to the nearby airport.

It was in that apartment that we experienced 9/11. The day before, he’d been running up and down the hallway. Was it because I was excited about my upcoming trip to Paris, or because he sensed something?

Christmas of 2001 I sent out my first ever holiday greeting card with Horace’s picture on it. A picture of him sitting like a pasha, as I like to say, on his chair. Everyone adored it.

We were getting ready to move again, however… to a dee-luxe apartment in the sky. This time, I didn’t mind the doorman (at least for a while). And everyone loved The Pootie. He was a Grand Old Man of ten plus years by now, over seventy in human terms.

A cold here and there, with only one mild case of urinary blockage under his belt, the worst he suffered from was mild obesity. The vet put him on weight reduction food, little pellets that produced their equivalent at the other end. He still had his accidents, and his aim wasn’t always great. But he continued to be sweet and gregarious in his own way most of the time, except when he became a bit ornery. Very infrequently, he bit me. Always had: his payment for my having declawed him, perhaps? He then became very contrite.

We continued to have our morning ritual: a stroll on the patio. Just a little bit. Just enough. He was then content to sit in the sunshine streaming in through the wall-to-wall windows in my study, at my feet. Always close, but not too close. And he continued to be my weathervane in every aspect of my life.

I’d been invited to a society wedding. You’d think I was the one getting married, from the way I carried on. Three dresses later, I was ready. But not before I paraded around the apartment in two of them. Which do you like better, dear? We chose wisely.

That weekend turned us around, yet one more time. Less than two months later, I bought a house. My house. Our house. A month after that, we moved in.

Horace loved the house. He loved rushing out the French doors to the back patio to chew on the grass. I always stopped him, for I thought it was bad for him. He always upchucked the grass (and, for many years, had eliminated his fair share of hairballs). You should let him – it’s good for him, some people told me. I still wasn’t sure.

His favorite place, however, was the garage. The place had – has – an energy. It was at its strongest, though, when we moved in. The Pootie used to run in the moment I opened the door, lay, paws out, on the Mexican tile, and purr and purr. So now we had a new ritual.

Not to mention old rituals, such as licking fat-free tapioca pudding off a little spoon that we both managed to share. Not the most appetizing in many people’s eyes, I’m sure, but… well, what can I say?

For over a year, we’d also been watching Sex and the City together. He loved the opening music: he wagged his tail. He’d always been a tail wagger, though, and had almost always come running to me when I called his name, either wagging that tail, or holding it straight up in the air.

When he’d been a kitten, some girls across the hall had had a little dog. No hissing, no arched back, on the part of my little fluff ball. Instead, a lot of tail wagging, and chasing each other, round and round, in circles. For Horace thought he was a dog, and, indeed, canine loving friends referred to him as my dog-like cat.

Beginning to settle in, yet still surrounded by boxes, I took a trip about three weeks after moving in. I boarded Horace at my mother’s vet, who’d taken care of Boqui and Pandy, my father’s Norwegian elkhound. Returning home, I laid out fresh food and water, as was our custom. He ate, drank, and used his #1 litter box (he also had his #2 box): nothing unusual.

That was Monday night. By Wednesday night, though, I noticed something was wrong. Or, rather, he pointed it out to me: all but leading me to the litter box, he pawed at the litter, at the sides of the box. Nothing. Horace was neither urinating, nor defecating.

Rushing him to the vet, they diagnosed his urinary obstruction, catheterized him, and observed him for several days. Responding to the treatment for the cystitis, he still had problems pooping. They gave him an enema.

For the first time in his life, my cat urinated outside the box. He was ashamed: I could feel it. He appeared to be so tired, so listless. All he did was sit on his chair or on the bed.

He continued to not poop without the aid of enemas. The vet finally gave it a diagnosis: megacolon. He’d probably had it all his life. All those little gifts he’d been leaving outside countless litter boxes since he was a baby. All of a sudden, the nickname I’d so fondly given him did not appear to be as amusing.

Boqui and Pandy’s vet had given up on my baby: I could tell. Not in a bad way. If anything, he’d made a point of telling me, “You love each other.” He hinted at a growth. Everyone at the office had cried when my mother had Boqui put to sleep. Some family legacies are best not continued.

In desperation, I asked my very commonsensical friend what I should do. Get a second opinion, he said. So I consulted with my equally commonsensical realtor, who recommended her own vet. He treats illnesses aggressively, she said.

The new vet did, indeed, put Horace on an aggressive regimen of Metamucil, stool softeners, and my ancient, yet potent, supply of Propulsid, as needed. As the drug was/is off the market, for humans and animals alike, I was lucky to have some. 1997 seemed so long ago – had the doctors in DC known, I wonder.

The Pootie was always pretty good about swallowing pills, but I could tell that this was a major effort for him. It was torture. But he let me minister to him as best I could. Twice a day, I prepared a medical mishmash for him. I had litter boxes in strategic locations. He was urinating again. Copiously. I’d bought a little electrically propelled water fountain for him. All he seemed to do now was drink water, urinate, and rest on either the furniture or the bed. And he had begun to follow me around the house.

One day, he almost climbed into the shower with me. No, I’d said. It wouldn’t have made sense to let him stay, but I appreciated the thought.

He hated the mishmash. Although I’d never spoiled him with wet food, it was about all he wanted. And then, not much of it: just the juices. He still nibbled at the tapioca pudding, but less. He still accompanied me when I watched TV. He still slept on the bed with me. And he most certainly was following me around the house.

I’d taken his second Christmas picture over Thanksgiving weekend. Anguished, I wasn’t sure whether to send it out. When I finally did, my hairdresser sent me a rare card, informing me that’s exactly what Horace would like. I had done the right thing.

Propulsid began to figure more and more into his every other day diet. It was the only way. And then I waited, at least every other day, for a miracle. Yes, we got the miracle, but at enormous cost to both of us.

He still enjoyed going outside and into the garage. One day, I snapped away, inside, outside, and in his garage. The picture of him in the garage captured his beautiful turquoise eyes.

My electrician paid us a courtesy call. I was in pajamas. I’d lost weight. I was so grateful, as I was for my Indo-Chinese banker’s visit with her sister and their children on Christmas Eve. He smells so good, one of my friend’s daughters exclaimed when she picked him up in her arms. Never one to tolerate being held for too long – unless he was deigning to dance with me – it appeared as if Horace had finally mellowed a bit. You can teach an old cat new tricks, after all.

Several days later, I’d stopped seeing results, even from the Propulsid. I was supposed to leave two days later to visit my commonsensical friend. So I called the vet. Please take him two days early. They agreed.

I took Horace for one more walk in his yard. When we got to the garage, he stopped. He wouldn’t go in.

Leaving him at the vet, I remember a bit of an ignominious farewell. The tech just whisked him away. At the old vet, at one point, he’d extended a paw out to me.

The plan was to observe him for several days, continue with the Propulsid protocol, and then to perform a partial colectomy. Given recent advances in veterinary medicine, this technique bode a good prognosis, the vet said.

The week passed. It was New Year’s. The operation was scheduled for January 3, 2003.

I called the vet the following morning. Tearfully, he informed me Horace had had trouble tolerating the anesthesia. He’d wrapped him up in a blanket, and, when he’d returned to check on him two hours later, my baby had passed away.

Shock. Can’t quite call it anger. Denial. More shock. Numbness. Grieving. My Second Soul had left me. Iskra had hurt; Horace’s passing seared me to the core.

The vet performed an autopsy. He discovered the intestines in very bad shape, plus there was a growth. My old vet had most definitely known what was coming.

I had Horace cremated, and now have his ashes in a beautiful maple urn. It sits on top of the fireplace, with his final Christmas picture to the side. Eleven and two-thirds years, more or less.

Many cats. Many souls. But only one Second Soul.

Rest In Peace, all you souls. I wouldn’t be surprised if, especially, Tweed and Horace have found each other. Iskra’s happy in her waterbed in the sky, and The Mitten is bellowing, with his mother, Tullia, covering her delicate ears as best she can. Zunz is still trying to live down his namesake, and Patty’s no longer scared of making his debut.

But The Pootie is waiting for me to give him his next spoonful of tapioca pudding. And he’s proud of what’s coming out of this “silver box” – a.k.a., my VAIO laptop. Go play with Boqui and Pandy, Horace: you’re family.

My Third Soul, Bianca, December 2005. Tomorrow, December 17, marks two years since Bianca came into my life. I wrote "Souls" in December 2004 (and last modified it right after midnight on December 17, 2004). Could I have known, a year in advance, that My Third Soul was on her way?

Two Mice in the Closet

2007-11-22T20:07:00.001-08:00

Eeek! Black Friday is as little as less than an hour away! Here's an early Christmas present, from--and to--Bianca. Hope you had a great Thanksgiving!

TWO MICE IN THE CLOSET

By Georgina Marrero

Two mice in the closet,

Each one lying on its side.

Thrown in there by a playful kitty,

On which one will she decide?

Two mice in the closet,

Each one lying on its side.

There they lie in the closet

Somewhere down Wisconsin Ave.

On which one will she decide?

Two mice in the closet,

Through the crack their tails peek out.

Just one tail will she pounce on,

One tail she’ll catch as she meows:

Make it mine!

(Musical interlude)

Two mice in the closet,

Through the crack their tails peek out.

And just one tail will she pounce on,

One tail she’ll catch as she meows:

Make it mine!

--With apologies to Ol’Blue Eyes: don’t send the Rat Pack after me, please!

For Bianca

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Washington, D.C.

Mandis and Eggs

2007-08-05T17:23:00.001-07:00

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 MARRERO

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 Southeast Asia.

In the late eighties, middle echelon touristy hotels in the southern part of the island of Bali tended to have rickety, European-style showerheads, but at least the water had a warmish tinge to it. I had plenty else to keep me busy complaining: open sewers; soaking rainstorms that left the air perfumed not only with frangipani, but with all that refuse; a ceaseless parade of ruined espadrilles; tepid food in general; and a never-ending supply of what I termed “weird” eggs served just that side of runny in otherwise normal egg cups.

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 Bali. This had been our primary goal during our initial seven-day stay on the island. Hans Snel was still running his cottages; Antonio Blanco still presided over his museum. Monkey Forest Road was still not overrun with businesses: the playing field where we witnessed an amazing tug-of-war and people flying kites was still intact.

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, Georgina?

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.

So now I have a pentalogy on my hands, don't I?

Mad Dogs and Englishmen: In Search of Wayang Beber (1987)

2007-08-05T07:35:00.001-07:00

A Wayang Beber performance, 1900

MAD DOGS AND ENGLISHMEN: IN SEARCH OF WAYANG BEBER

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

“Only mad dogs and Englishmen venture forth beneath the noonday sun.” An apt corollary to “the sun never sets on the British Empire.” The equatorial sun is especially fierce. Perhaps it does drive men and beasts alike mad. It certainly tinged—figuratively and literally—two erstwhile adventurers…

In 1987, my ex and I traveled to Asia for the first time. After spending five days in Bali, we began our tour of Java. Our comings and goings depended almost exclusively on our guides’ interpretations of our schedules. We had no choice but to acclimatize ourselves to Indonesian “rubber time.”

Days in Indonesia normally begin at daybreak, come to a screeching halt during the scorching noonday hours, and resume—again at an indolent pace—when you can begin to breathe again. When you can inch your way forward without gasping for water at every step. The sun’s daily trek across the horizon determines everything. Especially tourists’ “programmes.”

Borobudur, a mammoth ancient shrine to the Buddha, was on our must-see list. So was Prambanan, a complex of Hindu temples that stretches over a vast plain and is in the process of being restored, stone by stone, to its former grandeur. We had planned on two separate excursions. However, our driver insisted on one early, long, hot morning day trip out of Yogyakarta (pronounced “JOAG-jah-kar-ta”). Borobudur – considered to be one of the wonders of the ancient world – was exquisite, tasteful. Its shape resembles a multi-tiered wedding cake. A much more refined one than the Victor Emmanuel monument in Rome. Prambanan was mysterious and enticing on its own terms – that is, precisely because so much is left to the imagination.

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 island of Java: Surakarta (Solo), and Jakarta. Although Yogya is the modern cultural capital of Java, Solo is the island’s oldest cultural center and the traditional capital of the Javanese kingdom. We had less than twenty-four hours in which to explore this city which, given its heritage, actually interested us more than Yogya.

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 Jakarta at four p.m. We had to pick and choose our activities carefully. We ate our Dutch breakfast, visited the kraton, and then we (or, rather, my ex) made our fateful decision for the day: a shopping excursion to buy a sample of wayang beber. A “wayang” is a theatrical performance; it is one of the most important representations of Indonesian culture. There are several chief types of wayang. We were hoping to find an archaic form, a parchment scroll containing multicolored drawings from either of the two great Hindu epics, The Ramayana and The Mahabharata.

“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 Maine lobster would have envied him his new hue.

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 Bali.

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 Jakarta on schedule. My vermilion-colored knees were so painful I had to walk stiff-legged so as not to aggravate them beyond the hopes of recuperation. My ex was as red as a beet. Our coloring, perhaps, mirrored our embarrassment and humiliation. Even then, in 1987, I realized I had just experienced one of the great travel (mis) adventures of my lifetime. The “mad dogs and Englishmen” expression came to my mind even then. I duly noted the escapade in my little travel diary. And I knew, even then, that I would someday write down this tale.

It just goes to show you don’t have to be an Englishman to be mad.

2003 postscript: Last October’s bombings in Bali informed the world one more time that, unfortunately, terrorists hold nothing – and no one – sacred. When I heard that one of the chief bases of operation for Al-Qaeda’s counterparts in Southeast Asia lay on the island of Java – and, more specifically, in the city of Solo – I was devastated. Had I missed out on all the clues? Were the inhabitants of Solo as inscrutable as, indeed, they had appeared to my ingenuous eyes back in 1987? Or had I, actually, figured them out?

What is it with me and dogs?

The Dogs...or, Letting Go (1994)

2007-08-05T07:19:00.000-07:00

Dogs on Sanur Beach

THE DOGS… OR, LETTING GO

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

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 Bali in July of 1994, I resembled a walking Wal-Mart, and a portable research library, besides. I arrived at Ngurah Rai Airport with more baggage than most people would have upon their departure, and a head crammed full of facts about Bali – some useful, and some, esoteric. I also possessed a cocky sense of self-assurance. After all, I no longer was a stranger. My level of enthusiasm approached zealotry. Energetic, and optimistic, I held the highest possible hopes for a challenging, stimulating, and mind-broadening adventure. Of course, I was determined to accomplish my goals with me steadily and firmly at the helm.

While in transit to Ubud, Bali’s cultural center, little did I suspect that my orderly perspective on life was about to be jolted to the core. Life-threatening experiences – or what one perceives to be as such – have a way of doing that. It’s amazing what one can learn about oneself. Being out of control can lead to a greater sense of self-awareness as to what one can actually control, and what can – or must – be left to chance. This self-knowledge leads to flexibility that, in turn, leads to self-growth. I grew up that first night on Bali, and all on account of the dogs.

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 Bali. The sight of these creatures had always saddened me. Until the night of my triumphal return, that is.

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 Marrero

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 Bali I had been flexible. I had adapted as best I could to the circumstances at hand. I had – unwittingly, yet ultimately willingly – let chance work to my advantage. I did grow up that first night on Bali. I discovered that if I am willing to bend my otherwise inflexible will – if I leave something to chance – I am still able to reap the benefits of “a challenging, stimulating, and mind-broadening adventure”… probably even more so than if I remain (or think I am) in total control of a situation. Best of all, I might even have some fun!

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

Bali Kopi (1995)

2007-08-04T17:54:00.000-07:00

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: Bali Coffee. It is made with the Robusta bean. These beans produce a smooth cup of coffee with what I like to call a “weighty” nuttiness. The Balinese version sometimes resembles sludge. However, the perfect cup of Bali Kopi is absolutely sublime, especially when lightened and sweetened with condensed milk. Bali Kopi beans can be bought at a little coffee toko (store) called Excelso in Kuta. I didn’t want to go to Kuta this trip; however, I wanted coffee…

I had already spent almost three weeks in Bali on this, my fifth trip to the island. Not a tourist anymore, I was here to do research. “Fun” was not in my vocabulary. My hyperkinetic intensity surprised even me. Pessimism and negativity enshrouded me. The sheer beauty of the place sparked me only sporadically. I didn’t feel I had accomplished much of anything, even though my tapes, pictures, and notes provided direct evidence to the contrary.

Ubud, Bali’s cultural center, is my home away from home. The perfect place to spend my birthday. Alas, the town’s generator blew up the evening before the blessed event. There I was, in my favorite place, at my favorite hotel, on my special day! Without a hot shower! I felt even more wretched. What else could go wrong?

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 Bali Beach, one of Sukarno’s original tourist havens, which burned down in the early 90s.

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 Grand Bali Beach himself. I had the pleasure of seeing him take his first elevator ride. A luxury for him, and, indeed, for me. I sorely needed a respite from my frenzied activity. Something to remove the catastrophic pall I felt had covered my journey up to this point. The Grand Bali Beach hit the spot.

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 Bali.

In a very nice, very friendly, very Balinese way, Ktut asked me if I liked Bali. I told him I love Bali very much, that this time I had come on “business,” and that the trip had been a little different. I am not sure how much of this he understood. He began to mention the usual places of interest and Bali’s special qualities. Somewhere in the middle of all this the subject of Bali Kopi came up. We had something in common! In the meantime, we appeared to be lost.

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, Gunung Agung Street! Ktut must have thought I wanted to go to—well, the whole street, I guess! We found the Gunung Agung bookstore. All the books were in Indonesian. Crestfallen once more, I asked him to take me to the Gramedia bookstore.

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: “BALI KOPI !”

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 island of Bali. Open sewers have been replaced with covered trashcans bearing the inscription, “Please Keep Kuta Clean.” The colorful, stately temple processions have disappeared along with the sewers. I feel these time-honored markers of the traditional Balinese way of life must be held in secret now, away from tourists’ prying eyes. The beauty, as well as the trash, have been swept away.

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 Grand Bali Beach, I gave Ktut one more Rp. 5000 bill. All in all, he received a well-earned Rp. 40,000 (around $20) for his trials and tribulations with me. I could not resist impishly bringing up Bali Kopi one last time—he grinned broadly in return.

The next morning, at low tide, I wandered far out on the sandbanks myself.

The Near Miss

2007-08-03T20:27:00.000-07:00

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...

THE NEAR MISS

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 Hidden Bay, in Aventura. The granite guy got double what his work was worth, the tiling guy was a prima donna, and the painters were a ragtag crew of hard-on-their-luck Argentineans.

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 Hidden Bay’s?), and got the job done. I could have hugged him. Instead, I gave him his money. In true European fashion – I amusedly thought to myself – he counted it before he left. He never felt a need to, after that.

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 Auschwitz survivors, both Hungarians – turned out to be a turning point for me (although I didn’t realize it at the time). Upon hearing my mother’s story, Laszlo informed me, “He (my father) probably hid her.”

Several weeks later, I went to Washington to attend the Scriabin Centennial Dinner and to do research at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. Creature of tradition that I am, I was carrying an old Cross pen that had belonged to my mother. I was determined to use it to take down notes. Twisting it open, I found it didn’t work. “You don’t want me to do this, do you?” I informed my mother, silently.

Undeterred, I kept searching. Finally, I unearthed a Yizkor (Memorial) Book on Arad, my mother’s hometown, in whose pages I found references to Agi (my aunt) and Zoltan (my grandfather). There were also several pictures of my aunt. I was excited beyond words! In a mad rush to try to photocopy the entire book, I soon realized I should just select the most pertinent material, instead. Flipping back through the beginning chapters, my eyes alit on the last page of one of them. And then they zoomed in on two words: Zoltan Raab. Chills went through me as I told myself, “But YOU do.”

Back in Aventura, I discovered that things at Hidden Bay were not getting any better. Due to the Board’s – and/or some irate unit owner’s – shenanigans, the maintenance staff couldn’t help us any longer. Even on their lunch hour. Dario – and, especially, Artur – kept making exceptions for me. “No one is going to tell me what to do with my own time,” he used to inform me, in his thickly accented English. All the while, he was puffing away on a cigarette.

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 Toronto made me realize that this phrase stands for my parents’ relationship. This began to turn me around: it wasn’t my fault, after all.

Sylvia Maria's and Bryan’s wedding all but completed the circle. In rapid succession, Roberta and Milan Avenue entered my life. By early September, I was caught up in all the preparations for yet another closing. And yet, what I had been observing at Hidden Bay for seven months was continuing to impact me.

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 Coral Gables, myself, as I had done in all my other moves. Good balconies do not make for good neighbors, I had found out. However, I had befriended most of Hidden Bay’s staff… including Joan, the much-detested property manager. Yes, I HAD gotten away with stuff… because I had been nice. Not too many of the other owners had exercised this trait. So I knew if I asked around, someone would help me. Marcelo, a Uruguayan with exquisite manners, who was earning his keep as a parking valet, could not. Robert – who had produced that pout in me nine months earlier – however, could.

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 163^rd Street in his immaculate SUV. We exchanged it – for the day – for a U-Haul van, and headed back to Hidden Bay. I was all packed and ready to go.

“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 Milan Avenue safely that afternoon. Robert enjoyed his Versailles lunch. He reluctantly accepted the cash I offered him (although he willingly carted off the teal leather chair I’d been lugging around with me since my Ithaca days). Artur and his little boy showed up to help me with some things around the house the weekend before I moved. As always, I paid him in cash. I treated his son and him to lunch at La Carreta. Never in a million years could I have imagined I’d be introducing Uzbeks – former Russians – to Cuban food!

I saw Laszlo one last time, during a return visit this past summer. I had spoken with his stepson before I had left Hidden Bay. He had understood why it had not been “me.” And so did Laszlo.

Four months ago, I invited Robert, his lovely young girlfriend, Gerta, and Cristina, another of Hidden Bay’s security guards, to dinner. When I had first met Cristina, she had come across as so severe, so efficient. A tough cookie on the outside, she had briefly found love… and now appeared in front of me as a soft young mother, lovingly cradling her newborn son in her arms.

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 Marrero

Saturday, December 27, 2003

Anchors Aweigh!

2007-06-24T17:07:00.001-07:00

The most important thing I want to say is that, two Saturdays ago, I visited the World War II Memorial in Washington. This elderly man and his (I would guess) daughter were sitting in the shade, trying to stay cool on an increasingly hot day. I don't know what possessed me, but, when a car pulled up with other members of his family to whisk him away, I went up to him, and asked him to pose for me. A Navy man, he kindly obliged. I thanked him for all he had done for our country. He told me, "You're a nice lady."

An hour or so later, I found myself in Lincoln's presence. I had not visited him in over thirty years. Thank heavens I was wearing my most comfortable sandals (which actually ended up in the garbage bin before I left on Sunday).

And then I ambled over to the Vietnam Memorial. Not as placid as the tranquil waters, graceful marbles, and fountains I'd encountered earlier in the afternoon.

Not as comfortable and as much at peace as the old Navy man.

So "Chemical Ali" was sentenced to death earlier today. He's been charged with 180 thousand deaths.

That's all I have to say.

The Bearded Piper

2007-01-17T07:05:00.000-08:00

The most severe problems may be the infections in which the intestines broke open. ''What is leaking out is poop,'' Rodriguez said. ``In all the books, that's very dangerous. For a person over 65, that's a 90 percent mortality rate. That's a killer.''--Miguel J. Rodriguez, Gastroenterologist, Homestead Hospital. From "Fidel Castro is facing massive problems not only with his intestines..." by John Dorschner, The Miami Herald, Tuesday, January 16, 2007.

I could write something very crass. But I won't. Instead, let me share a poem I wrote thirty-five years ago with you--twelve years after I'd arrived in El Exilio. Imagine...

THE BEARDED PIPER

Once, not very far off, there was a man with a beard,
A bearded man who came down from the hills
With his troupe of followers.
He came into the city and proclaimed peace and liberty for all.
During a speech of his a white dove flew onto his shoulder:
Most of us felt that freedom was not far off.
He produced a fever that spread like flies to all parts of the land.
I was but a small child, and yet it affected me, too:
In my innocence I thought him a Savior.

My mommy and daddy were the bad guys in those days.
Then they felt that the bearded man with the dove forebode nothing but evil.
Some others felt like them also, but most of us followed him as if he were the Pied Piper of Hamelin fame.
What were we, though, the children or the rats?
My mommy and daddy and I left; those “some others” left, too.

But the children-rats, what became of them?
They were spied upon by their fellow children-rats.
They had their homes taken away from them.
They were thrown into deep dark dungeons.
They were shot, one after the other:
Rat-tat-tat, just like that.

And why?

Because the bearded man with the dove had deceived them.
He was really a terrible man, just like my mommy and daddy had said he was:
The bearded piper had piped the children-rats straight into the sea.

Georgina Marrero
The Scribbler (1972)

No puedo aguantarme: let it all hang out, Fidel!

Balthasar's Bounty

2006-12-19T10:57:00.000-08:00

I drove by THE HOUSE the other day--nothing doing! I wonder if they got a whiff of...

BALTHASAR’S BOUNTY

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

“With the genuine essence of a real palace
in every square foot.” – With apologies to
Leopold, Duke of Albany (Kate and Leopold).

Up until several months ago, I thought my North Gables neighborhood had made a pact with itself to remain just so: several blocks of relatively small, primarily Mission-style cottages dating from The City Beautiful’s origins in the twenties, interspersed with some Art Deco-inspired edifices from the thirties and forties, and the occasional fifties ranch. A Mediterranean oasis in the midst of a glass-and-concrete desert, shirking its swampland roots. However, little did I suspect I was dwelling in the backyard of such baronial splendor.
In his Alabama drawl, my across-the-street neighbor was the first to bring this phenomenon to my attention. Commenting on how almost any new construction in the area is bursting the seams of otherwise proportional lots, we agreed that setting Krome Avenue as Dade County’s boundary is definitely not working to our advantage. Just like our oppressive summertime heat, palaces need space in which to expand. Preferably, marshland… especially if they come equipped with a Bentley.
A Bentley? Indeed? Not forgetting our conversation, I eventually wandered onto the next street over. The house on the corner was splendid enough, what with its ornate grillwork. However, as it was not the house directly behind my neighbor’s, I kept going. And then I beheld it: a mini-sultanate. Your Royal Highness of Oman – or Brunei – move over, please.

A multi-tiered, multi-arched, Corinthian-columned confection stood in front of me. Two layers of these columns flank an impressive wooden door. Furthermore, decorative sconces in the shape of fauns holding lanterns aloft grace both of its sides. Ornate pillars, urns, and flowerpots scattered about double as concrete bodyguards. Etched-glass windowpanes afford insiders an outside view (but not necessarily the other way around). Ali Baba – or Al Capone – could not possibly feel more at home.
More columnar facades – and a frieze – on the second story serve as the pedestal for a turret with stained-glass windows. Up on the roof, Spanish tiles valiantly attempt to hold their own against miniature flying buttresses. And a mini-campanile – something we peons also possess atop our Old Spanish bungalows – struggles to fit in. I deserve to have a real carillon, it almost plaintively cries out.
A curlicued fence, periodically interrupted by more of the same ornate pillars, ends in a (relatively) tiny grillwork gate flanked by – again – those pillars. An even more ornate plaque that depicts a nymph (or goddess) playing with a cherub – Venus with Cupid, perhaps? – graces the pillar on the left. On the right-hand pillar, guardian angels protectively embrace this palace’s street number. As if any mere mortal would dare lay claim to this celestial (triple) lot.
The Victor Emmanuel Monument in Rome has met its match, I thought to myself. However, where was the Bentley?
Several weeks later, I could not resist another peek. This time, a silver Bentley was proudly parked right in front of that Moorish dream (or nightmare?) of an entryway.
Aha, I have the right house, after all!
But that wasn’t all. Christmas was right around the corner. Larger-than-life calls for… what? To my astonishment (or lack thereof), an exceedingly large Victorian Santa in his sleigh – with presents stacked floor to ceiling, of course – and a SECOND Santa, standing several feet away (with yet more presents), now dominated the left side of the driveway. The more luxurious sleigh retained its squatter’s rights in front of the entryway. And, on the right side of the driveway, a complete Nativity scene – with just the right number of donkeys, camels, and sheep – had taken over the pavement.
Driving by this spectacle at night, it was – as I could have guessed – all lit up. Lights everywhere: on the Santas, on the animals, on the Holy Family, on the Three Wise Men. All over the front of the house, including all the palm trees. I could not resist returning every few days (and/or nights). On the Feast of the Epiphany, I believe I beheld the owner gazing upon her treasures. The next day, I drove by again, only to find the entourage gone. The palace – and the Bentley – once again reigns supreme… presumably, until next December.
Wouldn’t Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar feel more at home on the other side of Krome Avenue? Their animals would, that’s for sure. But I guess the Bentley wouldn’t.

Copyright, 2004 by Georgina Marrero 730 words All Rights Reserved

There's No Place Like Home

2006-10-31T07:51:00.000-08:00

I posted the following for a while; then I took it off. I don't know why...But here it is, back, today, because Halloween has been an important part of my life during the forty-six years that I've lived in this country. It was my first holiday here, which I celebrated within forty-eight hours of our arrival. And then I saw The Wizard of Oz; that first time, on someone's black and white TV in someone's apartment or house in El Exilio, or at the Sevilla Hotel--who knows? All I know is that, on this day full of magic, mystery--and illusion--all that you're about to read is...true. Happy Halloween!

DESTINATION STOPS: FROM OZ TO THE FIVE POINTS, AND BEYOND

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Halloween has been my favorite holiday for the past forty-four years. On the second day of my arrival in the United States, my mother put a mask on my six-year-old face, handed me a paper sack, and sent me out trick or treating with the children of other recently arrived Cuban exiles. Returning back to the Sevilla Hotel in Coral Gables that evening, I’m sure I gorged myself silly, totally oblivious to the true meaning behind the witches and ghosts my companions and I had just impersonated.
Without realizing it, I had just participated in one of the typical American child’s rites of passage. In 1960, another event also served to mark the holiday: the viewing of The Wizard of Oz. So it came to be that I entered the Land of Oz for the very first time, in its black-and-white splendor.
Year after year, I returned. I may not have understood a word of the movie that first time, but Judy Garland’s mellifluous voice, the roar of the tornado, the Munchkins’ falsettos, Glinda’s soothing tones, and The Wicked Witch of the West’s cackle were not lost on me. For years I was terrified at the mere thought of her.
By the mid-sixties, I watched Oz for the first time in living color. My command of English was finally good enough to grasp the meaning behind The Scarecrow’s innate intelligence, The Tin Man’s heartfelt wishes, The Cowardly Lion’s brusque—yet gentle—valor, and The Wizard’s good intentions masked behind his ingenuous deceit. Appearances can, indeed, be deceiving.
Dorothy Gale remained my heroine. Brave, intrepid, fiercely optimistic in the face of opposition and insurmountable obstacles, there were times, however, that she almost succumbed. And that was when her friends stepped in. And she, in turn, helped them. I knew my geography by then: Kansas must be an interesting place.
The late sixties found our family in central Georgia. For the first time since our arrival in the States, I had what I would term true American neighbors. A family with four children lived in a big rambling house next door. It was a noisy household, full of fun and laughter. I was always visiting them, being invited to participate in some game or the other. A quiet, but caring, music teacher lived on the other side of our duplex. As a sizeable Cuban community surrounded us, I still remember that I regarded my American friends as “exotic.”
My father had made a very good American friend during our initial years in Miami. This man had lent us money so that we could have a better standard of living during some very lean times. They became colleagues, and then remained friends, for the rest of my father’s life.
My mother kept telling me how we used to visit this man’s home, how we all used to clasp hands around the table and say grace before a meal, and how everyone both admired and feared his formidable mother. Even I remember his mother. Of sturdy Tennessee stock, she had done a good job with her pipe smoking, bowtie clad, vintage Rolls-Royce loving son.
Summers in the sixties found me at a camp for girls in the North Georgia Mountains. To my knowledge, I was the only Cuban there. I learned all about crafts, camping, and camaraderie around a campfire. I even learned to square dance. Sneaking out to meet young men from the nearby boys’ camp may not have been part of my game plan, but I understood that it was a long-standing tradition.
Back in Florida, I finished my high school education at a school established in the 1930’s for the children of winter residents in South Florida: a school built from the ground up. Its founder’s prairie upbringing had borne a good fruit.
College. Even if circumstances had not brought us to the States, chances are I would have found my way to New York. And—as fate would have it—I met someone with a profound interest in American history who was in the midst of turning his avocation into his vocation.
Even his college dormitory room was painted in the colors of the American flag. A nineteenth-century specialist, he had a consuming interest in New York City, including its architecture. I began to learn all I could ever possibly hope to learn about the different types of cast iron buildings, about dumbbell tenements, about the spread of diseases in lower Manhattan during the middle of the nineteenth century, and about Tammany politics.
This bold, enterprising New Yorker had even begun to organize bus tours of New York alongside his professor. He etched and engraved facades of buildings for his Studio class. Not uncommonly, he used to give me private tours of the Five Points and beyond after dim sum lunches with his family.
We hung out for a number of years. His undergraduate research eventually led to his doctoral dissertation. Returning to the City a number of years later, we explored the bowels of the Bowery Savings Bank, and perused the 1855 Census. It was a special treat for this Cuban to not have to worry about getting lost, because an American knew his way around.
Eventually, though, I was on my own. Working—and living—in between two languages and two cultures at different points in my life, I found myself back in Florida. Traveling abroad alone for the first time since my teenaged years, my interests led me to explore the concentric circles of friends and colleagues that surrounded one of the most famous students of American character. Margaret Mead.
Brave, intrepid, fiercely optimistic in the face of opposition and insurmountable obstacles. Wait. I said these words about someone else. Dorothy Gale. Not usurped, but, perhaps, supplanted, now, by Margaret Mead.
Her boldness, her enterprising nature, her strength of spirit was—is—shared by so many, I found out. From Auntie Em, to Dorothy, to D-Day veterans, to the families of 9/11 victims.
Her optimism. Brought home, so recently, by President Reagan’s passing.
Her courage. Brought home, back in 1960, by the uprooting of a family, in a father's and mother’s desire for freedom for their child.
The Wicked Witch’s cackle may still send shudders up and down my spine, but Glinda draws me toward the light.

Copyright, 2004 by Georgina Marrero All Rights Reserved

My Scorsese Rage

2006-09-11T16:55:00.000-07:00

MY SCORSESE RAGE

Do you know what I feel The Aviator's precursor to have been? Scorsese's (of course) Raging Bull. We've seen DeNiro in, primarily, weighty--yet not meaty--roles in recent years. Or else, he's a wonderful "heavy" to the likes of Billy Crystal and Ben Stiller. Raging Bull is something else: it's a documentary...within a movie...within a documentary (or at least that's the way I interpreted it). Chock-full of blood, guts, and hubris--a la Othello (I credit the Wikipedia article with this analysis), it is, nonetheless, a tale of redemption. No wonder DeNiro won his Oscar for his portrayal of Jake LaMotta (who, incidentally, had a club in Miami during the mid-1950's). (And then LaMotta turned around and sued Scorsese.) I was riveted and fascinated, and I could see how filmmakers have been infuenced by "the Scorsese touch": attention to detail; creative cinematography; special use of slow-motion effects. The movie derives its power in no small measure from the fact that it was filmed in black and white (except for a brief--and totally "happy"--sequence). Where--and how--does this tie in to The Aviator? Another tale of hubris and redemption, albeit as lush in its color as Raging Bull was stark in its black and white. Another biopic from a great master of the genre. Raging Bull is generally considered to be Martin Scorsese's masterpiece. I'm still digesting it, even though it took me twenty-six years to find it.

The Aviator: In this, the year of at least two other great biopics (Ray, Kinsey), Martin Scorsese's latest is sure to be a contender in the Globe/Oscar race. Leonardo DiCaprio grows into his role as Howard Hughes, from daring young mega-entrepreneur, through his middle age, by which time he was both engrossed with and battling his inner demons, and subtly, yet definitively, hints at the darkness that would ultimately engulf this brilliantly eccentric man toward the end of his life. Simply put, Howard Hughes was a visionary. He was a multifaceted genius with many talents, and many passions. His greatest passion, however, was to fly. DiCaprio captures this spirit, and embodies it more and more strongly as the movie progresses: by the end, I felt as if it were Hughes on the screen. The rest of the cast was also superb, especially Cate Blanchett as Katharine Hepburn, the great love of Hughes' life, complete with Miss Hepburn's flippancy, New England reserve, and, yes, that Connecticut twang. The lovely Kate Beckinsale, as Ava Gardner, provides the other female interest. The scenes with Blanchett and Beckinsale, notwithstanding, Scorsese does not let us forget that Hughes was a man's man, too: DiCaprio's interactions with the great character actor, John C. Reilly, as Hughes' business manager, Noah Dietrich; with Alec Baldwin, as Hughes' competitor, Pan American founder Juan Trippe; and with Alan Alda, as the insatiably greedy Senator Ralph Owen Brewster, are rife with emotion, both poignant and riveting at the same time. The Senate hearing showdown between Hughes and Brewster toward the end is downright bombastic: it was by this point that DiCaprio had me totally convinced. Although Hepburn never fully leaves him, and Gardner lends a helping hand at a point when he sorely needs it, Hughes is, at the end, surrounded by only a tiny group of fiercely protective employees. His impending solitude, at the end, is palpable. This projection into the future is augured by so many obvious -- yet subtle -- signs, that you don't mind when Scorsese brings the (two and a half hour) movie to a halt: Howard's back with his mom. He makes three predictions about his future. They all come true. It takes a very special individual for this to happen. Leonardo DiCaprio captured Howard Hughes' fire, his intense zeal for life. It's going to be a tough call come February, but I feel Leo will be a strong contender. (He won the Golden Globe for Best Actor in a Drama for 2004.)
Above all else: Scorsese stressed Hughes' passion for aviation. Remember trips to Europe in the '60's: New York/Newfoundland/Ireland/Paris? Think TWA. Thank Howard Hughes.
--My Aviator review originally appeared in the end of December, 2004 issue of Seaside Scoop; Peggy Fisher, Editor.

Georgina Marrero
Monday, September 11, 2006
In remembrance of a good that was a good before it became a bad.

Edward R. Murrow Isn't Turning Over In His Grave...

2006-09-08T08:06:00.000-07:00

...not yet, anyway.

I take full credit--and responsibilty--for the following rant.

When it was announced that Katie Couric was going to take over the CBS anchor spot, my initial reaction was, "Whoa!" I've been blindly watching the CBS Evening News at 6:30 p.m. since I was a child. Along with the rest of my generation, I grew up with Uncle Walter's reassuring "And that's the way it is," as well as with his...humanity. I felt my world--the CBS graphic for the globe, at least--was literally turned upside down when he announced his retirement, and the already known to be brash Texan, Dan Rather, took his spot. I gradually became accustomed to his face and his delivery: he was daring, bold, and, alas, still brash at a point when perhaps he should have known better. Ratings, schmatings: I didn't really keep up with these things. I just had to watch CBS...even when my renegade mother switched to the late, great Peter Jennings, not only because he was "a classy human being" (as ABC cameramen informed me during what may not turn out to be the last "post-Catro death vigil" since July 31), but because he was at one point married to a Hungarian named Kati Marton. Only my mother; only a Hungarian. Well, back to Dan, ratings, and CBS. I had no idea. Hell, I'm either so lazy or such a creature of habit that I've even watched the local CBS affiliate, regardless of where I've lived. I didn't realize Dan's edginess was going to catch up with him until he committed his major faux pas. When Bob Schieffer took over for him a year ago March, I once again felt comforted. That first night, though, I almost sensed that poor Bob was carrying CBS News's egg collectively on his face. Brave, and valiant, he held up the fort. I don't know about you, but I enjoyed his gentle jokes, and his calm entreaties to return to watch him, night after night. I haven't been a fan of daytime TV for a very long time in my life, now, so all I knew about Katie Couric was that a) Her husband had passed away from colon cancer; and b) That she's perky. (And that she is.) SO, I thought to myself, "Is this a gimmick?" I deliberately avoided all the hype. I wasn't even home on Tuesday to watch her first newscast. Not on purpose, though--when a budding playwright finishes a play, she just has to get it photocopied as soon as possible! However, I did catch Bob's last broadcast, as I had Dan's...and, many years earlier, Uncle Walter's. Brave; valiant; gallant; and strong. Thanks for keeping CBS News afloat, Uncle Bob!
Ed's looking down on all of you, with cigarette in hand. That includes you, Katie.
Lighten up a bit, though: too, too serious, what I saw last night. I thought he'd be turning over in his grave, but he isn't. Not yet, anyway. However, don't you want him to...at least a little bit? Come what may, I'm a CBS News fan...for life! And that's the way it is, Friday, September 7, 2006. This is Ninina Mameyez, saying, "Good afternoon!"

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Taking a Leak

2006-09-01T08:23:00.000-07:00

Where Ernesto Should Have Remained--si, en una palangana!

The aguacero--rainstorm--in my little tale below took more of a leak on us than Ernesto. He's so angry, though, that he never fully graduated from Tropical Storm Elementary that he's vented his childlike wrath on the Carolinas and is dribbling his way up the mid-Altantic and Eastern Seaboard. He's even going to impact Syracuse, of all places--and even the southernmost reaches of Canada--before he zips it.

May no wave wafting in from off the coast of Africa--or from wherever--make it to Hurricane High School this year. Keep it up, National Hurricane Center--keep it up!

(At the same time, though, thinking of John about to assault the Baja Peninsula, and Cabo San Lucas. Also, all those typhoons in the Far East: I experienced one in 1989, while in Hong Kong. In the aftermath of Tienamen Square, no less. All I remember is signs flapping in the wind...)

Come what may, the drought is over.

TAKING A LEAK

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Drought-like, until recently, the summer rains have begun in earnest. While at Quirantes Orthopedics, where I was choosing a suitable arm brace to help alleviate my computer slouch induced tendonitis, it began to pour. And pour.

Fortunately, the grandson of the man who had worked alongside my father, so many years ago, and I found much to talk about while we waited for it to escampar. His ancestor had founded the family firm in Matanzas over one hundred twenty years ago. I did not hesitate to mention our great compadre, Joaquin Albarran, whose portrait I had just donated to the Cuban Heritage Collection at the University of Miami. The young man beamed at the knowledge of our shared history.

With my arm brace fitted and firmly in place, I hurried back to my car under light rain. Cutting across Eighth Avenue, and then up Seventh Street, I decided an ajiaco at La Carreta would be the perfect lunch. So, turning at Twenty-Seventh Avenue, I ascended Calle Ocho, past Versailles on the right, and turned left into La Carreta’s parking lot. A very convenient spot was awaiting me.

As the restaurant was packed, the elderly maitre d’ ushered me to the booth catty cornered from the end of the counter, directly across from the bathroom. Thrilled about neither the location nor the lumpy bench seat, I perched on the corner, was handed my menu, and ordered my ajiaco and a batido de fruta bomba. As soon as the crusty garlicky bread and my batido arrived at my table, I quickly gulped down half of the shake and ate two pieces of bread.

In the meantime, two girls sat down at the booth in front of mine: the one I’d coveted. They ordered an ajiaco and a sopa de pollo, as well as a medianoche to go. Although my order had gone in first, they were served their soups before I. Insult added to injury, I felt. The waitress and I made eye contact. Another server arrived with my soup, whereupon the waitress arrived with yet another ajiaco for my consumption. I didn’t get to keep the second one, though.

Había escampado long enough: Empezó a llover a cántaros. Una cortina de agua estaba cayendo afuera. Sheet after sheet of rain pummeled the window. Savoring the end of my batido and my ajiaco, I decided to take my time.

For some reason, the girls had moved next to each other. They had begun to laugh. And then I saw why. La tempestad had found its way inside. From somewhere directly over their booth, water was falling from the ceiling, into a glass, onto the table, and onto the recently vacated lumpy bench seat.

To add insult to La Carreta’s injury, a palangana was strategically placed on the floor to catch the overflow.

Several other girls sitting at the counter looked over and also began to laugh. The waitress and the server rushed over. There was nothing that could be done, for the time being.

Standing up to more properly observe this espectáculo, I made a comment about a “leaky restaurant.” The waitress pointed to the air conditioning vent right above the girls’ table. That was the culprit.

Good sports all the way, the girls kept laughing. I kept staring at the steady drip-drip-drip, in sync with what Mother Nature was sending our way outside. The girls left.

The waitress had come and gone; so had our other server. The maitre d’ made his appearance. And then along came the manager. They all, merely, stared.

But the rest of us laughed. And I, for one, was glad I had ended up in that not-so-crummy booth.

Cuando escampó suficientemente, I left. A very nice man gallantly offered his paraguas as far as the cafetería in the back. And then I went across a charco, got into my car, and came home.

The drought is over.

Copyright, 2004 by Georgina Marrero 650 words All Rights Reserved

And I Love Them

2006-08-30T09:45:00.000-07:00

Light rain is peppering the windowpanes: we collectively managed to dodge Ernesto's bullet. Imagine--just imagine--how things would have turned out if someone else had managed to dodge an assassin's bullets on November 22, 1963.

In a nostalgic mood--and nursing a bad cold--I present you with

AND I LOVE THEM

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Certain things of note in my life sandwiched themselves between the summers of 1963 and 1964. Two of them affected the entire nation… if not the world. Even I – as an eight to nine year old – realized that nothing was ever going to be the same, again.
In July of 1963, we, as Cuban refugiados (or exilados, as we like to refer to life in the U.S. as living in El Exilio) began to aspire to The American Dream. Papi was a third year resident in neurosurgery at Jackson Memorial Hospital. To paraphrase my mother: “His salary – at $219 per month, as well as his age – at 53, were record-setting. He was the oldest resident in JMH’s history.” Given his knowledgeable background, extensive training, and years of experience, he had been appointed Chief Resident.
My sweet natured, shy – yet gregarious, at times – father had befriended many of the staff at the Jackson. A tall, lanky, bow tie clad, pipe-smoking Tennessean had become his special friend. He called my father, “Fred.”
Basil Yates, who figured in our lives for many years to come, came to our financial rescue. Estábamos muy apretados: we didn’t have much money. As my mother used to tell the story: one day, Basil asked Papi how much money he made per month. Papi replied, “two hundred nineteen dollars.” Was it enough to support a family, Basil then asked him. My father, in all honesty, replied, no. Whereupon, Basil reached into his wallet, pulled out two hundred dollars, and handed the money to my – I’m sure –astonished father. He told Fred he’d continue to do this until his friend finished his residency… to which Papi responded, “I’ll pay you back.” Both men kept their ends of the bargain.
So we were able to move from the kindly, shabby tenement, El Vanta Koor (Vanta Court; now Shenandoah Square), to a better apartment building several blocks away. We were still in La Sauguasera, el barrio close to Calle Ocho that was – and continues to be – inhabited by recently arrived immigrants and refugees. Mami and I could still walk to Calle Ocho. Most importantly, I could still walk to Shenandoah Elementary School, where I would begin fourth grade in the fall.

The Amsterdam Palace

Armed with Basil Yates’ generosity, we were able to spend a month at DA BEECH – as Miami Beach’s yearlong residents lovingly refer to their special place in the sun – that July. We rented an apartment in the Amsterdam Palace Hotel (now the Casa Casuarina). We had the middle oceanfront apartment on the second floor.
There was no air-conditioning… but that’s the way Mami wanted it. Las brisas del mar – the ocean breezes – provided plenty of cross-ventilation. Poor Papi was on call thirty-six out of every forty-eight hours, but, at least, he got to sleep in the alcove directly facing the window overlooking the front of the hotel. He rightfully had the best room in the house!
For my part, I played among the statues and fountains on the first floor, ceaselessly rode up and down the elevator, and spent as much time in the ocean as I could. Sometimes I went swimming twice a day. Mami liked to take me in the early mornings, when the sandbanks were built up, and we were able to walk out into the ocean as far as we dared. Also, we were less likely to become sunburned. Oh, really?
My certain thing of note number one was this: I became very tanned that summer. And I remember getting a really bad sunburn: it hurt, and then I peeled for what seemed like forever. However, I kept going back into the water, playing like a porpoise without a care in the world. After all, I was eight going on nine.
DA BEECH held other wonders: The old, decrepit Art Deco hotels; The old folks rocking themselves on the porches of these hotels; The old cafeterias on Washington Avenue, where a little money bought a lot of food; The fifty-cent theaters, often serving up double portions of old – but wonderful – movies. And then there was Wolfie’s.
Already a bit on the chubby side, I could always find room for more. Wolfie’s was a treat: from Tenth Street, we had to trudge up Collins Avenue to Lincoln Road, so I already had an appetite ready and waiting by the time we got there. I remember the pickles, the cole slaw, the rolls, the stuffed cabbage… and the cheesecake. Oh, that cheesecake…
Sunburn. Yes. There’s a picture of me at a party, sitting next to Papi, where I’m muy bronceada y rosada, all at the same time. Very bronzed and rosy, indeed, after all that Nivea, all that peeling: I’m wearing a white shift with big roses on it. For some reason, I’m shyly looking down at my hands. Papi is glancing over at me. And – yes – for some reason, this is the way I remember myself from the summer of 1963.
Late summer found us in the new apartment. For three years, I had all but stumbled out of bed to get to school, as El Vanta Koor is located next to Shenandoah Elementary School. Now I walked to school, either with Mami, or with some of our new neighbors’ children, who had become my new friends.
As my English had improved tremendously, I fully expected to find myself in an English speaking fourth grade classroom. Full of both eagerness and dread, I entered the fully mainstreamed classroom. To my horror, I found myself being directed back to my third grade bilingual classroom! Was I being held back?
It turned out a number of us were in the same predicament. All of us were cubanitos. We had all done well enough in third grade… but, perhaps, not well enough? Our old/new teacher instructed us to sit down at a separate table, and that is where we remained all year. We weren’t being held back: we were being both linguistically and culturally enriched. Shenandoah – along with Coral Way Elementary – had one of the pioneering bilingual, bicultural programs in the nation.
Our teacher was Puerto Rican. She offered us bilingual instruction, but only when – and if – she had to. I had been her third-grade classroom spelling champion the year before, having achieved the honor with the word, “handkerchief.” Slowly, but steadily, my grades had improved over the course of my first three years. No F’s since the six I had received in first grade, when I had spoken absolutely no English. However, I kept receiving my fair share of D’s… in Physical Education.

It was around that table that Mrs. Echevarria’s “transitional” fourth graders experienced certain thing of note number two: on Friday, November 22, 1963, at just after two p.m., our principal, Miss Hatfield, made an announcement over the loudspeaker. President Kennedy had been shot and killed. We were instructed to stand up, observe a moment of silence, and then we sang “God Bless America.”
Were we allowed to go home early? I’m not sure. What I do remember is that I – along with my mother and some neighbors – watched the world, as we knew it, change in front of our eyes over the course of the next four days. I remember watching Walter Cronkite – “Uncle Walter,” as I call him to this day – choke up in front of national TV. I have a fleeting memory of the shot fired by Jack Ruby that killed Lee Harvey Oswald. I remember the grimness on LBJ’s face as he took the Oath of Office, with Lady Bird and Jackie flanking him on either side. I remember Jackie draped in black. I remember the solemn procession of the horses at the funeral. And I remember John-John saluting his father.
What I didn’t know at age nine was that several cubanos were considered to be accomplices in the assassination plot. Playa Girón – The Bay of Pigs invasion – had been mapped out at El Vanta Koor. This I knew, even as a child.
Of course, we know by now that we may never really know. This nine-year-old cubanita really knew only one thing: the President of the country that had welcomed us three years earlier was dead. And we felt very sad.

As fourth grade coursed along, though, the course of actual world history slipped into the background. By the end of 1963, my friends and I had begun to listen to four young men from Liverpool, England, blaring forth, “I wanna hold your hand,” in a way that shocked our elders. The Era of The Beatles had begun: this became our certain thing of note number three.
At least one of us muchachitas had the hit single in her hands by some time in January of 1964. I remember that we played it, over and over… and sang along, of course. Loving – nay, being in love with – The Beatles was quite the “girl” thing.
Whom did we love the most? Paul. And John. And George. And Ringo. In that order, because the “cuteness” factor was as – if not more – important to my prepubescent friends and me than their actual degrees of talent. I think some of our friends who were boys actually became quite jealous.
Everyone watched The Ed Sullivan Show in those days. On Saturday, February 7, 1964, The Beatles landed at Idlewild (now JFK) Airport, to mobs of screaming girls. On Monday, February 9, 1964, they made their first appearance on Ed Sullivan. Even before Ed had finished introducing “these youngsters from Liverpool,” the screams had begun, again. Wails, sobs, hand wringing… and tears. I could barely hear The Fabulous Four. I was probably screaming right along with the loudest of them.
Exactly one week later – on Monday, February 16, 1964, The Ed Sullivan Show was aired live from The Napoleon Room at the Deauville Hotel, on Miami Beach. I don’t remember knowing anyone who had tickets. Oh, if only…
At least we had the singles, and, later on, their first album, “Meet The Beatles.” I wish I remembered my mother’s reaction to “these youngsters.” She probably didn’t like them too much. Another of “mis manías” – my obsessive habits - she probably thought.

She’d already had her fill of my other one: my Barbie dolls. Though they didn’t have much money, my parents sweetly – and patiently – nurtured this other “girl” craze of mine. I lacked nothing: doll carriers; outfits; the orange sports car; the huge red bed (I’d wanted the pink canopied one, instead); the vanity; and the piano that played “I Love You Truly.”
Sometime between 1963 and 1964, they bought me the ultimate Barbie possession.
Barbie’s Dream House was made out of hard cardboard, with room dividers – and furniture – also made out of cardboard. It folded up, neatly, into an oblong “purse,” of sorts, for easy storage, and it had a handy-dandy black plastic handle. Still large and cumbersome, the house took some effort for even a chubby nine-year-old to lug around. Huffing and puffing, I managed. Proudly. Usually, though, it sat on the floor in the alcove where I used to study, right behind my desk.
And that’s where my certain thing of note number four occurred: right behind my desk. Rocking back and forth in my chair one day, I toppled backward. And squashed my Barbie Dream House almost beyond recognition.
I know I cried.
The summer of 1964 we moved to Milledgeville, Georgia. I was mainstreamed for the rest of my schooling. I remained addicted to The Beatles, and to my Barbie dolls, for several more years. My Papi eventually returned to Miami, and so did Mami and me.
But nothing would ever be the same, again.

Copyright, 2004 by Georgina Marrero 1942 words All Rights Reserved

The Perils of the Gables

2006-08-14T16:15:00.000-07:00

A Chocolate Lab and Carmen?

THE PERILS OF THE GABLES

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Picture a perfect mid-winter early afternoon in Coral Gables. The sun is warmly shining down on the house, attempting to heat the stucco walls from within. Its rays are producing a ripple effect as they cascade across the maple-colored window treatments of the Florida Room. They also play hide and seek with the jackets and purses I have casually strewn over my comfortably high backed, spindly-legged Italian café table chairs. Bright, airy, cheery: I dart in and out of this glorious room, only subliminally absorbing its essence.
Instead, I hibernate in my cave of a study. The shades are always drawn; the light is always on. The air handler comes on intermittently, allowing a shaft of cool air to enter the room. As the cranking on of the compressor outside always presages the air handler’s gentle murmur, I barely notice its existence.
Until I don’t hear that cranking, that sometimes feels as if it’s jumpstarting the entire household. Until I don’t feel the slight breeze that usually tickles me in a corner of the room. Until the multi-megahertz phone bleeps, and I realize what has happened. We’ve had a power outage.
Rushing to the phone, I’m greeted by a blank answering machine screen, and by the ominous message: Out of range, on the receiver’s screen. At least the battery is vainly struggling to stay alive.
More proof: I need more proof. The yellow trouble light on the LCD alarm panel is all I need to make the final, irrefutable diagnosis: power outage.
And yet, I rush to the kitchen. Indeed: PF – Power Failure, in bright, yet discreet, red letters – screams out at me from the LCD panel on the stove. And then: blank. Every screen is blank. For I’ve heard another bleep. No mistaking it this time.
The Florida Room continues to be a cheerful oasis, but my inner sanctum is as dark as a tomb. FPL, I must call FPL, I tell myself. Grabbing my most powerful flashlight, I venture into my cavernous study closet, and unearth the latest FPL statement. At least the phone calling shouldn’t be a problem, as I have a “normal” enough phone set up in my bedroom.
My Barbie phone, indeed, works without juice. So I call FPL to get the cold, hard facts. Yes, we’ve had a power outage. 952 customers have been affected. All my neighbors for at least a bunch of blocks, I gather. I give the kindly FPL automaton my cell number to keep me apprised.
It’s 12:30 p.m. Still exhausted from a less than perfect night’s sleep, in my pajamas, with the bed as rumpled as the moment when I raised my head from my pillow several hours earlier, I decide to take the old adage up on its wisdom: if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. So I put on my night blinders, curl up under the covers, and hope for the best.
Best has its limits. At around 1:20 p.m., Bizet’s Carmen booms in my ears. FPL has just contacted me via my cell phone with its first message: yes, there’s a problem. It’s with their equipment, and it should be resolved by 2 p.m.
Back to bed is easier said than done. I decide, hey, I can’t sleep, I can’t write, but I can eat. So I open a can of tuna, take some dry toast out of the cupboard, and open the refrigerator an instant to retrieve some salad dressing. Out, in. Everything seems to be holding up.
With that taken care of, I decide I’ll spend some time outside. Cleaning my grubby patio set as best I can, I settle down to a much-anticipated session with the tidbit-full December issue of Vanity Fair. Perfect: it’s so warm, so sunny, and I feel so cozy in my pajamas. There’s nothing that can interrupt me now, I say to myself. Just a little bit longer, right?
Carmen soon pays me another courtesy call. FPL has arrived on the scene of the problem, but, alas, it’s going to take longer to fix: more like until 4:30 p.m. or so. Fortunately, I have until 6:30 p.m. before I must switch opera channels, as I’m to go see The Magic Flute with my fellow opera-loving friend this evening.
So I settle in for the duration, as happy as all the lizards and birds that surround me. Until several weeks ago, no other creature would have dared interrupt my blissful read. However, I now share a ficus grove with my neighbor’s boyfriend’s chocolate Labrador. A sweet hog for attention, he’s become my friend: I’m his ball buddy.
Lying on the grass on his side of the fence, he sees me and clambers up on his hindquarters until I give him a tentative pet. He then briefly licks my hand, and, as he’s gotten in the habit of doing whenever he sees me, he goes to fetch his saliva and grass encrusted ball. It’s playtime.
Not now, I tell him. I really want to catch up with my Vanity Fair. No sooner do I begin to read, than he begins to whimper. Persistently. OK, you win, I tell him, as I reluctantly put the magazine down, stroll over to his side of the gate, and begin our give and take. Soon my hands are saliva and grime streaked, but, looking into his eyes, I know I’ve made him happy. And – I realize – he’s made me happy, too.
May I have a reprieve, I finally ask him, as I go inside, wash my hands, and attempt to return to my reading. He whimpers a bit more, but realizes it’s my turn to have my kind of fun.
With cell phone in front of me, I tackle Graydon Carter’s version of the truth. Soon enough, I’m so immersed in the magazine that the next two or so hours melt away. Before I know it, Carmen rings, yet again.
FPL’s Merry Automaton has a cheerful message for me this time: your problem should be fixed. 952 customers had lost their power due to downed branches.
Mid to late afternoon sun is beginning to filter through the Florida Room. I run around the house resetting all the clocks. Soon afterward, I shower and get ready for my opera-loving duet.
The next time I hear Carmen, it’s my friend, Carmen, telling me she’s on her way.
So ends a Tuesday. On Thursday, however, I awaken to the very loud chirping of a bird. He’s almost at my ear, or so it seems.
This, however, is no bird. It’s the trouble light on my LCD alarm panel. Fussing with the controls, I soon unearth the problem: the battery in my second bathroom windowsill needs to be replaced. And until it is, that little yellow light will bug me to no end.
If it isn’t one thing, it’s always another. Such are The Perils of The Gables.
However, I can always count on my neighborly chocolate Lab… and on Carmen.

Copyright, 2005 by Georgina Marrero 1162 words All Rights Reserved

Am I Ready? Are We Ready?

2006-08-01T12:56:00.000-07:00

Several blocks removed from US 1 in South Miami last night, I didn't hear it--

The comments I posted on Ana Veciana-Suarez' blog earlier this afternoon:

Little did I know when I was celebrating a friend's birthday last night, drinking more than my usual wont, what else was going on. The last time El Barbabudo chose to give us "a scare," I remember having been in a restaurant, and beginning to cry. The Cuban anthem began playing in my mind almost immediately. The Cuban in me can't wait for the jubilation; the (I hope, responsible) Cuban-American in me dreads the pandemonium. The feeling that's building up in me--that of the six year old who said goodbye to her record player and most of her dolls on a Saturday in late October almost forty-six years ago--is almost beyond emotion. Am I ready? Are we ready?

Twenty-Five Years Ago Today...

2006-07-29T06:42:00.000-07:00

...my mother, my ex and I were in the midst of a trip to Montreal. Delighted enough with the European ambiance, we'd even unearthed a Hungarian bookstore, where Panni had promptly engaged in a heated argument with the proprietor in their special "language of the moon." I couldn't stop talking about the Royal Wedding--hadn't, in fact, since the engagement in February. Like a drill sergeant, I made us all get up at five o'clock so we could watch the live broadcast. The BBC coverage seemed to be both reverential and subdued (though we kept sneaking peeks at the Buffalo stations). The whole world giggled at her girlish tumble through her vows. I loved the carriage rides; the royal waves...and, of course, the kiss. How daring, we all thought.
So much has changed twenty-five years later. I just wanted to remember a special moment that will forever be frozen in time, that's all.

Sushi

2006-07-27T15:25:00.000-07:00

What do salmon sushi, Elian Gonzalez, and the Hungarian flag have in common?

SUSHI

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Under The Tuscan Sun had just arrived at the theaters. Already knowing I’d love it, I headed toward Sunset Place, parked, and looked around for a place to eat.
I hadn’t eaten all day. As I love sushi, I went to the Sushi Maki across the street. Alas, about an hour earlier, the entire block had lost its electricity.
The young waiter must have thought I was one of those personal injury lawyers who advertise on television, for I proceeded to grill him relentlessly about the sushi: could it possibly still be fresh? It was on ice, he said. “Are you sure?” I asked him again.
I had good reason to be concerned. In April of 2000, while I was still living in my parents’ Miami Lakes house, I had made sushi out of a salmon fish head. Tired of eating out, I had decided to try to prepare a fish soup on my mother’s one good remaining burner. I cut a few slices of salmon off the head, and proceeded to consume them, sushi-style. Plopping the rest of the fish head in a pot, I covered it with water, sprinkled paprika over the concoction, and simmered it for a while. When I deemed it to be ready, I sat down to savor my creation. Delicious! It was eight p.m.
By midnight, I realized that something was wrong. I began to get horrible cramps. What happened next was… well, pretty bad. Let’s just say that I began to shrink before my very eyes. I began to see red. Needless to say, I couldn’t sleep. By five-thirty in the morning, I knew I needed help. Dragging myself to my car, I drove myself to the Palmetto General Hospital.
The Emergency Room was quite crowded. Although I had been granted a stay of execution during the drive, the ink wasn’t yet dry. I had to run to the bathroom several times before I managed to stagger to the admitting desk.
Babies always have priority in an ER: there were a few. Older people, too. For some reason, everyone was paying very close attention to the television set mounted above the waiting room seats.
A little boy was leaving a house in the arms of a woman. He was crying. There were reporters all around the house. He was whisked into a car, and driven away. Pandemonium ensued.
Everyone in the waiting room was stunned. Everyone was speaking Spanish. The unthinkable had happened: Elian Gonzalez had been forcibly removed from his family’s home in Little Havana. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
More and more enfeebled with each passing minute, I decided to take matters into my own hands. After all, my father had worked in this hospital. I went through the swinging doors that led to the triage area, and plopped myself down on a gurney.
“Nepotism be damned!” I told myself. A nurse approached me. She was Cuban. I knew what I had to do: I told her about my father. Within minutes, I had a Demerol IV in my arm. I woke up many hours later, was discharged, and went home.
Bacterial diarrhea doesn’t go away overnight. The worst was yet to come. I was like a sieve. Weaker and weaker, I thought of one of my mother’s favorite medical expressions: I could almost hear her saying, “electrolyte imbalance,” in that inimitable Hungarian accent of hers. I finally had to take action again.
In my pajamas, I wandered outside. It was Easter Sunday. I tried knocking on several of my neighbors’ doors. Perhaps everyone was at church, I wondered? All but collapsing, I returned home.
I had no choice. I called 911. The EMT team arrived within minutes. They took my vitals. Everything was within normal limits. My neighbors must have returned home by then, because several of them came over. They seemed to be very concerned. I told them I had tried to find them earlier, but that no one had appeared to be home.
It was the young mother of two next door who came to my rescue. She told the ambulance crew that she’d provide me with Pedialyte. She knew it well. She was – as we say in Spanish – muy bondadosa. Very kind. Interestingly enough, we share last names, although we’re not related. It took me about ten days to fully recuperate. I could not have done it without that Pedialyte… and without that young woman.
Back at the Sushi Maki, I was discovering that the young waiter was not annoyed with me. On the contrary, he was being helpful… and concerned. I had told him about the fish head. We agreed on the sashimi ume. First he brought me a green salad, with the ginger miso dressing on the side.
I was beginning to devour the salad, when he reappeared to inform me that the chefs did not deem the fish fresh enough to serve to customers. I had an hour left before the movie. I hadn’t eaten all day. I desperately needed a solid meal in my belly.
Regretfully, I put my fork down, and told the young man I had to leave. I offered to pay for the salad. He said, “No, just please come back to visit us again.” We firmly – and warmly – clasped hands.
I was just beginning to cross the street when I heard my mother’s native tongue. Hungarian. A couple standing next to me was speaking “the language of the moon,” as I have referred to it all my life. I always get excited and ask the parties involved if they are, indeed, speaking in Hungarian. I’m not always right, but this time I was.
This little dialogue always progresses the same way: I say that my mother was Hungarian, but that she didn’t teach it to me because she felt I’d have no one with whom to speak it. In thickly accented English, the husband caught me by surprise with his response: “She didn’t expect you’d be running into us.”
We continued to cross the street. I kept chattering about how difficult Hungarian is to learn. As we were preparing to go our separate ways, I made a little bow in their direction, and said, “Servus.” A direct descendant of the Latin word, servus (servant), it roughly translates to: “I serve at your pleasure.”
The man chattered back in our “lunar” language. At some level, I understood. The last thing I heard him say was, “it’s a curse.” Or something like that. I understood that, too. We exchanged one final knowing glance, and said our silent goodbyes.
The Johnny Rockets at the mall awaited me. The turkey burger hit the spot.

Copyright, 2003 by Georgina Marrero 1111 words All rights reserved

Biscuits and Cream Redux

2006-07-25T09:56:00.000-07:00

For all you canine worshippers out there--

BISCUITS AND CREAM

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Entering the drive-through Starbuck’s off US 1, I now fully realized why the Seattle-based mega java purveyor is called the McDonald’s of coffee.
Most of the servers were wearing earpieces, and, at one point or the other, stuck her or his head out the drive-through window to address a customer’s needs.
The smallish store was actually pretty clean and empty, with just a few souls sitting around a solitary table. Beautifully minimalist: soothing; peaceful; relaxing.
I struck up a conversation with the young, bespectacled woman who first approached me. It turned out they were out of Komodo dragon, so she went into the back to fetch their last pound of Arabian Mocha Sanani.
The equally young, handsome brunette barista kept staring at me. “I have a pound of Komodo at home. I can bring it in tomorrow,” he said.
How nice of him. I’d actually purchased another young server’s weekly allotment at the U of M store several months ago. What is it with this dragon?
On my way out, I asked the young woman, “What’s it like to work at a drive-through Starbuck’s?”
“Lots of people. And dogs,” she responded.
“And dogs? Do the dogs drink coffee, too?”
She laughed. “No. We give the owners dog biscuits for their doggies.” She paused for a moment. “Well, actually, we used to, but we don’t do it any more. Many of the owners got mad when we stopped handing out the biscuits. Now they tell us, ‘We’re never going to come back!’”
She continued. “We also give them whipped cream mixed with water for their dogs.”
“Whipped cream mixed with water?”
Without missing a beat, she said, “Yes.”
The Starbuck’s equivalent of the McDonald’s courtesy cup, with canine Ronald McDonald cookies thrown in, for good measure:
It’s definitely a dog’s life.

Copyright, 2005 by Georgina Marrero 300 words All Rights Reserved

In yesterday's sultry aftermath: about to thirstily quaff one of the new Pomegranate Frappuccinos, I spoke with yet another kind young barista. YES: they still stock the dog biscuits (and, apparently, are handing them out again).

So, what are you waiting for?

Beethoven's Lignumvitae

2006-07-19T08:46:00.000-07:00

A year ago, I found myself in between symphonies--from my notes on my Key West trip, July, 2005, during Hemingway Days; loosely titled, "Wilting in the Tropics." N.B.: last September I published another excerpt on this blog: "Beam Me Up, Ernie."

MONDAY, JULY 18, 2005

Quarter to eleven already. Gosh darn it, you wouldn’t think I’d awakened at 7. Even with clumps all over the house, ready, set to go, there I was, furtively looking at the clock. I was just about to pack my toiletries next to my casuals and undies, and to plop my dresses on top. Just like a thin layer of meringue on a key lime pie.
Going up the street to Roma’s for a quick café con leche and pastelito de guayaba, I realized, hey, I’m not ready. No perfume, no braided silver and pearl earrings I’d left on top of the bathroom vanity. I felt naked, especially in front of los obreros downing their cortaditos and coladas.
Hell, I felt naked, even in front of myself.
Setting myself aright, I still had to make it to the bank just off Ponce. And then I’d be ready. Perhaps I should have gone to the ATM the day before, when I’d had all the time in the world?
No matter. With an early Cuban merienda in my belly, and cash in my purse, I made it to US 1 at 12:07 p.m. I was finally on my way to The Keys.
In the midst of an unpredictable mid-July day in South Florida, the clouds had gathered, just so. Drizzles fell down, enough to warrant the wipers and lights. Cars were inching down US 1. Oh, boy, I’ll never get there, I fidgeted.
Looking to the right, I saw the tower at The Falls, followed by the turquoise and yellow sign announcing the entrance to Cutler Ridge and Perrine. The clouds had begun to lift, by then.
The farther south I drove, the more hole in the wall Hispanic restaurants I spotted; the faces driving the more and more dilapidated vehicles became more and more ethnic. Migrant territory: beginning to approach Homestead and Florida City.
I’d first spotted the tumbleweeds by the side of the road during my Keys trip in February. Staring at them dumbfounded then, I continued to do so, today. Flat buildings that appeared to have sprung out of nowhere, preceded or followed by these wild grasses.
Or by flat land: by nothing at all. By gnarled trees with bark exposed like gaping wounds.
Andrew. I hadn’t been around in 1992.
I remember speaking with Mami that morning. “A hurricane’s coming,” she’d said. I’d laughed. Later that day, she lost her electricity, but not her phone.
The next day, we’d spoken. “In my almost eighty years, I’ve never heard a sound like this storm,” she’d told me. Boqui, the fifteen-year-old tuxedo cat, had accompanied her by lying, Sphinx-like, on top of the dining room table.
Andrew. I couldn’t look at the pictures of the aftermath then, or now.
No wonder I shuddered at the tumbleweeds, not only in February, but also today.
Continuing down the highway, I also couldn’t help noticing, with both amazement and dread, the increase in the number of markers indicating people who’d died in accidents.
The big Homestead water tower loomed in front of me, to the left. More and more goose bumps shot up and down my spine.
In The Gables I’d barely felt Dennis, and The Keys had, fortuitously, been spared.
But you never know.
A little water began to show by the side of the road. In my driving haze, I’d bypassed Florida City.
I was truly on my way now. Still clinging to my favorite radio channels, I began my long, slow descent to Paradise.
The ride seemed to go at a much faster clip than it had back in February. When the radio frequencies fizzled away into nothingness, I popped in one of my CD’s. Beethoven: I’d very deliberately brought my collection of Beethoven’s symphonies along. Compact discs, packed in their compact box.
Much different from the disparate collection I’d wildly gathered at the last moment on my way out of the house over five months earlier. I’d been desperate, then.
Only a desperate person could listen to Ray Charles’ “Unchain My Heart” blaring forth and sing along, at the top of her lungs, over and over.
This time, it was my childhood favorite, the Pastorale Symphony, which lifted me and enabled me to soar over the Seven Mile Bridge.
I can’t remember the last time my heart leapt so high. Perhaps in February, though, when, with a sidelong glance of recognition, I’d spotted the original Seven Mile Bridge?
The eight or nine year old had come to life. I still can’t find her, all the time, but she’d gone back, back, back…
What was blaring forth then, I wonder. Now that I think of it, we probably didn’t have a working car radio.
I’d just left Marathon behind. For me, Marathon = Milestone. I love the place, with its yokels, dockside eateries, barbecue and cracked conch joints, its consignment shop, its bookstore, its pelicans...and its herons. “Funky chickens,” I call them.
Keeping an eye out for the names of all the Keys, all the channels, is a great road—and time—passer, I’d already discovered. Lignumvitae is my favorite, for all the Latin language loving reasons that anyone could possibly ascribe to me. The thread—or cord—of life: whoever named it knew what matters.
The Keys dangle off the southernmost tip of the Eastern Seaboard just like the stubbornly resistant end of a thread you try to tear off with your teeth or snip off with a blunt pair of scissors. Chances are you might get lucky. Or, then again, you might not.
I was about to begin to learn a thing or two about the Conchs.
With only a pit stop at a McDonald’s on the mainline side of Islamorada, I arrived at the Cow Key Channel Bridge intersection at roughly 4:15 p.m. In a little bit less than four hours, I had reached the city of Key West, my home for the next week.
Not bad.
Driving along as slowly as possible up North Roosevelt, and then Truman, I spotted the At Home In Key West office on the right-hand side of the road. The driver in the car behind me patiently waited for me to pull into the parking lot.
No honking, no beeping, allowed: unheard of, in Miami.
Gathering my keys and insisting that the young woman let me write out my own map, I drove toward the Truman Annex. Crossing Duval at Southard, I told myself, aha, I know this. Frances at Southard in February, now Emma off of Southard.
Not quite. The kindly guard at the Truman Annex gate directed me to the gate down the street. Not Emma, but rather, Thomas.
I found out the next day that Thomas Alva Edison had stayed at the Little White House, when it was the home of the Navy Commandant.
All you have to do is to follow your history around this town.
My car found its spot right under a palm tree top-heavy with coconuts. Two days later, I’d have to move it while lawn maintenance men removed the coconuts. “You wouldn’t want one of them crashing down on your car, now, would you?” The security guard asked me.
That’s when I met the first Papa look-alike, a slightly pot-bellied stunner with killer blue eyes. He’s the co-chair of the contest, and was staying in a unit right across from me. With his son: oh, rats.
My little one-bedroom townhouse unit lived up to its pictures. Cute, quaint, nautical, tropical, modern, campy, all straw and wicker, bright colors…and the largest patio in the row of units, I later noticed.
First, though, I had to check for the air-conditioning control, a phone jack in order to be cyber connected, and coffee filters. Check; check; huh?
The next morning I found out I’d checked all the kitchen cabinets, except for the right one. I had a little trouble finding extra towels, too, at first.
Tired: four firmly focused, fixed hours behind the wheel, after all.
However, not so tired that, after lugging my luggage upstairs—and setting up the computer to my liking—I ventured forth with gusto. My Hemingway Days adventures were about to begin in earnest.

SOME FINAL REFLECTIONS ON LIGNUMVITAE

Back a week tomorrow already. Whew! Still on my Papa high…

On the way back home, I stopped three times: once, in Marathon, to try to make its consignment store my own. Foiled again: closed Mondays. I’ll never learn…

Beethoven’s Ninth had lifted me over the Seven Mile Bridge this time. I’d clumsily been pushing the forward-backward button, aiming to find the right point—just the right point—in the Ode To Joy chorus.

I was so intent on this I neglected to look at all the gorgeously iridescent water that was surrounding me.

So I paid a little more attention while the Fifth boomed out, POM POM POM POM, POM POM POM POM.

Aha! Channel Number Five loomed in front of me. I instantly thought of Chanel Number 5, that classic fragrance I’ll never get tired of from time to time.

Channel Number Five – Chanel Number 5 – Beethoven’s Fifth. How apropos.

I was beginning to fathom that the Pastorale heralded my childhood; the Ninth, possibly my apoplectic highs; and the Fifth, the classic that’s going to surround me for the rest of my life, whether I get tired of it or not. Adulthood.

Between childhood and adulthood, though, comes adolescence. Swerving off the road at the last minute, so much so that both solid and liquid particles of gravel adhered themselves to my car’s sides and tires, I picked up my hot sauces at the key lime products stand in Key Largo. Hot sauces, for a hot rodder, I sheepishly thought to myself.

Back on the road, I calmed down inwardly, and began to listen—to really listen—to the Fifth’s soothing undertones, before Beethoven led me to ride the more subdued crests of HUM HUM HUM HUM HUM HUM HUM HUM HUM. HUM HUM HUM, HUM HUM HUM. Nananananana…

Somewhere just beyond Key Largo, I saw it: Lignumvitae Lane. If I’d blinked, I’d have missed it.

There it was again: the thread of life. I wondered if the person who’d named the channel had also named the lane. Probably. Too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?

This was when I seriously began to think about the stages of life.

The next thing I knew, I’d once again bypassed Florida City, and—after a fashion—Homestead. I didn’t think about Andrew as much this time.

However, with my favorite radio frequencies within reach again, my fingers began to fidget nervously. Will I ever get back?

The tower at The Falls loomed to my left this time, roughly three and a half hours after I’d left Key West. Goose bumps? Nah.

My third stop was in Pinecrest, at one of my favorite yogurt places. This would be lunch, after my “Senior” IHOP breakfast on my way out of Key West that sultry Monday morning. Fairly legitimately trying to shave a few dollars (and some calories) off, the tab had still amounted to over nine dollars. Price Gouging In The Tropics next time, remember?

And then I continued my drive up US 1 and turned left at Le Jeune.

I sincerely hope my lignumvitae continues to be stubbornly resistant for a long time to come.

Sunday, July 31, 2005

My apologies to Ludwig von Beethoven for mangling his notes.

My Mother Was Right

2006-07-15T19:25:00.000-07:00

Ooh, to have been seventeen going on fifty-nine...

MY MOTHER WAS RIGHT

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Tais-toi! Ça suffit!
French. I knew it was French.
I couldn’t understand. I didn’t want to. At fifteen, however, I buckled. Two years of high school French later, my parents sent me to Tours.
Tours. It had to be Tours. That’s where my Hungarian-born mother had gone to study when she was sixteen. That was in 1929.
And in 1931, she’d gone to Paris, where she met my father. They married in 1940. My father took her to Cuba in 1941.
In 1972, she couldn’t request that application for me fast enough.
Landing at Orly in late June, I met her cousin and his wife for the very first time. I’d already met his brother in Toronto. I’d never seen so many Hungarians in one place in my entire Cuban-American life. They’d even had Hungarian restaurants there.
Otherwise, all I knew about Hungarians was that they had a strange language. A language my mother spoke on the phone from time to time in contorted tones, with otherworldly syllables. Even as a child I had deemed it “the language of the moon.”
Be sure to speak only in French, my mother admonished me. What else would I be able to speak with them, I wondered.
And whatever you do, don’t mention the war. And don’t mention the little cousin who had died. Don’t worry, mami, I’d told her.
With all these don’ts under my belt, it’s a wonder I could say anything. In my best French, I gave them a hug.
They said, “Goûte,” as they plied me with platefuls of pâtes, cornichons, and the best bread I’d ever tasted.
They always spoke French, even to each other. I couldn’t resist asking them if they ever spoke Hungarian.
Silence.
They drove me to Tours in their Citroën. I’d been so sure the little tinker toy they’d used to get around Paris was going to fall apart under our very eyes. Mercifully, it didn’t.
The Citroën, though: that was a big deal. More than anything, I was grateful for the legroom.
Settling in at the Cité Universitaire, I became immersed in my course work. Although I shuddered before the daily dictées, the professor seemed to be pleased with my progress.
Classes were in the morning, which left me with plenty of time for languorous lunches and the opportunity to meet fellow students. I made a special effort to also befriend the locals.
My mother was right, though I wouldn’t have admitted it to her then if my life depended on it.
For the Bastille Day celebrations, my relatives drove down in their Citroën to pick me up. All I remember is lying, curled up, sleepily watching fireworks from the back seat. They knew by then I didn’t trust the tinker toy.
French was taking over my life. They were amazed. They wrote my mother a letter about how well I was doing. They were pleased.
She was ecstatic.
At the end of the course, I decided I wanted to travel to Scotland. I called my parents.
Absolutely not, thundered my father. Ana, get over there and see what that girl’s up to. At age fifty-nine, my mother joined me in her Paris.
She showed me everything. She took me to the oldest restaurant: Le Procope; and the cheapest, Le Bouillon Chartier, where a waiter taught me how to eat an artichoke.
I insisted on Au Pied De Cochon. We warily trudged our way there one evening.
My mother was not pleased.
So, of course I had to balk at going to the Folies Bergère. In jeans, I insisted. How about a nice skirt? No.
After all, I was seventeen. I knew it all.
My mother, however, knew her Paris. So she kept trying. She wasn’t telling me anything I hadn’t heard all my life. Except that, this time, we were living it. Together.
At the beauty salon, my mother and her very best friend had a tête a tête. My godparents, who were also in town, wanted to go touring in Spain. What could she do? The peppy little Frenchwoman went on and on.
I’d learned a long time ago that Paris is very popular with Cubans.
And Cubans are very popular with Parisians.
Lucky for us, the Frenchwoman’s husband returned from the road trip early. The three of us went all around Montmartre, and ate some really good food we could all agree on. He helped me choose a pastel-hued artist’s proof that still hangs in my bedroom.
Another journey awaited me upon my return to the States: college. Almost placing out of French, I decided not to major in it.
My mother was not pleased.
When she passed away, I returned to Paris. Scatter her ashes in the Luxembourg Gardens, everyone advised me.
As I wasn’t completely sure, I arrived at Charles De Gaulle without them.
However, I visited her relatives. By then I knew my mother’s family had worn the Star of David on their clothing during the war. My father had been their daughter’s godfather. He knew his prayers in Latin, she said. I was amazed.
I also spent many wonderful hours reminiscing with the Frenchwoman’s widower. He remembered our Montmartre purchase. We made plans to return. Unfortunately, it never happened.
Within ten days, I switched channels: from BBC to LCI. I guess I remembered a thing or two.
My mother was right.

Copyright, 2005 by Georgina Marrero 895 words All rights reserved

I want the Heat to win...

2006-06-15T17:14:00.000-07:00

...for him.
Well, we did. Bought my new 26" LCD TV just in time to catch the last game, after having watched the fifth game on my "hurricane-ready" 4" screen! Hard-fought; hard won--I'm so glad. Only wish I could have been closer to Calle Ocho, and/or to West 49th Street, to have been able to hear all the joyful, riotous escandalo.
Zo needed this. Miami needed this. Perhaps it'll unite us...at least for a while.

It's only fitting that I'm going to live here...

2006-04-27T15:44:00.000-07:00

...although I think the buildings most closely resemble Susse Chalets. Remember the motel chain? I remember the one in Cambridge, MA, right near Fresh Pond. Then again, the thing I remember the most about Fresh Pond is Joyce Chen's: the lazy Susans around which I ate many a memorable meal in the mid-to-late 1970's.

Bienvenue, Ninina!

Happy Birthday, Carrie Bradshaw! (aka, Sarah Jessica Parker)

2006-03-25T11:07:00.000-08:00

What a delight to find out that today is SJ's birthday! What a marvelous...excuse to share the following with the world--
Teary-eyed, I wrote the following when SATC wrapped up its sixth and final season just over two years ago:

THANK YOU, LADIES

I may have missed out on four years,
But I quickly made up for it in two.
And – yikes! – am I glad I did.

I watched you – the real yous –
On Oprah today.
You don’t want to let go.
Neither do I.

Teary-eyed, all of you.
We identify with you –
A little bit of all four of you
Is in all of us,
Someone in the audience
Commented..

Why do all good things have
To come to an end?

Carrie, I can almost hear you
Simultaneously typing these words
And (almost melodramatically)
Wailing:
Why, why, why?

You’re not the only one,
Right now.

That smugly happy look
You get on your face,
When you’re (deliriously?) happy…
While, at the same time,
You clasp your hands.

I dare you – I double-dare you – to
Sip a Cosmopolitan at the same time.

I don’t have long, curly blonde hair,
Nor do I smoke…
But I am as obsessive, excessive – and delighted –
As you.

Standing on my tippy-toes is my style, too.
However, even trying on half a Manolo
Gives me leg cramps.

But that’s ok.
We don’t type with our Choos on.

Samantha,
I’ve become accustomed to your f(lorid) vocabulary.
And I love your little knowing look,
With your trademark half-wink, half-smile.

I’ve always been aware of your heart of gold…
And the fact that men have broken your heart
More than you let on.

That’s the bitch. Not you.

But you saved your best for last
(and not for Richard, here):
Your courage while facing breast cancer
Has – and surely will – serve as an inspiration
Long after our Sunday farewell.

Charlotte, dear Charlotte.
You’re a variation on Carrie,
But with softer edges.
(Due to your Connecticut upbringing,
to be sure.)

Your shiny head of hair
Bobbing up and down,
With that seriocomic look on your face:
Should I play it straight, or should I
Be a clown?

The truth came out today:
You’re the funniest.
Not surprised.

Miranda,
You may be gritty on the surface,
But your clever creators
Wisely made you the mommy, first.
You and Sam were tested in ways
That the two dream-like waifs
You call best friends
Never could have been.

Gee, SATC was a bit of a reality show, after all…
In spite of itself.

Carrie, back to you.
Thank you for wearing Roberto Cavalli
On “The Good Fight.”
It’s incredible, but true:
A piece of clothing changed my life.

Go back to your column.
Marry John (some day).
Obsess.
Look delighted.
Be funny.
And – above all – dream.

But please stop smoking.

Samantha, let Smith take care of you.
He truly loves you:
He’ll always give you more than his best.

Charlotte, adopt your baby.
Take care of Harry:
He’s a keeper.
And observe the Sabbath.

Miranda,
That first look between you and Steve
Back in Season Two said it all.
Learn to give and take with him:
He’s always been willing to go the extra mile.
He was just waiting for you to do the same.

One final farewell to you, Carrie.
Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Thank you, Ladies.

Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Monday, February 23, 2004

A Croqueta To Key Lime Pie Makeover

2006-03-19T20:49:00.000-08:00

A little over a year ago, a bunch of stuff poured out of me. Croquetas? Key Lime Pie? Do these two seemingly innocuous food items lead to an identity crisis? Or, rather, are they at the crux of one? I don't think this will lead to a book, after all, as my interests have turned elsewhere, so I've decided to pass it on. The real question is: will it whet your appetite for either a plateful of croquetas, or for a slice of key lime pie? You be the judge. My personal jury's still out on this one...

THE ALL CLEAR

In the aftermath of my various Marathon epiphanies (2/7/05), I began to think of how I could possibly collect my thoughts around the dimensions of the three pieces of key lime pie I had consumed while I was in The Keys. Something about a key lime pie makeover. But I wasn’t quite sure, yet, until the following Saturday (2/12/05), when the following happened:
Not fully sure what I was going to do with my afternoon, I wandered down Calle Ocho, and stumbled into Don Pan. There are two reasons why I did this: 1) it’s on the right side of the street; and 2) I didn’t really feel like running into anyone whom I might possibly know at Versailles, and having to make nice a la cubana. Don Pan has some Cuban touches, but it’s basically Latin American.
At Don Pan, I ordered my café con leche, and this rolled up pastry thing that resembles an elongated crescent roll. The first time I’d had it, I’d just pointed, and had been handed one stuffed with ham and cheese. This time, I had the good sense to ask what appeared to be different varieties contained. One, the familiar ham and cheese; one, ham; and the longer, skinnier one, cheese. Does the pastry have a name, I asked. Yes, it’s called a cachito. For some reason, I immediately thought of Nat King Cole singing, “Cachito, Cachito, Cachito Mio…” Which came first, I wondered.
I decided to take my chances with the ham one. The counter person made a show out of sticking it in the oven to warm it up. It certainly didn’t taste warm, but the café, at least, was as it should be. They’re pretty good at Don Pan about giving their coffee a nice head of foam: always finger-licking good, it is.
Counting fat and salt, as always, I proceeded to unroll the crescent, dunk the pieces of sweet bread into the coffee, and collect the ham bits into something that resembled a – well, something you flush. If anyone was looking at me as I performed my dissection, I didn’t notice. However, I felt self-conscious enough that I quickly covered it with a napkin before I flushed it down the wastebasket.
Before I’d sat down, I’d noticed two young women with dark tunics eyeing me as if I were from the moon. I’m used to this by now. However, on our mutual way out, I noticed they appeared to be headed toward a beauty school at the corner of the mall. As I felt I was in dire need of a haircut, I figured, why not, and headed in that general direction.
Entering the establishment, I felt both comforted, and distant. Just like I felt at the Don Pan. Eyeing a particularly expert looking hair styling teacher (or student – how could I tell for sure?), I asked her if she knew how to cut short hair. She stared at me in wide-eyed amazement, and a receptionist quickly informed me there was a long line, and they’d be closing in about a half hour. I was sad, not so much because I wasn’t going to be able to get a $5 haircut, but because the stylist had appeared to be Cuban, and my Cuban way had obviously not gotten very far with her. I guess I’ve either lost – or never had – it. Sauntering out, I realized I was more than sad. I was pissed. No “non-Cubans” allowed? Hah!
And what did I stumble into then? A tourist couple: Americans from Iowa, of all places. I guess I looked approachable, for they asked me: Where’s Little Havana? In the midst of my ranting and raving about what had just happened to me, I told them to keep going down the street. They’d run into the Little Kiwanis sign. What should they look for? Well, Maximo Gomez Park, for one thing, to stare at all the old men playing dominoes. They said something about a mall. A mall? I guess I’m not familiar with lower Calle Ocho, because I had absolutely no idea of what they were talking about. Where should they eat? That was a no-brainer: Versailles, up the block. Isn’t that supposed to be touristy? Yes… and no, I ventured. Lots of Americans love it, but, on weekends and at nights, you’ll find Cubans there, I said. OK. Maybe we’ll try it, they said as we bid each other a cordial farewell. Did they, I wonder.
In between my simultaneous praise and criticism for all things Cuban, the obviously sharp as a tack, matter of fact male half of the couple had said something I won’t forget: you’re in the midst of an identity crisis. Was he right, I had immediately begun to ask myself.
We’re on vacation down here for two weeks, to escape the cold, they’d said. Where? They’d been on a cruise, I believe, as well as had spent time in The Keys. Oh, I just returned from The Keys, I’d said. I loved it, would love to spend some time there. Property’s very expensive there, we both agreed. It turned out they’d actually seen some real estate ads. The most inexpensive they’d seen had been for a 0 bedroom, 1 bath unit for between 500 and 600 thousand. Oh, my heavens. 0 bedroom? I figured out the ad was referring to Murphy beds, which several of the journeymen I’d met at the Mallory Square sunset celebration the previous weekend had mentioned.
Before I knew it, I thought to myself: that’s precisely what I need. That’s it: A Key Lime Pie Makeover, with 0 bedrooms (a Murphy bed: up and down, like me), and 1 bathroom (to cleanse myself in between cycles).
The very astute man and his clever wife had obviously paid very close attention to whatever was coming out of my mouth, for they had said something about lows and highs, about reaching my audience like a roller coaster (my words), and then finishing with dessert (her words).
It was all beginning to make sense: to string my vignettes together from breakfast through midnight snack, from albino eggs through medianoches, crossing over the seven mile croqueta bridge to reach my key lime pie destination? To begin right before my trip to Key West: to fast-forward from my lid-flipping Backlash (Mark), to stir some Albino Eggs (Jose) into the pot, straight through the rest of breakfast, into lunch, dinner, and beyond? To somehow tie the whole book around my weekend in The Keys, around my Marathon epiphanies, around my success with croquetas, and how it all somehow ties in to key lime pie? In effect: to teeter-totter my way through the identity crisis that constitutes my existence?
Could I do it, I had immediately begun to wonder. Next thing I knew, I found myself at my Miami Source: El Vanta Koor, my first home in Miami, in the heart of La Saguesera. No tingle, no ghosts, left: I interpreted that as The All Clear.
For what it’s worth: I all but stormed into William Permuy’s salon a little while later, hoping to offset my somewhat histrionic performance of a nerve-wracking ten days earlier. With a decent – but expensive – haircut atop my scalp, I now felt I could face what lies ahead: my Croqueta to Key Lime Pie Makeover.

Never-Ending Ruminations of a Subliminal Mind...

2006-03-03T06:45:00.000-08:00

Lincoln Road, 1964 (Courtesy of the official Miami Beach website):

...ok, ok, a year behind the times, but who knows what'll come out of me by the time post-Oscars 2006 Monday rolls around?

NEVER-ENDING RUMINATIONS OF A SUBLIMINAL MIND:
OR, HOW I SPENT OSCAR WEEKEND, 2005

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

In preparation for Oscar Night, 2005 I could have done one of several things: 1) completed my list of pre-Oscar viewing “must-see” movies; 2) attended the South Beach Wine and Food Festival; 3) both; or 4) neither. Opting for an odd-lot combination of 1) & 2) led to a series of bizarrely inspirational, and – several times, at least – subliminal events.

Awaiting the opening of the envelopes with baited breath:

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 2005

Yes, I’d decided to go to South Beach. Hopping on the McArthur Causeway, I had to slow to a snail’s pace as I approached Palm/Hibiscus Islands. What was going on, I wondered, at two something in the afternoon?

And then I remembered: the Food Festival. Was this what lay ahead of me: miles and miles of traffic? Fortunately, by the time I hit the Alton Road exit, I’d begun to slither along. Whew! Not everyone was headed up Alton, at least not at the same time.

As I was headed to the Regal South Beach Cinemas, at the corner of Alton and Lincoln Roads, I figured I’d park in the theater’s lot, get my ticket validated, meander up and down Lincoln Road Mall – one of the holdouts in my 1960’s memories of a not-now recognizable Miami – and catch the pre-dusk showing of The Sea Inside, the Spanish nomination for Best Picture. How apt: Amenabar’s latest being my holdout, that I would soon be viewing awash a sea of memories inside of what used to be, yet is no longer… with the possible exception of the Lincoln Road pavement. Or has that changed, too, I wonder?

Would I miss the lot? Inching up Alton, I looked to the right. Yes: there was the sign for the lot. Not a huge sign, it’s no wonder I’d missed it during earlier Beach forays. Gently swerving to the right, I began to crawl forward again, up and up, into the inner chambers of the snail-like lot. After anxiously looking out the window at every rounded curve, I found myself wondering, how much higher will this thing go? Will I find a spot?

Well, of course I did: on the fifth level. Breathing a sigh of relief, I parked my car, and, without a care in the world, set forth on my final pre-Oscar Hunt adventure. My first stop: the Tasti D-Lite. Non-fat, cholesterol free, sugar-free, lo-carb Tasti D-Lite: popular with kids, adults, straights, and gays, alike. Popular with the Sex and the City gals, this emporium has one other very important thing going for it: a clean restroom. Very important, indeed: worth the price of admission.

Having availed myself of the equally clean facilities at Don Pan on the way down Eighth Street, where I had nibbled on the crust of an elongated crescent roll and downed a coffee, all I had to do today was taste – everyone enjoys a sample or two, right? – and order. Fluffer Nutter Fudge was a no-brainer.

Beginning to enjoy my tasty treat, the first bizarre incident of the day occurred: a crazy lady muttered something to me about Jesus as I was on my way out. I couldn’t get away fast enough.

A tiny bit anxiety-stricken, I wondered if she’d follow me outside the store, where I decided to settle down at one of their little tables, in one of their – as it turned out – extremely comfortable chairs. Well, she didn’t. As a matter of fact, next time I looked for her, she was gone. Had I imagined her, I wondered? I’m still wondering.

Let’s put it this way: I was on the verge of sitting down at one of their tables. As if from nowhere, a “Granola Bunch” consisting of one male, two females, and two male children plopped themselves down where I was about to park myself. I had no choice but to but out.

Perhaps they’d beat me to it by a hair: no matter. And heavens knows Mr. Granola had a beardful. What the heck: the crazy lady was still on my mind, so I couldn’t help bringing her up to them. They looked at me as if I were the strange one. So that was that.

But then the real fun began… With a quickly melting dish of Fluffer Nutter Fudge in one hand, and pen and a slip of paper in the other, I began to watch the world go by. After all, I was sitting on my new-old Lincoln Road, on DA BEECH.

And of course I had to begin with The Granola Bunch. Strange, isn’t it, but only the males of the bunch were wearing hats? I’d almost say they were Orthodox Jews, except the women weren’t what I would term “modestly” dressed. Any way you slice it, they – and by they, I mean the men, here – were exercising their own version of “feminine protection.”

Looking out onto the mall, I then beheld the following:

1) A Paris Hilton clone/wannabe – with the hair, the pancake-flat belly-button baring bottom, the glittery purse, the cell phone: aah, the cell phone… until she said something about being down for a week, and then going back on Spirit Airlines. I don’t think the real Paris Hilton has to worry about flying only when the Spirit moves her.
2) An older man with a little blonde in a white miniskirt, knee-high pink boots, and a matching pink purse. I think they were speaking Russian. I understand they – and by they, I mean Russian men who run casinos, here – are very fond of handy panties
3) A “normal” person – an older, skinny guy with glasses – sauntered in and out holding a Books and Books bag in his hand. At least he reads. Perhaps Arthur Miller, or Henry James, or Henry Miller?
4) A very pregnant woman, with a poori-shaped belly button, strolled by with a champagne-colored Labrador on a leash. A good contrast with the Paris clone/wannabe, if nothing else.
5) Her Royal Highness, The Duchess of York’s clone/wannabe: yes, a woman who really, truly resembled Fergie. Twice.
6) On the verge of my departure, a lady speaking loudly into a cell phone began to describe Tasti D-Lite’s non-fat, cholesterol free, sugar-free, lo-carb characteristics to someone. Was she planning on taking out, I wondered? I sure wouldn’t recommend it, given how ephemeral fluff of any variety truly is.

See what you started, Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and, yes, even you, Samantha?

Moving on, here. On the fly back to the theater, I entered Fly Boutique, a small,
reasonably priced vintage store. Leave empty-handed? Never. Well, almost never. For a while now, I’ve been becoming The Incredibly Shrinking Woman: my increasingly narrowing shoulders make almost any jacket resemble a crumpled sack.

Not if they’re from the fifties or sixties, though. I all but bubbled out of the store, dashing, dashing away with my latest find: a sixties sky-blue jacket with a gray mink collar. As long as there are little old ladies who settle down here from the North, I chortled to the well-informed – and wry – proprietor. There always will be, he said.

So then I saw The Sea Inside. Not intending to write a review, I did, of sorts. And my fellow writer published it:
Georgina’s Reviews
The Sea Inside: Poignant; pointed; understated; screaming with intensity, pathos, and feeling. Euthanasia may have won in the end, but, by golly, this movie makes you want to LIVE... Javier Bardem was nothing short of magnificent, given that his handsome, putty-like face serves as the panorama for the bulk of what transpires. There's a love story, too. Several, actually. More than several. I wanted to see it for several reasons: 1) to be super-prepared for Sunday; and 2) because my mother -- as a doctor -- believed in euthanasia. Worth my time.
Worth my time, indeed: at one point, I felt as if both my parents were present. Almost holding my hand, as I had felt my mother and my grandfather had been doing when I’d seen Sunshine for the first time.
Too good: the afternoon had been just too good for me not to continue it into the evening. Les Choristes (The Chorus) was also supposed to be very good, so I said to myself, why not? Running up to the fifth chamber of the snail-like parking lot, I placed my Fly purchase in the trunk, and duly noted I would have been ineligible for the validated parking fee, anyway, as my four hours were up. Why not, indeed?
With about an hour to kill, I decided to look for a top to go with my new jacket. I’m still ruminating as to whether to pair it with a black or navy blue skirt. When do I ever stop ruminating, anyway?
Where should I turn? I asked myself, and proceeded to try: Anthropologie? No – too gimmicky. Banana Republic? Still too… Ann Taylor Loft? Several possibilities. The Gap? Well, it was their salesperson who convinced me to follow my gut, the more I described the dressy tank tops I already had at my disposal.
However, it was at French Connection that I – let’s just say – perked up? I’d been meaning to poke into their store for a while, because… either my eyes had been deceiving me, or their logo’s a dirty word. FCUK.
My curiosity split wide open: Do you know what this spells out? I asked the salesgirl. Amusedly, she said French Connection United Kingdom had adopted these four letters – obviously – as its logo several years ago. And why hadn’t I asked about it before, she wondered.
Did I blush, or shrug? I don’t remember. Eyeing the T-shirts that read Love Hate FCUK one more time on my way out, I do remember saying this much to myself: Oh, yeah?
Oh, yeah. And then I sat down in a darkened theater again, to be charmed, entranced, and swept away by Les Choristes (The Chorus). A sublime – not subliminal – French Connection, this one.
At 9:30 p.m. or so, I was floating on air. With not much more than that delightfully tasty Fluffer Nutter Fudge in me, I began to amble down the avenue that had been such a special treat for me when I was a child. And what did I behold on this particular Friday night?
Restaurant after restaurant, with waiters and maitre d’s all but hawking their wares. People, sitting al fresco, enjoying their drinks (more often than not, sour apple martinis), speaking with their friends either in person or via their cellular appendages, in a cacophony of tongues. Parents pushing their baby carriages. Many people with dogs, of all breeds and sizes. Older children frolicking about, including among the fountains that I myself had dipped my chubby fingers into when I was little. Adolescents skateboarding, rollerblading, taking a drag on their cigarettes, doing anything they could to appear “cool.” And, of course, speaking into their cell phones.
So these are the people who, like me, decided not to attend the South Beach Wine and Food Festival tonight, I mused to myself.
Famished, I finally settled in at Tiramesu, where I’d eaten back in January. Ensconced at a table inside, all I really craved was a small platter of their sublimely al dente pasta, but big eyes steered me toward a carpaccio, first. Adequate enough; too much shaved Parmesan for my tastes. The pasta turned out to be not as perfect as the first time I’d had it, but I still tasted the garlic, two days later.
When the waiter brought me the bill, I perked up, yet again. What in the heck is a Resort Tax, I asked him. I unraveled that one for myself: Miami Beach is a resort, isn’t it? Somehow going across the McArthur Causeway doesn’t resemble going across a chasm.
And yet it is: a chasm across time and space. A chasm called, memory.
I made it back home Friday night, more satisfied than I’d been in a long time.

Neque Deus, Neque Machina: Neither Paean, Nor Diatribe

2006-02-14T14:29:00.000-08:00

What's a former Classicist waiting for an over-the-top outsourcing session to crackle its way toward some kind of conclusion to do? (Note I didn't write, "inexorable.") Gently--oh, so gently--spoof her favorite Latin lyric poets, that's what.

By the way: Happy Valentine's Day!

NEQUE DEUS, NEQUE MAQUINA (Neither god, nor machine)

CRUCIA ME, O NEFANDISSIME (You torture me, o vilest metal box!)
ACERVE METALLICE!

MISERA PUELLA, (Unhappy girl,
IN SELLA SEDES, (you sit in your chair,
PARVUM UMBRACULUM INTUERIS. (staring at a tiny screen.)

QUID EST HAEC RES DIABOLICA (What is this diabolical thing
OCULO TUO VITRUM ILLINERIT? (that causes your eyes to glaze over?)

NEQUE DEUS, NEQUE MACHINA (It is neither a god, nor a machine.)
EST.

POTIUS, CARA DEA, (Rather, dear goddess,
VOLUNTAS TUA (it is your will
QUAE DIEM CEPIT! (that has taken the bull by the horns--literally, that has
(seized the day!)

Mihi ignoscite, O carissimi poetae!

FOR STEELE COMMAGER 6/25/05

Those Oldies But Goodies

2006-01-30T13:01:00.000-08:00

"Those oldies but goodies remind me of you..."

This is what I thought about one day at Roma Bakery as I was ordering a croqueta and a cangrejito. It led to my writing, "Those Oldies But Goodies." Below you'll find my revised version. Somehow it found its way to the desk of a Saveur magazine editor. In its final form, it appeared in last January/February's issue, as Number 44 on the Saveur 100 list. Those oldies but goodies, indeed.

THOSE OLDIES BUT GOODIES

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

The other day, I was grabbing a quotidian quick bite. A “Cuban quick draw lunch,” as I’m now calling croquetas con galletas. Croquetas – or croquettes – are short, stubby fried snacks that remotely resemble what a larger cocktail sausage would look like. A member of the family of the (almost) infinite variety of Spanish appetizers known as tapas, these little tidbits contain a variety of fillings mixed with flour, egg… and, according to an elderly Cuban gentleman in the know, with Béchamel sauce.
Once formed into these sausage wannabes, croquetas are rolled in cracker meal, more egg, and more flour, and then they’re deep-fried. Once they’ve cooled down, you grab them with your fingers and consume them. Right? I’d been exposed to croquetas all my life, but I didn’t realize there’s a “special” way of eating them.
A while back, one of my father’s friends from “the old days,” Debesa, invited me to join him for a merienda (snack) at Versailles, one of the – if not the most – popular Cuban restaurant on Calle Ocho. Calle Ocho – or Southwest 8th Street – is the heart of the Cuban community in Miami. He ordered a platter of four croquetas, which arrived at our table, piping-hot, along with at least four packets of galletas (crackers). My first instinct was to grab one, as I always have. However, not wishing to appear indelicate, I had begun to delicately pick away at one with my fork. Wrong.
I don’t remember if Debesa was dismayed, merely shook his head, or whatever, but he proceeded to show me how you’re supposed to eat the croquetas. You’re supposed to squoosh them in between the galletas and then consume the “sandwich.” With your hands, of course. After carefully observing this Cuban rite of passage, I began to squoosh and munch away, along with the best of that late-afternoon crowd.
More recently, I performed the ritual on my own. Once again at Versailles, I was grabbing a quick lunch. This time, I was downing un café con leche. It’s these milk-softened, yet heavy-hitting, pick-me-ups that often get me through the midday blues. It feels really good to take my bandejita (little tray) with my croquetas, galletas, and café to one of the little round tables at Versailles Bakery, sit down, gulp and munch away… and, most importantly, watch the world go by.
Different places produce different-tasting croquetas. They come in several varieties: jamón (ham), pollo (chicken), pescado (fish), and queso (cheese). The most important thing, however, is that every bakery, every cafetería, every timbiriche (hole in the wall), every restaurante de categoría (classy joint), is well stocked with croquetas. And galletas.
My “Cuban quick draw lunch” the other day was at Roma Bakery, in Granada Plaza at the corner of Southwest 49th Avenue and Calle Ocho. I’m especially fond of their café con leche. It’s always served piping hot. Sometimes I scald my tongue with it, but I don’t generally care. It’s hot. And that’s the way I like it. As I was really in a bit of a rush, I decided to try them out, croqueta-wise. Do you have any? Yes. What type? Jamón. OK. But, wait, then I saw the cangrejitos, which are little crab-shaped mille-feuille-type pastries filled with a tiny amount of meat.
And that’s when I thought of the old song, “Those Oldies But Goodies.” I asked the counter lady for one croqueta and one cangrejito. On a little plate, on top of a waxy, absorbent paper, she placed my tentempié, along with the requisite packet of galletas. “Tentempié” means to eat on one’s feet. That’s the way you’re supposed to eat Spanish tapas.
I, however, intended to sit down at one of their little round tables to squoosh and munch away. Before I left the counter, I struck up a brief conversation with a woman who had been standing next to me. I commented on the “sweet” pastry at either end of the cangrejito’s “claws.” She agreed. I also told her how the cangrejitos – and the croquetas – reminded me of fiestas de cumpleaños (birthday parties) in Cuba. She agreed. “Those Oldies But Goodies,” indeed.
Copyright, 2004 by Georgina Marrero All rights reserved

Happy Birthday, Panni!

2006-01-24T08:05:00.000-08:00

Monday, January 23, 2006 (Appearing Tuesday, January 24, 2006, a year after I wrote The Quintessential American--blogged Sunday, 9/18/05.)

Happy Birthday, Panni!

She loved Van Gogh; she read Rimbaud, Verlaine, Baudelaire, France, Malraux, and Colette in French; she read Endre and Petofi in her native Hungarian; and she read Life, Time, National Geographic, even The National Enquirer, in English (as well as Hemingway, Charles Kuralt, and Merle Miller's biography of Harry Truman, "Plain Speaking," which never left her bedside). She held Freud in the highest esteem (as well as Albert Einstein and, indeed, Karl Marx: the three most important men of the twentieth century, she called them). Truman, LBJ, and Lincoln were her favorite American Presidents: they made the most dificult decisions as President, she used to say. Her least favorite were Kennedy (for all the obvious Cuban-American reasons); Clinton (though she voted for him in 96); and Jimmy Carter (due to the discharging of many defenseless and needy mental patients from institutions). Her favorite actor was Leslie Howard; her favorite actress, Greta Garbo. In more modern times, she saw great promise in Tom Hanks: "He's going to make it big," she said after watching "Big." She also liked Matthew Broderick after seeing him in "Glory."
She liked Lucy more than Desi, was also fond of Carol Burnett. Peter Jennings was her newscaster--how could he not be, having been married to a Hungarian? While she sometimes watched Ted Koppel after the local news, I'm sure she also caught Letterman (and Leno) from time to time. But I remember--I remember--watching Johnny Carson with her.

Babes 'n Pearls

2006-01-10T16:27:00.000-08:00

At long last: my 2005 holiday vignettes. Happy New Year!

BABES ’N PEARLS (AND OTHER OBSERVATIONS, 2005 HOLIDAY SEASON)

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

There are diamonds, pearls, emeralds & rings
None of these jewels show me a thing
I want only, only, only, I want your love
(Oo oo oo oo oo de oo)

Your eyes, your lips set me on fire
Your love, your kiss, my one desire
I want only, only, only, I want your love
(Oo oo oo oo oo de oo)

To hold me (oo oo oo oo oo de oo)
To kiss me (oo oo oo oo oo de oo)
To thrill me (oo oo oo oo oo de oo)

I don't want a chance for the gold
Just want someone to have & to hold
I want only, only, only, I want your love
(Oo oo oo oo oo de oo)
Your love (oo oo oo oo oo de oo)
Your love

--Powers/Tyler, 1960
Sung by The Paradons
Number 18 on The Top 40 List, 1960

It’s Sawgrass Time, 11/21/05: sometime during the week right before Thanksgiving, it’s Sawgrass Time—the last time I hit the Sawgrass Mall before the holiday frenzy. I’d been to the Dolphin on 11/16/05, after I’d committed Neiman-Marcus’ “New Jewelry Arrivals” postcard to my subliminal memory, and had deliriously and happily (really) come away with several John Hardy pieces. So I figured the Sawgrass store would have even more treasures. Alas, nothing really new: some jeans with lace-up ties that in the long run are probably going to drive me more rather than less crazy (but they were a good buy). However, at the Saks outlet, while deliberating the purchase of a sparkly Longchamps bag I probably would have discarded sooner rather than later (I didn’t get it), I found myself surrounded by more employees than customers, all rushing to get ready. When I politely commented on the scenario, a salesperson responded, “Just wait a few days.” Well, no. That’s why I say when it’s Sawgrass Time.

The Princess and The Toothpick, Gilbert’s Bakery at TJ Maxx Mall across from The Falls, 11/22/05: on my way to the TJ Maxx and Marshall’s in The Falls area, I stumbled onto a Gilbert’s Bakery. Familiar with the Red Bird Shopping Mall’s store, I was totally unprepared for the subdued lighting, tasteful colors and décor of the establishment. (Nor, as it turned out, for the upscale prices.) Being in South Miami, I figured it served a mixed clientele, and asked the counter person as much. Indeed: both Latins and gringos partake of the delicately layered sandwiches, the miniature pastries, and sumptuously decorated cakes (as well as the hardier—and more typical—fried and baked fare generally available at Cuban bakeries). I couldn’t resist: “Jewish American Princesses”? Indeed, the counter person continued. At least two women fitting the description had squawked at the prospect of eating a tidbit with a toothpick stuck in the middle, especially if it happened to be the last one left on a tray. “What if someone had touched it?” They had supposedly said. It all depends on whom, I guess, whereupon the server placed a rolled up whatnot on my plate, with toothpick attached, and all. I ate it.
What if it had been my sweater knitting ex mother in law on the eve of my marriage?
What if, indeed?

Palmetto Beltway, 11/23/05: at the end of another day chock-full of gallivanting about, I decided to tackle the Marshall’s at the Mall of the Americas. On the Wednesday night right before Thanksgiving, imagine. Inching up Eighth Street, and then crawling up the Palmetto, just for one exit? Easier than going up Flagler, I’d figured. In the midst of all the virtually dead-ended traffic, an image came into my mind of the one time I’d tackled the DC to Virginia Beltway during the morning rush hour. That had been more than at a standstill: that had resembled a parking lot. This evening reminded me of that, and so, on this Wednesday right before Thanksgiving, 2005, I officially dubbed 826 “The Palmetto Beltway.”

Feeding Frenzy, 11/25/05: the day after Thanksgiving is traditionally considered the busiest shopping day of the year, right? I couldn’t resist…plus I was genuinely in the market for a new sound system. So I began to head toward BrandsMart in South Miami (except I couldn’t remember where it was and drifted down US 1 until about The Falls, then up and down Kendall Drive, until a kind soul redirected me down, down US 1 to Cutler Ridge). I queued up in the left-hand turning lane, fast forwarded (a la Miami) just as the signal was changing…and a stern-looking policeman almost handed me my first moving violation. But he didn’t. Shaken, but not disheartened, I proceeded to park and shop for my first true-blue sound system in I’m not sure how long. Surrounded by a sea of people, the fun was just beginning: anyone who’d purchased anything bigger than s/he could carry then had to go to the loading dock. An increasingly impatient throng of us waited, and waited, to see our merchandise, let alone to hear our names being called above the din. Keen-eared and nimble people were darting and grabbing all around me, just like sharks immersed in a feeding frenzy. Finally I saw the JBL and Onkyo boxes; jumping, making myself heard, I even got some special assistance from a very kind young man. On the lookout for the stern cop, I carefully made a right-hand turn, headed back up US 1, and came home.
PS I’m so smart: I’d bought the speakers and a receiver, but no audio player, so I had to return on 11/27/05. This time I went to the BrandsMart up the Palmetto. The crowd had stretched all the way to the highway on the 25th, a salesperson informed me. Imagine: probably even more cops, possibly even more Miami drivers…and even more of a feeding frenzy?

Chili Bath, 11/26/05: For a light repast in between shopping excursions, I indulged in a dim sum lunch at the Tropical Chinese Restaurant. My standard: tripe; bok choy; white rice…and spoonful after spoonful of hot chili paste. I’m giving myself a chili bath, I chuckled to myself as I ate.

Michelin Munchkins: (Throughout the holiday season): This year I saw a parade of Santas; Frostys; Snoopys; Winnie the Poohs (and Tigger, too); Penguins; A Nativity Scene; and, finally, a Christmas tree gracing the front lawns of mansions and hovels alike throughout the Metropolitan Miami area. Helium-filled latex wonders, one and all.
N.B.: the largest Santa of all that traditionally greets holiday crowds at the intersection of LeJeune and Miracle Mile is made out of plastic, Santa’s Helper Frank informed me: he couldn’t resist touching it.

Chasing Pollock, Art Basel, 12/1/05: I free-spiritedly meandered through the humongous Art Basel exhibit at the Miami Beach Convention Center, encountering a young Asian art editor with whom I could share my delight in Indonesian art, as well as an older art newspaper editor—also from New York—who encouraged me to enjoy the show. Upon informing him of my childlike perspective, he said, so much the better. Write about the show, and send it to him. Telling him I now appreciate Jackson Pollock, that I didn’t twenty-five years ago, he told me there were a few Pollocks to be found in Exhibition Hall D. So I set forth on my chase:

Chasing Pollock: Observations of a Thursday Afternoon

By Ninina Mameyez, Yoyi Gooch, and Georgina Marrero

There it was: Sun-Scope, 1946. I saw a yellow background, with blue legs and orange triangles. I saw a black turkey, a red stomach, a red arrowhead being grasped by an orange claw with blue nails. I saw a smiling black star (or wheel?) with spokes…and a beard.

An early Pollock and, I gather, “A significant piece,” as a rather corpulent (and self-important) gentleman indulgently informed me as he passed by.

Pollock before he dripped paint onto his canvases. I liked it very much.

Other things I saw:

A Robert Rauschenberg with a pig, a cow, and a monkey; with #25 and green Ralston Purina Checks in the background; with old wallpaper, a ruler…and what looked like either a decaying jack-o-lantern or a squooshy, dented, moldy tomato.
Several hundred thousand dollars, if I remember correctly.

Khaki globes: different parts of the world covered in khaki with pictures of soldiers underneath the globes. One of the more innocent anti-American foreign policy statements: some of the others upset both Ninina and Georgina, and she doesn’t want to write about them. At least, not yet.

I jumped up and down when I saw Babes ‘n Pearls: I spotted a woman wearing a bracelet with babes ‘n pearls. She got it in Brussels, she said.
Other artists I could understand:

Cy Twombly: pencil marks and splotches; crayon scrawls, too.

Klaus Oldenburg: he writes!

Max Ernst’s shapes also made sense. Actually, they were very nice.

Cover your eyes, Ninina: then I saw a teddy bear with a penis (!); and a dog lying down in his basket, surrounded by his rawhide bones (whew).

This made more sense to Yoyi: From a Zurich gallery, a photo of Sarah Jessica Parker as Carrie Bradshaw with a big circle at the point her hand touched her forehead. She also had yellow streaks over her torso, as well as an independent (?) streak—transparent—going through the bottom part of her face, until it reached her heart. That’s where the streaks touched. Carrie in love? But of course…

Here, though, I think I’m Georgina all the way. I’d better be: I gave a sartorial English art dealer my link to Comedia ala Mode (See Tru) after glimpsing his exhibit consisting of simultaneous TV’s showing intercourse: a pig with a purse; and two dogs talking. I’ve figured out the pig with the purse, but the two dogs talking? Only a European artist, I noted. Oh, yeah? An American who lives in Paris, the Englishman said.

Gene Kelly???

Nah. With a glass of Perrier Jouet in hand at the respectable hour of five o’clock, I encountered the walls with names—with names of the countries that are anti-American foreign policy. Then I noticed more and more anti-American propaganda: President Bush all but hanging off canvases, etc. The somber tone of the show—Pollock’s cheerful black turkey and red stomach; and Rauschenberg’s pig, cow, and squooshy tomato, notwithstanding—was beginning to catch up with me.

I lingered around Exhibition Hall D about another two hours, going round and round in circles, more than anything else. I was through chasing Pollock.

Though this will never cross your desk, Mr. New York Art Newspaper Editor, thanks for steering me in the right direction. And it’s been a joy to communicate with the young Asian art editor: he was so excited about my Lempad that he actually communicated with me first. Can you believe it?

Spittin’ John(s), 12/8/05: A sign for a Pan-Asian restaurant—Origin Asian Bistro—at the corner of US 1 and Sunset had intrigued me to the point that I finally succumbed this particular evening. Figuring parking would be impossible, I was pleasantly surprised to encounter a valet service. Excellent! As it was a bit breezy (plus crowded) outside, I opted to eat inside. I was so excited: the menu revealed not just Thai, Chinese, and Japanese, but also, Malaysian, treasures. I began to think of my one foray into Malaysia—to Malacca—when my ex and I had taken a bus from Singapore (with me squawking all the way) and returned via a taxi stuck right behind a durian truck. No durian tonight, I imagined…I should have guessed all was not going to be perfect when I was scrunched against a corner and treated somewhat indifferently, but I figured what the hell—where else have I been able to get Malaysian food in Miami? I ordered a lychee sake, which I figured would be a variation on the lychee champagne I’ve happily imbibed at Balans on Lincoln Road. It was. The waitress described several Malaysian appetizers that appeared to be too heavy, so I opted for two pieces of sushi for starters: red clam; and conch. For the entrée, I went Malaysian, that’s for sure: BBQ steak with rice. Yummy! Uh, oh: everything arrived at once. I ate the conch sushi: ok. However, when I started working on the red clam, something appeared to be…off. As inconspicuously as possible, I spit it out into my napkin (cloth, and—fortunately—with enough folds). In the rather empty interior of the place, I fairly quickly realized my gesture had not gone unnoticed…especially when I had to continue spitting out gristly pieces of beef, one after the other, onto the sushi plate. (With my napkin already concealing the red clam glob, I had no choice.) Spit, spit, spit: what the hell. A different waiter collected my plates; I asked for the bill. $25.33+3.77 tip=$29.10. Not even cheap. Hell. As discreetly disgruntled as possible, I departed, handed the valet my stub, and waited for my car. It was then that I paid attention to the other occupant of that particular corner of US 1 and Sunset: BT’s Gentlemen’s Club. A strip club, to be sure, complete with the requisite beefy bouncer in front. We stared at each other; I feigned disgust. (Boy did I have fun.) And then: a stroke of genius. Or, rather, pizza: someone at the club had ordered pizza. From Papa John’s, no less. Papa John’s?
NB: durian is considered to be an aphrodisiac for tigers. Given Western tastes, I daresay there would be a lot of Spittin’ John(s) if this spiky, stinky vanilla-garlic tasting bomb of a fruit were on the menu…at either establishment.

Leapin’ Lisbet, Douglas Road Publix, 12/10/05: Picking up some last minute groceries late in the day, I’d decided to put the Douglas Road Publix where I had done some heavy-duty, frenetic shopping in Wilma’s wake to another test. For some reason, the store continued to be lean on dairy. Standing in line with my Bumblebee Spicy Thai Tuna with crackers, as well as its sun-dried tomato and basil equivalent, I listened to the cashier’s chummy conversation with the person in front of me. She seemed to know him. When she got to me, she proceeded to discuss the tuna with me at great length: a chubby woman, on a perennial diet, I gathered. An instant friendship, with—I checked her nametag—Lisbet. It’s a safe bet the next customer in line became her bosom buddy, and the next, and the next. Jumpin’ Jehosophat! Leapin’ Lizards! Leapin’—Lisbet.

Memories Tartare, Chispa, Altara Avenue, Coral Gables, 12/14/05: In a holiday kind of mood—but not in one to face the increasingly less than fully appetizing Wednesday night crowd at Houston’s—I landed at Chispa. Ever on the lookout for the rainforest martini I’d quaffed there a number of months earlier due to the largesse of a very distinguished gentleman, I once again discovered that, no, no one except one seemingly elusive bartender knows how to create this delectable concoction, replete with a lychee: what is it, with me and lychees? So I tackled a Manhattan, instead. Ugh! Guess I couldn’t handle that much bourbon, after all, so I soon found myself having to nosh. At the relatively empty bar, with a nice, friendly assortment of bartenders, I figured, why not. (My previous visit had been so unpleasant, given the condescending bartender on duty at the time, that I’d actually walked out and sworn I would never return. Well—maybe not ever…) After asking the purposely bald as a billiard ball bartender everything I could possibly think of about the various ceviches, I opted for the tuna tartare. David (that’s his name) brought me bread and this bean dip of theirs as I was waiting for my appetizer entrée. With all that bourbon (and sweet vermouth: yuck! Double yuck!) in my system, I’d wolfed down a chunk of the bread, spread with some dip, before the tuna tartare arrived. And then I tasted it: star anise. My ex used to put star anise in his Chinese dishes—his beef dishes, if I remember correctly. I was so sure it was star anise, I had David, and a young lady who’d joined him, proceed to try to ask the chef if it was star anise. No: the answer came back definitively. No. I was crushed. I’d been so sure it was star anise in that tuna—no, memories—tartare.

The After Party Glaze, Versailles, 12/25/05: out for a bite before hitting the movies on Christmas Day, I was glad Versailles was open (as was La Carreta). The night before—Nochebuena—claro que no: absolutely not. At two or so on Christmas Day, however, there I was, caught up in the after party glaze. Are they all still hungry, I wondered?

I’m still wondering.

Happy New Year!

2660 words

Santa's Elves

2005-12-24T10:07:00.000-08:00

It's early afternoon on Christmas Eve. Nochebuena. I have a new addition to my family: a one plus year old white female cat with BLUE EYES whom I've named, Bianca. Pictures forthcoming, of course.

This time of the year brings out all sorts of things in people. We've had a doozy: I think I'll save that for my New Year's message. In the interim, here's something I wrote during the 2004 holiday season--I always learn something new at the Dolphin Mall.

May all of us in multicultural, multiracial, multilingual Miami, Florida learn to peacefully coexist with each other. After all, Santa's Elves do. Don't they?

Have a Very Merry Christmas! Feliz Navidad! Jwaye Nowel!

SANTA’S ELVES

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

At the Dolphin Mall last Saturday, I headed out to the parking lot early mid-afternoon with an enormous bag full of goodies, both anticipated and otherwise, from Neiman’s Last Call. As I hadn’t had lunch yet, I was tired, hungry… and, as it turned out, disoriented.
Sure I had parked my Jetta beyond the Friday’s, but within eyeshot of the Dave and Buster’s sign, I began to wander about aimlessly. Realizing this was going nowhere, I flagged down the public service officer in his vehicle with the flashing yellow lights.
Clambering in with my big clumsy package, I apologized, stated I was embarrassed. Don’t be, the youngish man said, this happens all the time. So he began to take me up and down the parking rows where I thought we might find my car. And we began to talk.
Adolescents and taxicabs seemed to be on his mind. Underage kids are so nasty, he said. How so, I asked. Their parents drop them off here because they don’t know what else to do with them. So they learn this at home? Yes. How sad.
Many of them are bad apples, he added. So the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree? No.
Could my car be stolen, I inquired. A Jetta? I doubt it, he said. The kids go for Accords and Civics – cars they can drag race. I asked him what they do with them once they’re finished with them. He didn’t know.
However, they don’t touch Beamers, Mercedes, or Jaguars, he stated. Nor SUV’s, I added, looking around at row upon row of them.
Look at those taxicabs lined up in front of the mall, he stated. To be sure, upwards of ten cabs were lined up both horizontally and perpendicular to the front entrance. A Miami-Dade cop’s giving the cabbies tickets like crazy, because they’re driving him crazy, he said. With exasperation in his voice, he added, and I warned them.
Are there lots of policemen around, I asked. Yes, many undercover and plain clothes ones, especially now during the holidays. I mentioned I know an elderly woman who was one of the first women detectives on the City of Miami police force. Sometimes she showed up at her son’s school in her “street clothes” – i.e., her prostitute cover. That’s impressive, he said. Yes, I repeated, she was a pioneer.
Staring at the cabs yet again, I commented, this isn’t a mall – it’s a hotel.
We’d inched our way up and down the rows to the left and to the right of the mall entrance. It didn’t help that there are two Dave and Buster’s signs. The one to the right’s deceptive, he said. Yes. However, I was still sure this was the one I had used as my marker. Sure enough, we found my car where I had stated it would be. I must have walked right by it, in my fatigue and hunger induced haze. I thanked him profusely.
Early on in our conversation, he’d mentioned something about Santa’s Enchanted Forest. As he was dropping me off, he commented on how glad he was this Tropical paradise is open during the holiday season. We don’t miss them, he said.
You mean the elves, I asked. Yes. Let Santa’s elves make mischief somewhere else.
Dropping my bundle in the trunk, I returned inside for several more hours. Whatever elves had stayed around to wreak havoc did so in discrete little groups of boys with their shaved heads, chain-linked jeans, motorcycle or rock group emblazoned T-shirts, and tough scowls. In turn, the girls, with their bare – and sometimes flat, sometimes bulgy – midriffs, their long, curly Cleopatra-type locks, their overly sweet perfume, their wobbly heels, and their teeny-tiny purses, also clustered, either giggling… or scowling worse than the boys. Playing grown-up’s a hard game to win.
On the way back to my Jetta, I caught a glimpse of both older and younger elves, sipping margaritas, mojitos, or Johnny Rockets milkshakes, listening to a loud South American band, strolling (or being led around in strollers), enjoying the first weekend of the 2004 holiday season. Merry-making, as it were.
Give the mischief-makers a chance. We’re all Santa’s Elves, after all.

Copyright, 2004 by Georgina Marrero 700 words All Rights Reserved

The Bovine Colossus

2005-12-09T06:40:00.000-08:00

Idly Googling "Miami Lakes cows" yesterday as lazily as the fine specimens cited in the following have (until fairly recently?) chewed their cud, I came up with not one, but two (!) companion pieces that came out in The Herald just pre-Katrina (which would explain why I wasn't paying attention).

It's time. Behold, The Bovine Colossus. Moo.

THE BOVINE COLOSSUS

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

There’s a new restaurant in Miami Lakes. Driving by it, I stared at its name. I had to drive by it again, and actually had to pull into its parking lot. I stared again, still in disbelief. Buca di Beppo Immigrant Italian Dining, it calls itself. Immigrant Italian? I could not help envisioning Italian immigrants bypassing Ellis Island, and disembarking onto this restaurant’s brand-new parking lot. Instead of the Statue of Liberty, the huddled, tax-exempt Graham cows welcome them. Indeed?
In mild-eyed wonder, the cows graze – and gaze – upon the Miami Lakes Common. The new extension of Main Street, which now extends to the other side of Ludlam Road, separates two modern-day Gangs of Miami Lakes, Buca di Beppo, and Tony Roma’s. “Keep ancient grudges, you single-storied saloons of gluttony!” they cry out, silently.
Our immigrants and cows alike are neither tired, nor especially poor. On the contrary, they are well fed… in every sense of the word. After their meals – either indoors or at the trough – they equally yearn to breathe free, unpolluted air. As long as they all steer clear of the freshly laid asphalt, they stand a chance.
Their teeming, steaming refuse piles up, either in the dumpster, or in the grass. Homeless they are not. Drive by the benches lining the upper reaches of Calle Ocho to spot those who truly are, who alternate their time between ranting and raving at the thin air, and lying, motionless, in their never-ending quest to gain access to the buses. Go to the shore of the Miami River – or, better yet, to Cayo Hueso – to find the tempest-tossed. Find the lamp beside the golden door of the Wachovia branch right across the street from the cow pasture. Or, perhaps, hop onto the Palmetto Expressway; get off at Northwest 36th Street, and head west to the Spa at the Doral. If your eyes glaze over, proceed immediately to DA BEECH. The Delano awaits your pleasure.
Meanwhile, back in Miami Lakes: try to pet the cows. Worse yet, take their picture. The Graham cows are not as forgiving as Lady Liberty. Take my word for it. Moo.
Copyright, 2003 by Georgina Marrero 356 words All rights reserved

Anatomy of a House

2005-11-14T05:43:00.000-08:00

For roughly six hours Monday morning, October 24, 2005, Wilma did everything she could to try to get into this house.

She slammed against this front window, hurricane panels, notwithstanding, almost turning them--the panels, that is--yellow with months-old black olive pollen residue. She desperately tried to ruin the bougainvillea. A few blossoms valiantly withstood her attack.

She knocked repeatedly against the outside of this door. Knocked? She banged, shook, rattled it even more than she did the panels. She whistled in and out of its sides. She let several bucketfuls of water seep in underneath (though--to be fair to her--not as much as her first cousin Katrina had splashed in). At least several times I was consumed with curiosity as to why she was so intent on entering. Fortunately I never made it to the how.
Never good at directions, now I know: her southeastern 110 to 120 mph punches could have blown this door in.

This palm tree escaped her wrath because I'd had it removed several months earlier. Just in case...The mango tree to its left was slated to be next. Hugging the house as it does, however, it withstood her onslaught (and possibly yielded some protection). It's more than earned its reprieve.

Those black olives--aah, those black olives--fell and all but encased the house on both sides of this southeastern corner of the block. The street light's wiring fell and became entangled in the midst of the melee on this side of the house.

In the unaccustomed to pitch blackness sun room, at around 1 a.m. on post-Wilma Tuesday, I got through to FPL. It was essential to report any downed power lines that were imminently life-threatening, FPL's automated system kept informing us, over and over. A crew from Hialeah showed up the following Sunday just to repair the line, much to the neighborhood's dismay.

I'd been so scared the metal-framed awning covering the back porch would blow away. Like the mango tree, it held its ground. The table and chairs, however, were safe and secure inside the garage.

The garage held the car, the treadmill in a corner, and the table, chairs, trash cans and every other possible projectile in the back. That TV hasn't been around in awhile.

I'd also been scared her howling, clanging, and banging had blown the garage door wide open, but, as the awning and the mango tree, it held its own. That's a now truly defunct mango tree on the right.

For almost two weeks, I continued to traipse through the hallway-like living and dining rooms, usually preceded by a narrow beam of light. Note the old living room furnishings, and both original chandeliers in place. There have been some changes...

...in the kitchen, however, it was business as usual. I didn't have to dump much in the refrig that mattered, with the sad exception of my penultimate bottle of Key West habanero hot sauce. I learned to make do with multi-course dinners consisting of increasingly wilted lettuce, with olive oil and balsamic vinegar splashed on to the dancing beam of a Rayovac floating lantern; pop-open, ready to eat containers of chicken with stars, spaghetti rings, or mini-raviolis; Baskin-Robbins flavored puddings; and 100-calorie peanut-shaped Planters peanut butter flavored treats. Definitely my favorite part of the meal. All washed down with the remnants of a bottle of Piper-Hiedsieck. But that's another story.

For the first time since I moved into the house, I neglected the study. Note the old desk, the old computer--
I can't believe I'm writing this, but I didn't miss it. Any of it.

Ditto for the kitschy bathroom, except that I actually contemplated taking a cold shower there.

But it was in the white-tiled master bathroom where I braved the waters, after holding out for my last warm shower until I wasn't sure when until post-Wilma Wednesday night. By the soft glow of candlelight, I luxuriated in this shower as a soon-to-be chilled to the bone wet woman lathering, and rinsing. I learned to dart after that, or did what I've been told I do best: I pretended. With a spritz of Jo Malone Nutmeg and Ginger Shower Gel in hand, I darted; pretended; darted; pretended. Anything is possible if you believe.

Important enough to include. Trust me.

And this is where I hung out most of the time, pre, during, and post Wilma, during the better part of two weeks: on the bed in the master bedroom. The following array of tools, gadgets, and accompanying whatnots became my best friends: flashlights; a tape recorder; audiobooks (I only made it as far as Frank McCourt's preparing to go fight in the Korean War: his lilting brogue kept lulling me to sleep); my night blinders and ear plugs; and the all-important battery-powered TV, with extra batteries on the ready. I quickly unplugged the 5+ Gigaherz metallic wonder phone and replaced it with my pink Barbie land line one. I lowered the lamp to the floor and placed candles on the nightstand. Night after night, I lit them, thereby reserving the floating lantern and the regular flashlight for forays into the dark, yet not unwelcoming, unknown. Ginger Peach: I chose a Ginger Peach candle at the Winn-Dixie to accompany the rapidly dwindling Indonesian leaf and raffia-encrusted one, part of my dear friend Harvey's birthday gift set from several years ago. Ginger must be soothing to the soul...Toward the end, my Coral Gables friend, Ceres, provided me with a sturdy flame that brightened the room up all the more.
I slept; ate; spilled mini-raviolis all over the top sheet; and, for all intents and purposes, lived in the bed. My increasingly smelly, messy, yet ultimately comforting bed.

Olivia kept me company.

So did Mis Dos Papitos (I only have a picture of him in his most recent incarnation).

So did Panni.

And so did I. For the anatomy of the house in which I live is, ultimately, the anatomy of me.

Thanks for helping me crack the egg wide open, Wilma!

Now, begone!

October 16, 1978

2005-10-16T07:02:00.000-07:00

The weekend that His Holiness passed away, memories of long-ago thoughts, of people long-removed, yet omnipresent, flooded over me.
Dolores, this is for you.

IN MEMORY OF POPE JOHN PAUL II (1920 – 2005)

VIGOR
BY GEORGINA MARRERO

It’s raining outside.
Soft, at first:
Then torrents.
Then soft, again:
Then torrents.

The air is sweet.
Softly filled with the smell
Of the green grass
As it fills my nostrils
On this special day—

Vigor incarnate is leaving us.
Vigor as soft, sweet,
And torrential
As the rain as it descends
Upon the green grass—

As the vigor that helped
Lead us to the green grass…

Of Freedom.

Saturday, April 2, 2005

OCTOBER 16, 1978
BY GEORGINA MARRERO

On October 16, 1978, I climbed into my little Miami blue Volkswagen Rabbit outside my apartment at 1675 Massachusetts Avenue in Cambridge, and drove the nine or so miles to the Ezra C. Fitch School in Waltham. A bilingual teacher with all my credentials in place, I was, nonetheless, considered to be a tutor.
So was Mrs. Dolores O'Brien. In a warm, cozy, wood-paneled basement room congenially divided in the middle by bookcases, Dolores and I carried out our mission as Title VII tutors: she, as the English as a Second Language instructor; and I, as her Spanish Language and Culture equivalent.
No matter: we were two sides of the same coin, mixing, matching, and interchanging children over the course of the school day.
I'd arrived in the Boston area three years earlier. Although I had lived in New York for the three years prior to that, there's something about Boston that screams out, Irish. Perhaps it's the Kennedy legacy? Perhaps it's the Celtics… or now, more proudly than ever, the Red Sox?
Whatever it was, all I knew, back in 1978, was that a sea of Irish surrounded me, a little Cuban-American hybrid. Beginning, of course, with Mrs. O'Brien, her stories of her husband, Bob, and her daughters. I remember one was named Siobhan.
Dolores had been very warm and welcoming from the very beginning. We shared children, resources, funds-even an amused tolerance for our-as it turned out-less than scrupulous boss. She could always get a chuckle, a laugh, or even a hearty guffaw, out of me.
We decorated the room together, yet separately, in a happy style conducive to making our little Kindergartners through sixth graders feel at home. While I cluttered my side of the room with as many bilingual, bicultural visuals as I could get my hands on, I remember Dolores always had a calendar going. One with foliage, one with pumpkins, one with Santa Claus, one with flowers… and, of course, one with shamrocks.
For Mrs. O'Brien, of course, was Mrs. O'Brien. And, of course, there was also her good friend and co-conspirator, Mrs. Anna McMenimen. Mrs. McMenimen happened to be the school secretary, so Dolores was always in the know. Which meant that I was often privy to their flow of sometimes gentle, and sometimes picaresque, gossip.
Much of this gossip often centered on Miss Mary Furdon, our often exasperated, and much beleaguered principal. Exasperated is the operative word, here: if not Miss Furdon, then Anna. At least I knew how to approach Miss Furdon when I had to.
I have a super picture of the four of us and another teacher named Joyce, I think. Judging from the Santa Claus calendar in the background, one of the lovely, extremely artistic fraternal twins from Puerto Rico who graced our classroom as our student teachers during the fall of 1978 took that picture some time in December.
The Suarez twins might or might not have been there October 16, but Dolores and I were. It was a Monday.
News didn't travel as fast then, but I'm sure we heard while we were at school that day: Habemus Papam. We have a Pope: Karol Wojtyla.
A Polish Pope? I remember asking myself. Everyone was shocked-not just the Italians. I'm sure our little group at school discussed it.
Then I returned home to Cambridge and probably listened to the TV coverage. I may have been young - 24 at the time - but not that young that it didn't sink in.
A Polish Pope. What would it mean?
I hadn't really paid much attention to Popes, especially as a young child. After all, I was baptized at age four so that Castro wouldn't send me to Russia, along with other "unwashed" children. My equally hybrid parents didn't think of it, until then.
But they then rushed to include me as a little, yet significant, "aside" in the more "normal" baptism of my godparents' newborn daughter.
And, when we arrived in the States, I duly went to Catechism and celebrated my First Communion when I was eight. I still remember being terrified before my first - and only - Confession.
I also remember that the Pope at the time was a rotund man named John XXIII. Hard to forget, for me: XXIII. 23. My number.
The date was May 12, 1963. The Pope passed away just under four weeks later, on June 3, 1963. I'd been born during Pius The Twelfth's Papacy, but Pope John had been both my Baptism and First Communion Pope. So now, who?
I remember Paul VI as a slender, serious-looking, scholar. As I sporadically attended Mass, especially when I was directed to while I attended summer camp, I also, only sporadically, paid attention to him. But whenever I did, I gave him my full respect.
When he passed away and John Paul I ascended to the Throne of St. Peter, I was about to begin my second year as bilingual tutor at the Fitch School. Thirty-three days later - September 28 - was a Thursday. We must have heard the news of the new Pope's sudden demise while at school that day, too.
What was going on? I probably figured he had been infirm. Was the Vatican aware of his condition? I'm asking myself that, now, on the heels of learning about the conspiracy theories that surround his death.
The school was abuzz. I'm sure I sat in on many a discussion between, especially, Mrs. O'Brien and Mrs. McMenimen.
But here we were. The Conclave of Cardinals had reconvened, and a Pole named Karol Wojtyla had been named the new Pontiff. I remember the coverage about how to pronounce-let alone, spell-his name. John Paul II soon became much easier to handle.
What would it mean? We quickly found out. The new Pope visited his homeland. Solidarity. Lech Walesa. President Reagan: "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall." I visited my aunt and uncle in a free Romania.
I now paid attention, albeit at a respectful distance.
Pope John Paul II ascended to the Papacy when I had just turned twenty-four. Twenty-six plus years later, he's gone. He will have been the Pope of my youth to early middle age.
Although I have never formally confessed, nor taken Communion, since my First Communion, there is a bond I have never been able to loosen. I remember only The Lord's Prayer, so I have to mumble along whenever I attend Mass, mimicking others. And yet…
… I could not help not taking note of the date - October 16, 1978 - when Karol Wojtyla became Pope.
And I could not help remembering where - and with whom - I was. With some lovely Irish ladies who were probably providing this hybrid with nourishment I wasn't even aware I was imbibing.
Rest In Peace, Your Holiness.
For Dolores O’Brien. Sunday, April 3, 2005

Neither 10/12/02 Nor 10/1/05: My Bali

2005-10-04T21:01:00.000-07:00

A five-time visitor to The Enchanted Isle since 1987, the bombings in 2002 and, again, just the other day, hit deep. Here's the first piece I wrote after my third trip, in 1993: Bali and Its People: A Love Affair. Always.

BALI AND ITS PEOPLE: A LOVE AFFAIR

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

The things that I have loved most in my life are often the things I liked least when I was first introduced to them. This is how I feel towards Bali, the small, culture-rich island that is the Indonesian archipelago’s crown jewel. During my first trip there, in 1987, I was mainly preoccupied with what I perceived to be the squalid sights and smells of the place. Appalled by the open sewers, the squat toilets, and the brisk selling – and consumption – of unsavory-appearing morsels, I was even more dismayed by the consistent lack of air-conditioning, hot water, and sometimes even electricity. A healthy dose of “culture shock”: that’s what I was experiencing at the time (although I wasn’t aware of it). On the contrary: I was so overly concerned with my creature comforts that I never really let myself take a good look at the place. However, I did like the smiling, friendly Balinese people even then. Without my realizing it, the seed had been planted for my return.
My second trip, in 1989, proved to be eminently more enjoyable. The streets had been cleaned up a bit; I had (more or less) mastered the use of squat toilets; the electricity no longer disappeared during each and every rainstorm; the food was more appealing, both in smell and in taste; and – most importantly – my eyes were finally opening to the wonders of the place. I now beheld the rice terraces fashioned like stairs into the sides of the hills, stretching as far as the eye can see; the iridescent blue-green lagoon at Candi Dasa; the pink chicken in Tenganan, the Bali Aga (“Old Bali”) village where animals and plants are still worshipped, rather than the Hindu gods; and the women moving in stately procession towards the pura (temple) during festival days, with trays piled high with fruits, flowers, and sweets as offerings to the gods perched daintily – yet precariously – on their heads, while the men gathered at the cock fights. The cremation of a fourteen-year-old boy moved me greatly, as I joined mourners and tourists alike in the solemn, yet joyful, procession. Listening to the gamelan players, and viewing the lighting of the funeral pyre with kerosene, I felt nothing short of awe, watching it burn. This time not only had the Balinese people continued to win me over, but I had also fallen in love with Bali itself. There was no doubt in my mind that I would return.
I returned to Bali in 1993. Accustomed to early summer tourist traffic – when Americans seemed to overrun the island – I discovered that, as mid-to-late summer is European holiday season, many of my fellow paradise seekers now hailed from Germany, France, the United Kingdom, Italy, and Scandinavia. In addition, Aussies always abound, as they have to travel a mere three hours to get to Bali as compared with everyone else’s fifteen to thirty hour treks! A new group of visitors had discovered Bali: the Japanese. There were now busloads of them… with tour guides and cameras in tow.
The influx of Japanese tourists was but one of the many changes that seemed to have taken place in Bali over the course of my four-year absence. The street smells were now virtually non-existent; air-conditioning had become more prevalent; and a brief lack of electricity went for the most part unnoticed. In addition, the airport had been completely refurbished; the highways had been widened to accommodate the increasing number of tour buses and pleasure vehicles; and boiled water (for drinking) was now guaranteed in all but the smallest warung (restaurant).
However, in the midst of all the changes and increased tourism on their island, the Balinese people continue for the most part to lead their lives as they have for centuries. They still prepare and distribute the daily offerings (little baskets made of young coconut leaves, which are filled with flowers, banana leaves topped with a few grains of rice and grated coconut, and with a few incense sticks stuck into the baskets before they are lit to release their fragrant scent right before they are distributed in front of entranceways, statues, and wherever else custom dictates). They still cremate their dead, usually in mass cremations where often no fewer than eight to ten funeral pyres are lit. A wondrous spectacle to behold, made even more so by the Hindu belief that those being cremated will soon be reborn, hopefully having earned a better station in life. They continue to cultivate their rice fields, which from afar look like mirrors in which one can almost see one’s reflection. They dote on their children and grandchildren. They play their gamelans. They weave their ikat cloth. They fashion their carved masterpieces out of ebony, mahogany, sandalwood, and even tree trunks. All of these rituals and skills have been passed down from one generation to the next. They are all but a tiny part of the incredibly rich culture and sense of tradition that these extraordinary people possess.
It is to the Balinese people’s immense credit that they have managed to imperturbably proceed on their well-ordered paths in life, at the same time that they have assimilated only as much of modern-day culture as their needs dictate. Justifiably proud of this accomplishment, a number of the islanders indicated to me that they are, nonetheless, also wistful for the days before bumper-to-bumper traffic on their highways, an increase in crime (primarily theft), land over-development, and mass commercialism. I found myself feeling the same way: during the summer of 1993 I almost craved the dusty streets of old, the wayward electricity, and the undisturbed expanses of land that I remembered from the late 1980’s.
I have a love affair with Bali, and with its people. The island itself is an earthly taste of paradise, to be sure. It is the Balinese themselves, however, who continue to enthrall me. They are a people who are open and caring and who share with you if you share with them. The peasant woman walking along the side of the road with a basket perched precariously on her head still smiles at you if you smile at her. The young shopkeeper is still eager to impress you with her knowledge of English. The artisans still aim to impress you with their skill. The server in the restaurant still beams approvingly when you finish your plate. Five times, and counting: I’m not finished with you, yet.
Revised 2003 version of original 1993 manuscript 1075 words All rights reserved

Tres Aguitas and Seventy Years

2005-09-20T16:08:00.000-07:00

From Jerry Wilkinson, History of Upper Matecumbe Key Website.

TRES AGUITAS AND SEVENTY YEARS
BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Tuesday, September 20, 2005, 5 p.m.: The National Hurricane Center just lifted the Tropical Storm Warnings from Miami-Dade and Broward Counties. I’m breathing a sigh of relief.

About an hour before, I’d been watching the removal of debris from US 1 in the Lower Matecumbe area. Upper Matecumbe is now known as Islamorada.

Lots of flooding in the Upper and Middle Keys: the Overseas Highway had HAD to be cleared, or else no one could have reached the folks in the Lower Keys.

Not too bad in Key West, the city’s mayor stated within the last hour. Rita’s done less damage to our Southernmost City than either Dennis or Katrina, he said.

The bad stuff’s still coming down in the Middle Keys.

Matecumbe: what a pretty name. I always notice it on the way down. Upper, and Lower

A BIG one. A HUGE one, hit the area in 1935. It’s still known as the Labor Day Hurricane. It destroyed about forty miles worth of tracks, on Henry Flagler’s Overseas Railroad. The eye stretched from Craig (yes, there was a family named Craig) to Long Key.

The township of Craig boasted—and still boasts—the lowest barometric pressure ever recorded on the mainland of the United States: 26.35 inches.

The Hurricane of 1935 was a Category 5 storm. Twenty-five years later, Category 4 Donna again wreaked havoc in roughly the same area.

Seventy years later, along comes Category 2 Rita. It’s pounding Marathon as I write this.

For all intents and purposes, we in Dade and Broward Counties got away with tres aguitas.

As Rita proceeds on her headlong rush toward landfall somewhere in Texas, all we can hope for is that a little town, somewhere between Upper and Lower Matecumbe, retains the record it set seventy years ago.

Two Quintessential Americans: Johnny and Dave

2005-09-18T21:06:00.000-07:00

I just finished watching this year's Emmy extravaganza.
Ellen DeGeneres did a fairly good job of hosting it: whatever timing did not go according to plan was certainly not her fault. One of the two best moments of the evening was most certainly when David Letterman paid tribute to his mentor, Johnny Carson. And then Jon Stewart did the same for Dave, which, considering that he walked away with most of the "reality" humor awards for the evening, was especially sweet. Conan O'Brien also appeared to be touched. But where, I wonder, was Bill Maher?

When Johnny passed away, I wrote the following:

THE QUINTESSENTIAL AMERICAN

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

It didn’t dawn on me until this morning: Johnny Carson passed away on my mother’s birthday. She would have liked that, I think, as she herself was quiet, self-effacing… and managed to have perfect timing. Just like Johnny.
It takes a helluva comedian to be able to play the straight to someone else’s funny. Engaging in humor – or, at least, attempting to do so – I’m discovering that as I go along. Perhaps not so much through my written work, but when I come out with something that—for reasons often unbeknownst to me—makes someone laugh, I sometimes take a step back, look at the person quizzically… and only succeed in making her/him laugh even more. I think this is called delivery. And delivery cannot exist without timing.
My mother was great at the delivery and the timing. You’re either born with it, or you’re not. In my opinion, my mother had it. And so did Johnny.
My mother could make me laugh at the drop of a hat. She had the whole ward howling when she peered into a patient’s throat to see just what the unfortunate man had swallowed. He’d swallowed the sole of a tennis shoe. According to my mother’s favorite nurse, my mother peered in, straightened up, and proclaimed: “What a strange appetite.” Her delivery and timing were impeccable. Again, just like Johnny.
Never much of a night owl until recently, I missed many of Johnny’s great moments, so I actually played catch-up, of sorts, last night via NBC and Larry King. Don Rickles, looking very sad, was a guest on both. As I don’t remember seeing Johnny’s farewell in 1992, it felt so good to view Bette Midler deliver her loving, grateful showstopper. Once again: Johnny in the shadows, letting someone else shine.
But then, again, he had an eye for talent. The Divine Miss M, Joan Rivers, Don Rickles, Steve Martin, Jerry Seinfeld, Jay Leno… and David Letterman, to name a few.
David Letterman: well, I’ve gotten in the habit of watching him over the course of the last several years. I confess I prefer his monologue to Leno’s. Now I know why: Johnny continued to feed him jokes. OK. Let me get serious again.
Dave’s the one who’s continued to follow Johnny’s format. The one-line zingers that sway between the sublime and the ridiculous in his snappy, no-frills monologue, making me either howl, titter, or, occasionally, hiss. Paul’s his sidekick, instead of Ed. Rupert G’s Deli; Will It Float?; the girls; the animals; the nerves of his guests; his ongoing feud with Oprah: I follow him much more closely, don’t I?
And I didn’t know until yesterday – I didn’t pay attention until yesterday – to the fact that it was Johnny who mentored Dave.
Then again, I didn’t pay attention until almost the end that my mother was mentoring me.
My mother loved quintessential Americans. Harry Truman, Lyndon Johnson, and Charles Kuralt were among her favorites. She must have watched Johnny. It was probably at her side that I first glimpsed him, when I didn’t know what I was supposed to be on the lookout for.
At least I now have a better idea. I’d better keep watching Dave. Thanks for training him, Johnny.
Monday, January 24, 2005

Beam Me Up, Ernie

2005-09-15T17:03:00.000-07:00

I should have posted this earlier. James Doohan--Scotty in the original Star Trek--passed away while I was sweatily going up and down the streets of Key West this summer. I'll never forget sitting in front of our brand-new RCA Victor color TV on September 8, 1966 to watch the first episode of a brand-new science fiction show that would make stars of a dashing space ship captain; a pointy-eared first officer; his nemesis, a curmudgeonly doctor; three lieutenants: an Asian, a Russian, and--gasp!--an Afro-American...woman; and a flight engineer who bustled about, shaking his head, grasping at controls, always holding the crew of The Enterprise--and us--in suspended animation as, in his thick brogue, he kept saying, "It can't be done!"
I originally posted this on the Star Trek website. Since I changed servers (and browsers), Starship Command won't let me back on board. For now.

BEAM ME UP, ERNIE: BIRTHDAY REFLECTIONS

Notes on the first round of the Papa Hemingway Look-alike contest, Sloppy Joe’s, Duval Street, Key West, Florida, Thursday, July 21, 2005:

Crammed into a corner of the noisy, sweaty, cramped bar closest to the Front Street entrance, I beheld what I quickly dubbed a political convention. What else could it be, with individual Papa supporters waving banners aloft, chanting, and even handing out “bribes” (such as the baggie stuffed with goodies informing me to “Vote for Hank”)?

Democratic, or Republican, I wondered. More like the 2004 Democratic convention on The West Wing than anything else, I came to the conclusion.

Or, perhaps, given the “uniforms” of the candidates, more like a Star Trek convention?

“Uniforms”? Khaki safari shirts with scalloped double layers on the backs; matching shorts; sockless Sperry Topsiders (or hiking boots, with socks); even cableknit sweaters, on the part of several profusely sweating, hearty, and hardy, Papa wannabes.

Anything to obtain “the look.” All orchestrated to attract attention. How could loud shirts, balloon-infested hats, Mr. Spock-like pointed ears and quizzical looks, and Klingonesque furrowed brows and nasty frowns be any different?

The chanting, the cheering, the banner waving began in earnest when the master of ceremonies mounted the stage and introduced all the former Papas in attendance. They’d be the ultimate judges as to who would join them. Or would they?

It would all boil down to caucuses, just like at political conventions, I quickly figured out. Oh, if it were that simple.

The wildly raucous crowd’s roar grew in intensity. Looking around me, everyone was sporting a “Vote for So and So” button; holding a banner or placard aloft with a catchy slogan on it; bobbing up and down; screaming her or himself silly.

For Papas need Mamas: wives; girlfriends; daughters; aunts; cousins; nieces; mothers; even a grandma or two?

Oh, yes: plenty of just plain chums; hangers-on; and bewildered-looking souls such as myself, drinking it all in.

Drinking: ah, that’s the operative word. I’ve never seen more frazzled, yet happier, bartenders.

Someone offered to buy me a beer. I politely declined.

150 contestants were to approach the microphone, 8 at a time, to claim their 15 seconds of fame to Ernest Hemingway’s physical legacy.

The stifling intensity, the growing smell of stale sweat, and soon to be stale beer, drove me away. I awaited the literary legacy’s more subdued reception while sitting on a welcoming stoop on Simonton, steps from Casa Antigua, Ernest and Pauline’s first residence in Key West.

Jotting down these notes, I thought to myself: Sweat. Beer. Humm…

Under The Sweaty Tent: maybe. Sloppy Joe’s resembled a circus, political, and otherwise.

Ernie Heaven. Why not, with all the Papa judges guarding the gates to Papa heaven, just like Saint Peter?

And then I hit on it. Earlier in the day I’d heard that James Doohan, “Scotty” on the original Star Trek, had passed away the day before.

How about, Beam Me Up, Ernie?

I can just hear Scotty saying, in that wonderful brogue of his full of intense exasperation: “It can’t be done.”

Oh, yes, it can.

In Memory of James Doohan
March 3, 1920-July 20, 2005

Lieutenant Ninina reporting for duty, Captain.

Dinner At Arnaud's

2005-09-04T17:24:00.000-07:00

A week ago tonight, I found myself in the midst of a power outage due to Hurricane Katrina. I'd lost my power on Thursday, August 25, just as Maria (Julie Andrews) was getting ready to sing "My Favorite Things" to the Von Trapp children. They were trickling into her bedroom, a few at a time, due to a fearsome storm outside. It's an interesting coincidence that I chose to while away my time with "The Sound of Music," isn't it? It's what had struck me I should do when I'd lost my cable several hours earlier, but not my power. Not quite yet, anyway.
I lived through my first hurricane that night. The eye went over my neighborhood. I wasn't quite sure what was happening. Something told me to look outside; I beheld a huge palm frond gracefully draped over my car. Rushing outside, I was relieved the windshield hadn't broken.
I looked some more. Behind my car, black olive branches--some of them huge--had been snapped off the trees, and were lying, helter-skelter, all over the place. The street was flooded. My across the street neighbors saw me; they called out to me. They invited me to come over, offered me dry clothes, food, and, most importantly, companionship. I shall be forever grateful to them. The next morning, I saw what Katrina had wrought: not only were branches down, but whole trees. What is a hurricane, after all, if not a huge, water-filled tornado?
My neighbors banded together like a family. My golf-course designer one house over pulled that palm frond off my car, as well as the black olive branch off my driveway, as if they were mere sticks. I didn't even have to ask.
Friday was assessment day. Shock, I called it. Then came the cleaning; the realization--the resignation--that we might have to be without power for awhile. We didn't know when FPL would get to us, as we were in one of the most devastated areas of the storm.
I learned to tolerate cold showers. I spent my days at my friend's store, where I kept recharging my computer's battery. Friday became Saturday; Saturday, Sunday. By then we knew Katrina was headed toward New Orleans.
I didn't really get to witness what happened on Monday until Tuesday night, when, miracle of miracles, we got our power back on my side of the street (though it had to be turned off for awhile on Wednesday so both sides could be accommodated - THANKS AGAIN to the wonderful crew from South Carolina!). However, I read the paper, saw the pictures...and cringed, and wept--both inside and out--for the beautiful city of New Orleans, for the total devastation that Katrina has wreaked, is wreaking, and will continue to wreak, on the Gulf Coast.
When I was a child, my father and I took a road trip to Galveston. I was nine years old at the time. What follows is the story that came out of me. What would I do without my mother's old pictures? I don't know. I honestly don't know.
I grieve for you, Arnaud's. For your Glass Bottom Everything.

GLASS BOTTOM EVERYTHING
BY GEORGINA MARRERO
In December of 1963, my father and I went on a road trip to visit some friends of his in Galveston, Texas.
For reasons I don’t know, my mother didn’t go with us. Perhaps she wanted a break from her increasingly difficult pre-teen daughter?
No. I don’t think that was it. It probably had more to do with the fact that we still didn’t have much money. Papi was about to finish his residency at the Jackson, and was trying to decide where he’d go, next. For whatever reasons, Miami seemed to be a dead end, at least for the time being.
He had old friends in Galveston. We were probably on our way to scout out the place.
As it was Christmas vacation, Papi and Mami decided I’d go with him. That’s it!
Although we’d been in the United States for only a little over three years at the time, I knew everything about The American Way. There was only one acceptable motel where we could stay: the Holiday Inn.
I drove my poor Papi nuts about staying at Holiday Inns that trip. He obliged me whenever he could.
We headed toward Central Florida first. Then we cut across the state, hit The Gulf of Mexico, and followed the coastline all the way to Galveston.
I was already a voracious reader, and had begun to collect those hard cardboard, glossy-covered Whitman “young lady” adventure storybooks: Annette Funicello on a ranch; and Donna Parker everywhere. Donna Parker in Hollywood had a pink cover, with Donna wearing a sarong and lei at a luau. Later on I’d discover Trixie Belden.
However, I never bought the Nancy Drew books. They were too expensive.
So I probably didn’t drive Papi nuts every second.
The Ocala area was our first stop. As it was my Christmas vacation, we had to have some fun, right?
Papi took me to Silver Springs, to ride on one of their famous glass-bottom boats. We had our souvenir picture taken, along with the other passengers on our boat.
My packrat of a mother kept the picture. Here’s what I see on Boat 27:
Front and left, you find…me. Already on the chubby side, I’m wearing a light colored sweater, a white shirt underneath, and diamond-checked green and who knows what pants. They were probably corduroy. I’m bottomed out with white socks and the Mary Janes that have continued to follow me throughout my life.
It’s the glasses that get me: I’m sporting a dark frame. They’re more rectangular than the pair I know I’d worn just a few months earlier. Definitely less pointy, they’re almost…modern.
I have my hands plastered, one on top of the other, to the side of my right thigh.
Next to me, Papi’s smiling behind his signature green-tinted half-moons. I think his corduroy shirt was blue.
A couple next to him looks almost Eastern European. The woman’s wearing a head scarf. She’s holding a cigarette in her right hand.
On the right hand side, an extremely attractive couple: a blond with a chignon; and a dead ringer for Kirk Douglas, are both smiling, a little enigmatically, at the camera.
Across from Papi and me is an older couple. The kindly-looking woman is looking at…me!
In between us is the glass bottom of a boat.
I may not remember what I saw, but I do remember wondering what it would be like if the glass bottom broke, and we fell through into the water and who knows what.
We made it to The Gulf Coast next: the West Coast of Florida; Alabama; Mississippi; Louisiana.
We spent at least one night in New Orleans, for I remember we went to Arnaud’s.
Antoine’s vs. Arnaud’s: what a dilemma. It had to be a fancy French meal, and it probably stretched our budget, but Papi made sure I ate in a grand French Quarter restaurant. After all, he’d spent many years in France, and probably wanted me to experience a little piece of his—of Mami’s and his—past.
Antoine’s was a little better known. Alas, they were full, so it was Arnaud’s.
I don’t remember what I ate. Maybe escargots, steak au poivre, and some wonderfully delicious dessert? “Sinfully rich” was not part of my vocabulary, not quite yet.
We continued on to Texas. I remember liking Galveston. Papi was glad to see his friends.
Then we drove back. I continued to eat, to read, and to insist on Holiday Inns.
Did I write a “What I Did Over Christmas Vacation” theme for Mrs. Echevarria? I don’t remember. The country was still reeling from the Kennedy assassination. The Beatles were on their way. We were living in the apartment on 14th Terrace by then.
Eight months later we moved to Georgia. The three of us made the trek down from Milledgeville to Miami at least twice a year over the next four years or so. We usually stopped in Ocala.
Not at Holiday Inns, though. Not all the time, anyway.
We never returned to Silver Springs. And I never traveled alone with my Papi, ever again.
Perhaps now I’d become his increasingly difficult pre-teen daughter?
Maybe.
No. Not really.

On August 25, 2005, Hurricane Katrina went over my house as a Category 1 storm. I didn’t even realize it was the eye. My Good Samaritan neighbors, Heather and Tom Jacobsen, and I kept joking to each over, “Boy, if this is a band from a 1, what must the real 1 be like?”
The morning of August 29, 2005, Category 4-5 Katrina swept in, all but destroying New Orleans.
The glass bottom broke for them. Their Glass Bottom Everything.
I sure wish it had been Katrina’s Glass Bottom Everything, instead.
Copyright, 2005 by Georgina Marrero 952 words First-time worldwide serial rights

Six Feet Under - Ana Raab Marrero, 1913-1999

2005-08-21T19:32:00.000-07:00

Here is a picture of the Raab family in Arad, Romania, circa 1927: my grandmother Ilonka; my mother Panni; my aunt Agi; and my grandfather, Zoltan.

I just finished watching the Six Feet Under series finale. Alan Ball outdid himself at the end. I knew he would; I just didn't know how. In the retrospective right before the final episode, one of the writers made the comment that Ball never wanted to let any story line become too linear. Good for him, I thought.
Every time I watched SFU, I thought of my mother, Ana Raab Marrero. I always felt she'd like the show. Well, perhaps she wouldn't have fully appreciated either the language, or the graphic sexual scenes. She acted as if she were homophobic sometimes. And yet, Oscar Wilde was one of her favorite writers, as was Arthur Rimbaud. Go figure.
The show's inherently wacky realism, and its sometimes outrageous surrealism, would have grabbed her, I always felt. Plus the fact that the show depicted death as something normal that happens to everyone. As a doctor, she would have coolly, calmly agreed.
Yes: this was a show my mother and I could have sat through together, even if she complained half the time. She would have probably provided me with her own running commentary.
For that was Panni Raab Marrero. A woman of few words (except with and about me). In a weird kind of way, Ruth Fisher reminded me of her.
Ironically, I'm getting ready to tackle a project where I have to produce eighteen biographies between 200 and 500 words each. It struck me yesterday: why not write my mother's bio as practice? 500 words? Yes. Ana R. Marrero, and Oscar Wilde: less is more. Here you are:

ANA RAAB MARRERO, 1913-1999
When Ana Raab was a child growing up in the Carpathian Mountains of Transylvania, she never dreamt that she would find her calling on an island ninety miles to the south of a country on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.
In medical school in Paris during the 1930’s, she met her future husband, Federico Efrain Marrero. She presented her thesis on “Nietzsche and Psychiatry” one week before the Nazis occupied Paris.
Ana fled south. In late 1940, Efrain joined her. They married on New Year’s Eve. In 1941 she arrived on Cuban soil, a refugee for the second time in her life.
Ana quickly adapted to her new home. In the process of learning Spanish, she wryly noted that she forgot her Romanian. She spent a considerable amount of time with her in-laws in the countryside, while Efrain was in school in Havana.
She bonded with her father-in-law, a reclusive, intense man who believed in the spirit world. “I listened to him, because no one else would,” Ana used to say.
In a manner of speaking, he became her first patient.
By the time Castro arrived in Havana in 1958, Ana sensed an all-too-familiar scenario. It was only a matter of time before she’d once again become a refugee.
She didn’t have to wait long. At the end of October, 1960, Ana, Efrain, and their daughter, Georgina, arrived in Miami. Efrain immediately began to reestablish himself as a doctor. Ana, however, had been a housewife for almost twenty years.
Shortly after moving to Milledgeville, Georgia in 1964, Ana made a major decision: she would return to medicine. In rapid succession, she passed the qualifying exam for foreign-born doctors; and served as assistant staff physician between 1965 and 1967 at Central State Hospital.
In 1967, she became a resident in psychiatry. She was almost fifty-four years old. In 1970, she returned to Miami, and helped Efrain in his medical practice for two years. A neighbor’s cousin was practicing as a psychiatrist at South Florida State Hospital. With Carmen Salazar’s help, Ana obtained a post there in 1972.
She worked at South Florida State Hospital as a clinical psychiatrist until she turned seventy, in 1983. Beloved by her patients, both young and old; by doctors, nurses, and orderlies, she was presented with a plaque and a Waterford vase when she retired.
The plaque read: “To Our Dear Dr. Ana Marrero, For Your Many Years of Dedication and Loving Care to Patients and Staff at S.F.S.H., From Your Colleagues, Friends and Staff, January 1983.”
As a three-time refugee, Ana considered herself “a citizen of the world.” Into her mid-eighties, she remained au courant about the world around her, belonging, as she did, to the progressive generation that had lived through two World Wars.
Ana was beginning to rediscover her Hebraic roots toward the end of her life. However, she insisted on being cremated.
Her daughter, Georgina, scattered her ashes on the very same Atlantic Ocean Ana had never dreamt she’d cross.
500 words

This is Ninina Mameyez, La Loquita del Zig-Zag.

2005-08-01T19:27:00.000-07:00

Peekaboo, I see you!
You may or may not be able to read the following, but it was the "inspiration" that came out of me after realizing, once and for all, that I AM the product of a Cuban man--an Isleno (the E.T.); and a Hungarian woman (the Lunar woman; to me, Hungarian has always sounded like the "language of the moon"). They met in France. What took me over was a picture of my mother petting a cow in the Cuban countryside, probably soon after her arrival in Cuba in 1941. She's carefully crouching, holding on to her purse with one hand, and petting that cow with her outstretched hand...at a distance. I'd stared at the picture a million times and hadn't seen it. Until I was ready, I guess.
I give you, "La Loquita del Zig-Zag Aterriza":

LA LOQUITA DEL ZIG-ZAG ATERRIZA

POR NININA MAMEYEZ

Hola! Me llamo Ninina Mameyez. Tengo cuatro anos. Vivo en una casa MUY grande! Creo que tiene algo que ver con – AR, ARTE DECO. Que es eso? Tiene dos pisos. Tiene una terraza – por que se llama así? Tiene que ver con la tierra? Paseo mi bicicleta por toda la casa. A mi tata no le gusta: ella me pellizca. No sé por que. Peo – uh, oh! – pero, a mi mami y a mi papi no le importan.
Mi mami vino de la luna. Mi papi, de otro planeta más lejano, afuera de nuestro sistema solar. Solar? El sol? Por lo menos, sé donde esta la luna. Y donde esta el sol. AY, que calor hay acá! Pero yo tengo aire-aicondicionado en mi cuarto. Mami y papi también lo tienen, en el cuarto de ellos. Y, también, en la biblioteca de mi papi. Mi papi tiene muchos libros.
Hay una estatua muy rara en la biblioteca de mi papi. Se trata de una sabina raptando a un fauno. QUE? O, alo mejor, el fauno esta raptando a la sabina. Nunca me acuerdo. Lo que es importante es que es FRANCESA. Todo lo que es francés tiene MUCHA importancia en nuestro país. Los seres extra-terrestriales – los ET’s, verdad? – se consideran como los segundos franceses. Le dan nombres franceses a todo.
Pero, no mi papi... porque el estudio en La Francia. Y, mi mami, también. Ahí se conocieron. Y, después, papi trajo a mami a nuestro país. La trajo al campo, donde la casa era un bohío. Los guitarristas tocaron música. Después, mami pregunto, “Donde esta la casa?” Papi dijo, “Allá.” (El bohío.) Mami tenia ganas de hacer (tu-sabes-que). ¿”Dónde esta el baño?” Papi dijo, “Allá.” (El platanal.)
AY, que lugar, este país de los extra-terrestriales, dijo mami. No creo que estamos ni en la luna, ni en La Francia. Que va a ser de mí? NOOOO!
Me tengo que acostar. Soy una niñita. Buenas no – ches...
Es propiedad de Ninina Mameyez, 2003 340 palabras