Last November, my husband and I signed up for a group tour of Cuba, the only legal way to go at that time. We grabbed the opportunity, knowing that the writing was already on the wall that such tours to study architecture and design would become extinct by January 2004. Just another repressive gem from our current administration. Hearing that I was headed for Havana, my brother said: "You must read OUR MAN IN HAVANA by Graham Greene. The comedic premise of this book is an Englishman living in Havana in the '50's with his teenage daughter. He is a vacuum cleaner salesman, divorced, and trying desperately to provide his child with all of the material things that she desires. But in '50's Havana, a fast lifestyle included private clubs, riding lessons, and fancy clothes. The Englishman needed to find a way to supplement his salary. Slowly but surely, someone begins to approach him to become a spy. A man slinks around in the shadows; notes appear mysteriously.
On our first night in our Havana hotel, my husband and I returned to our room after dinner only to find a note under our door: "Betsy, Call Pamela." Now we knew nobody in Cuba and couldn't imagine how this message had come out of nowhere. It was also strangely mimicking the story I was reading. All of a sudden I was nervous, even shaking, but incredibly curious. I convinced my husband to make the call. It turned out that Pamela is an American married to a Cuban artist. She knew an American Betsy who would be staying at our hotel that week, but couldn't remember her last name. The hotel operator said: "Yes, we have an American Betsy" and put her through to our room. Pamela was immediately open and friendly on the phone. We said we were obviously the wrong Betsy, but could we get together? We wanted very much to see her husband's work.
The next evening, we hopped into a cab and gave the driver an address. As he drove further and further away from our hotel, we asked if he would wait for us while we visited. He communicated that this was not possible. Finally he stopped in front of a building and gestured that this was our destination. We walked through a front gate, along a short gravelly path, and pulled hard on the door knocker. Inside on the first floor, we could hear dogs barking and Spanish chatter. The scent of onions frying was strong. A slim young man, hair pulled back in a ponytail, sneakers on his feet, and a wide smile on his face opened the door and led us upstairs to his apartment above. This was Pamela's husband, Damian, who greeted us as though we had always known him. In fact, the warm embrace of this couple was infectious. They immediately offered us rum drinks and then insisted that we join them for dinner at their friends' "palador". In Cuba, citizens are allowed to have small restaurants within their homes as long as they serve what they're cooking for their own families, employ relatives, and keep the operation on a moderate scale. It's one of the few ways of being entrepreneurial in that country.
Every once in a while in life, there are serendipitous meetings. This was one of those moments. We ate and drank with this couple long into the night, and continued to see them on subsequent evenings. For us, they filled out a bus tour experience that would have been two-dimensional. For them, we were voices from the outside who could convey information and impressions. We also just clicked as people. We continue to e-mail as I worry each time I read news of hurricanes or blackouts caused by serious energy shortages. I work hard fundraising, writing articles and letters as I hope that a change in our administration will open the door to Cuba at least a crack before our embargo and their lack of access to medicines and other basic needs becomes a humanitarian crisis. The US spreads it resources far and wide while it shuns a neighbor 90 miles from Florida. And selfishly, I want to be able to visit our new friends.
Originally a painter, Damian's current work involves metal men which he carves from found objects like refigerators and car parts. Sometimes he uses the men to create giant sculptures which he installs on walls. Sometimes he lets some of these men rust and leave their decaying impressions on canvas. Havana's buildings are decaying from neglect and lack of attention, but there is a strength in their young people whose music and dancing spills out into the streets.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Ramler Park
I remember visiting the proposed site for Ramler Park several years ago. This vacant lot on Peterborough Street just a few blocks off of Park Drive in Boston was a derelict piece of property. It featured overgrown crab grass, broken glass, a tangle of weeds, and flattened beer cans. After the Ramler family who had operated a business in this Fenway neighborhood for many years generously donated the land, a group of community activists worked hard to raise the needed funds to create an urban oasis. At the grand opening this past Tuesday, a classical trio serenaded the arriving public while local merchants provided cold drinks. Lush gardens complete with a fountain, crushed stone walkways, inviting benches and a pergola for shade await those who will enjoy this city green space for years to come. I find that more and more I cannot read the daily newspaper or watch the nightly news because my mind cannot tolerate any more stories about abused children, murdered wives, and random drive by shootings. Here is a story that should have been front and center as a positve and refreshing model of an individual family's creative vision coupled with able and enthusiastic volunteers who successfully realized their mission to design an area where multi-generational groups can gather and enjoy each season outdoors in a blooming, welcoming spot.
The Little White Bowl...
The Little White Bowl…
The shards of porcelain lay in shreds around my bare feet. I stepped over them nimbly to search for my clogs in the back hall, and grab a dustpan and broom from the pantry closet. I had mistakenly thought that a hardwood kitchen floor would cushion most wayward objects. That little white bowl had just slipped from my hands. It hadn't even fallen very far. Certainly it didn't have much monetary value, just broad sentimental memories. With its handle on one side and its spout for pouring on the other, it was the perfect baking accouterment for my grandmother. How many times had I precariously perched myself on a high stool to watch her mix and knead? Enough times that even forty-five years later, the scene is imprinted on my brain.
My grandmother's Dorchester kitchen was laid out long before the days of streamlined Formica counters and cabinets latched to hide clutter and dust. Her kitchen was a melange of open shelves filled with canisters of nuts, brown sugar, and dates. Baking sheets and muffins tins came in assorted sizes, as did the tables in the center of the room with surfaces perfect for rolling dough and decorating cookies. School vacation days started early for me at her house because she always believed: "…early is the best time to cook…before the neighbors start phoning and the fruit and meat deliveries interrupt…".
The back door was never locked; its screen was hardly ever hooked shut. How else would the milkman have come right into the kitchen bearing a carton of eggs, pounds of butter and even the large curd cottage cheese that I liked best. At eight o'clock in the morning, I would still be sitting quietly in my flowered flannel nightgown while sipping milk flavored with Grandma's coffee as the milkman greeted me with merry surprise flushing his face. "What was I doing there?" He wondered aloud, and then I would laugh and explain that I was visiting for just a few days.
There was a warm comfort in Grandma's kitchen that emanated not just from her huge gas stove that she lit with a match, but from the trill of her voice as she brewed afternoon tea and shared a story with one of her many female friends who stopped by to see how smart and tall her granddaughter had grown. I could feel her pride in my ability to read big books, play Beethoven sonatas on her piano, and look pretty in a new velvet party dress trimmed with white lace. But could she foretell the future when I would reflect on the ease with which she prepared enormous holiday meals, entertained endless groups of people, and always showed a serenely happy face to the world? Would she have guessed that as an adult I would frequently slip into one of her handknit sweaters to warm myself during a dreary evening while I perused her cherished recipe cards, carefully written in her faded script.
Years later when I set up my own kitchen, she insisted that I take some of her molds for jello and bowls for mixing. At that point in time, she was no longer planning large-scale feasts as she had moved from her three-decker house to a small apartment with a kitchenette. Her molds and bowls have always had honored spots on my shelves as they help me remember her while I gather ingredients, measure, and marvel at how she did it all with even-tempered grace. With the loss of the little white bowl, my supply has dwindled to two cooking bowls, one green and one white, made of the same porcelain. I also have a wooden bowl and a chopper that Grandma used for dicing apples to make Passover charoset or for cutting up chicken livers to make a liver spread. Even though I have her French Limoges china plates, which are festive to use on special occasions, the mixing bowls become part of my daily routine.
Now that she's gone, I feel close to her when I pour my mandarin orange concoction into her star jello mold or mash potatoes and butter in her green bowl. Picturing her benevolent smile, I wish I could glue that little white bowl back together. Somehow she seems further away as I sweep the pieces into the trash. I almost feel bereft at its loss, knowing that I'll miss it the next time I'm pouring a sauce or preparing a pudding.
The shards of porcelain lay in shreds around my bare feet. I stepped over them nimbly to search for my clogs in the back hall, and grab a dustpan and broom from the pantry closet. I had mistakenly thought that a hardwood kitchen floor would cushion most wayward objects. That little white bowl had just slipped from my hands. It hadn't even fallen very far. Certainly it didn't have much monetary value, just broad sentimental memories. With its handle on one side and its spout for pouring on the other, it was the perfect baking accouterment for my grandmother. How many times had I precariously perched myself on a high stool to watch her mix and knead? Enough times that even forty-five years later, the scene is imprinted on my brain.
My grandmother's Dorchester kitchen was laid out long before the days of streamlined Formica counters and cabinets latched to hide clutter and dust. Her kitchen was a melange of open shelves filled with canisters of nuts, brown sugar, and dates. Baking sheets and muffins tins came in assorted sizes, as did the tables in the center of the room with surfaces perfect for rolling dough and decorating cookies. School vacation days started early for me at her house because she always believed: "…early is the best time to cook…before the neighbors start phoning and the fruit and meat deliveries interrupt…".
The back door was never locked; its screen was hardly ever hooked shut. How else would the milkman have come right into the kitchen bearing a carton of eggs, pounds of butter and even the large curd cottage cheese that I liked best. At eight o'clock in the morning, I would still be sitting quietly in my flowered flannel nightgown while sipping milk flavored with Grandma's coffee as the milkman greeted me with merry surprise flushing his face. "What was I doing there?" He wondered aloud, and then I would laugh and explain that I was visiting for just a few days.
There was a warm comfort in Grandma's kitchen that emanated not just from her huge gas stove that she lit with a match, but from the trill of her voice as she brewed afternoon tea and shared a story with one of her many female friends who stopped by to see how smart and tall her granddaughter had grown. I could feel her pride in my ability to read big books, play Beethoven sonatas on her piano, and look pretty in a new velvet party dress trimmed with white lace. But could she foretell the future when I would reflect on the ease with which she prepared enormous holiday meals, entertained endless groups of people, and always showed a serenely happy face to the world? Would she have guessed that as an adult I would frequently slip into one of her handknit sweaters to warm myself during a dreary evening while I perused her cherished recipe cards, carefully written in her faded script.
Years later when I set up my own kitchen, she insisted that I take some of her molds for jello and bowls for mixing. At that point in time, she was no longer planning large-scale feasts as she had moved from her three-decker house to a small apartment with a kitchenette. Her molds and bowls have always had honored spots on my shelves as they help me remember her while I gather ingredients, measure, and marvel at how she did it all with even-tempered grace. With the loss of the little white bowl, my supply has dwindled to two cooking bowls, one green and one white, made of the same porcelain. I also have a wooden bowl and a chopper that Grandma used for dicing apples to make Passover charoset or for cutting up chicken livers to make a liver spread. Even though I have her French Limoges china plates, which are festive to use on special occasions, the mixing bowls become part of my daily routine.
Now that she's gone, I feel close to her when I pour my mandarin orange concoction into her star jello mold or mash potatoes and butter in her green bowl. Picturing her benevolent smile, I wish I could glue that little white bowl back together. Somehow she seems further away as I sweep the pieces into the trash. I almost feel bereft at its loss, knowing that I'll miss it the next time I'm pouring a sauce or preparing a pudding.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Katman-Who?
We have close friends who will be visiting Nepal next January. They were just saying that they'd like to "pick my brain" since I travelled there nine years ago. Well, I do have serious thoughts as well as published travel essays and articles I could share. But what follows is the unedited truth about a journey to that country!
KATMAN-WHO?
One afternoon in the foothills of Nepal, a sign beckoned to me from half a mile away: “HOT SOUR-FIFTEEN RUPEES”. (Hot shower-about a quarter.) I hadn’t washed in five days and therefore scrambled as fast as I could, after slinging a sweaty tee shirt around my neck to use for a towel. It turned out that a Tibetan family were the proud owners of a solar powered shower. After climbing inside and removing my clothing, I was amazed to find the grandma hopping in with me. She gestured to the water spigot, evidently just wanting to check the temperature. “Did she scrub your back?” My daughter later inquired. “That’s the best part!”
When I told a friend that I was headed for Katmandu, he responded “Katman-who?”. But most people in my offbeat university town knew where I was going. After alI, I have neighbors who’ve escaped avalanches in the Himalayas. They know that Katmandu is Nepal’s capitol city where cows meander unscathed along the main boulevards, because they might be the reincarnation of someone’s ancestors. Crossing the street means dodging water buffalo, stray dogs and “tempos” ( tiny taxis which are boxes containing a bench and a driver’s seat, all on three wheels). During our stay, we learned to form a human chain and run.
My husband, David, and I were in Nepal with our twelve year-old son, Jason, visiting our daughter Jess who was studying abroad. Do you remember when abroad meant theater in London or discos in Paris? Now it’s often Botswana or Bhutan.
Although the plane fare feels like an investment in a small business, the cost of living is cheap. Neither dining on rice twice a day nor mud hut accommodations rate five stars in the Michelin guide.
As we waited on the tarmac at Tribhuvan International Airport in Katmandu, David leaned over and whispered: “ The only way we’d have to go further to see Jess would be if she becomes an astronaut and we have to shuttle to the moon.” We had flown west from Boston sleeping in San Francisco, refueling in Tokyo, spending a night in Singapore, and a brief stopover in Bangkok.
Inside the Katmandu terminal, it took us an hour to find the right visa line because all the signs were in Nepali. As I peered around furtively trying to figure out where to go, the heavy set woman behind me dressed in “kurta salwa”, the native costume of a tunic over wide legged pants, stared at me with a fixed gaze. I pulled out my pocket mirror to check for airline lettuce left between my teeth or a pimple sprouting on my chin. Jess eventually told me that it’s culturally correct for Nepali people to stare, and she herself had gotten into it. What a relief to lose all pretense at sophistication and freely ogle and gawk!
Jason was wearing his hair long at the time, but Nepali boys are close-cropped. People immediately surrounded my son and inquired: “Kati?”. (Is it a girl?) Fortunately he’s good-natured. Talk about the complexities of a preteen grappling with his sexual identity.
Our daughter was impressed when she saw her family checking into a hotel with flush toilets and purified water. She was used to hovering over holes in the floor and putting iodine tablets in her water if she couldn’t readily boil it. Our indigenous experience was yet to come. David had read up on trekking beforehand. Fortified by memories of his once nubile wife as a nineteen year-old bride camping and hiking her way through Nova Scotia, he couldn’t wait to set out on foot in the Annapurna Sanctuary.
Because roads are scarce in rural Nepal, David was certain that a trek was the only way to absorb the scenery and village culture. He hadn’t factored in my forty something body with its expiring knee parts. At one point, we walked up one thousand stone steps. Our ascent was the equivalent of hiking Mt. Washington in a day, yet we were reaching an altitude of ten thousand feet.
The elderly Nepalis and Tibetans skipping along in rubber thongs demoralized me until I saw one older man being transported in a basket secured on a porter’s back. “ How do I order one of those?” I asked our guide, Lakpa. He spoke no English but smiled a lot as he balanced my carry-on suitcase above his shoulder, while hovering at my elbow, ready to grab me if I started to slip.
David, Jason and I had two tents each night, but Jason wouldn’t stay alone. The second honeymoon wasn’t to be, but who could blame him? Even I lay awake listening to yaks yowling in the distance, and elbowing David each time I needed to venture out to the facilities. The three of us slept lined up in a two-person pup tent, with David in the center since that way he had the most length for his nearly six-foot frame. Having no room to stretch, he ached each morning when Lakpa knocked on our tent pole with hot tea.
Our campsite always included a “charpi”, a gap in the ground toilet surrounded by a flapping canvas tent. Foolish me had thought that we had packed our headlamps for night reading. In fact, we needed them in the “charpi” for delicately balancing ourselves after the sun went down. As for all those guidebooks suggesting that women trek in skirts instead of shorts out of respect for the Nepali culture where women cover their legs, I’d say skirts make sense for easier squatting.
After a particularly nasty “charpi” experience in the village of Ghorepani where strangers had clearly missed their shot, I spent the next day complaining. That evening when we came to the town of Tikedhunga, Lakpa pointed to what looked like a real outhouse with four walls. Inside were a roll of tissue, a waste bin, and a sparkling porcelain hole in the ground. Finding toilet tissue was in itself, a novelty. Using my little metal can filled with water, I had already become adept at what I fondly termed: “splashing and dashing”.
“For you, Madam...good one!” Lakpa grinned happily, while motioning in the direction of our “charpi” of the night. I would have hugged him were it not for the Nepali taboo against male/female affection. Later as I lowered myself over that shiny porcelain space, it almost seemed like home.
If You Decide To Go:
1) Our travel arrangements were handled by Yeti Travel, located in Durbar Marg, Katmandu. Other possibilities in Durbar Marg are Adventure Travel Nepal and Everest Express. Yeti Travel contracted our trek with the Annapurna Trekking Company. Among the myriad of trekking company options are International Trekkers and Lama Excursions. There are lodging and meal options to fit every budget.
2) Numerous carriers fly to Katmandu, but Thai International is regarded as the most reliable. With Royal Nepal Airlines, we experienced delays of up to twelve hours.
KATMAN-WHO?
One afternoon in the foothills of Nepal, a sign beckoned to me from half a mile away: “HOT SOUR-FIFTEEN RUPEES”. (Hot shower-about a quarter.) I hadn’t washed in five days and therefore scrambled as fast as I could, after slinging a sweaty tee shirt around my neck to use for a towel. It turned out that a Tibetan family were the proud owners of a solar powered shower. After climbing inside and removing my clothing, I was amazed to find the grandma hopping in with me. She gestured to the water spigot, evidently just wanting to check the temperature. “Did she scrub your back?” My daughter later inquired. “That’s the best part!”
When I told a friend that I was headed for Katmandu, he responded “Katman-who?”. But most people in my offbeat university town knew where I was going. After alI, I have neighbors who’ve escaped avalanches in the Himalayas. They know that Katmandu is Nepal’s capitol city where cows meander unscathed along the main boulevards, because they might be the reincarnation of someone’s ancestors. Crossing the street means dodging water buffalo, stray dogs and “tempos” ( tiny taxis which are boxes containing a bench and a driver’s seat, all on three wheels). During our stay, we learned to form a human chain and run.
My husband, David, and I were in Nepal with our twelve year-old son, Jason, visiting our daughter Jess who was studying abroad. Do you remember when abroad meant theater in London or discos in Paris? Now it’s often Botswana or Bhutan.
Although the plane fare feels like an investment in a small business, the cost of living is cheap. Neither dining on rice twice a day nor mud hut accommodations rate five stars in the Michelin guide.
As we waited on the tarmac at Tribhuvan International Airport in Katmandu, David leaned over and whispered: “ The only way we’d have to go further to see Jess would be if she becomes an astronaut and we have to shuttle to the moon.” We had flown west from Boston sleeping in San Francisco, refueling in Tokyo, spending a night in Singapore, and a brief stopover in Bangkok.
Inside the Katmandu terminal, it took us an hour to find the right visa line because all the signs were in Nepali. As I peered around furtively trying to figure out where to go, the heavy set woman behind me dressed in “kurta salwa”, the native costume of a tunic over wide legged pants, stared at me with a fixed gaze. I pulled out my pocket mirror to check for airline lettuce left between my teeth or a pimple sprouting on my chin. Jess eventually told me that it’s culturally correct for Nepali people to stare, and she herself had gotten into it. What a relief to lose all pretense at sophistication and freely ogle and gawk!
Jason was wearing his hair long at the time, but Nepali boys are close-cropped. People immediately surrounded my son and inquired: “Kati?”. (Is it a girl?) Fortunately he’s good-natured. Talk about the complexities of a preteen grappling with his sexual identity.
Our daughter was impressed when she saw her family checking into a hotel with flush toilets and purified water. She was used to hovering over holes in the floor and putting iodine tablets in her water if she couldn’t readily boil it. Our indigenous experience was yet to come. David had read up on trekking beforehand. Fortified by memories of his once nubile wife as a nineteen year-old bride camping and hiking her way through Nova Scotia, he couldn’t wait to set out on foot in the Annapurna Sanctuary.
Because roads are scarce in rural Nepal, David was certain that a trek was the only way to absorb the scenery and village culture. He hadn’t factored in my forty something body with its expiring knee parts. At one point, we walked up one thousand stone steps. Our ascent was the equivalent of hiking Mt. Washington in a day, yet we were reaching an altitude of ten thousand feet.
The elderly Nepalis and Tibetans skipping along in rubber thongs demoralized me until I saw one older man being transported in a basket secured on a porter’s back. “ How do I order one of those?” I asked our guide, Lakpa. He spoke no English but smiled a lot as he balanced my carry-on suitcase above his shoulder, while hovering at my elbow, ready to grab me if I started to slip.
David, Jason and I had two tents each night, but Jason wouldn’t stay alone. The second honeymoon wasn’t to be, but who could blame him? Even I lay awake listening to yaks yowling in the distance, and elbowing David each time I needed to venture out to the facilities. The three of us slept lined up in a two-person pup tent, with David in the center since that way he had the most length for his nearly six-foot frame. Having no room to stretch, he ached each morning when Lakpa knocked on our tent pole with hot tea.
Our campsite always included a “charpi”, a gap in the ground toilet surrounded by a flapping canvas tent. Foolish me had thought that we had packed our headlamps for night reading. In fact, we needed them in the “charpi” for delicately balancing ourselves after the sun went down. As for all those guidebooks suggesting that women trek in skirts instead of shorts out of respect for the Nepali culture where women cover their legs, I’d say skirts make sense for easier squatting.
After a particularly nasty “charpi” experience in the village of Ghorepani where strangers had clearly missed their shot, I spent the next day complaining. That evening when we came to the town of Tikedhunga, Lakpa pointed to what looked like a real outhouse with four walls. Inside were a roll of tissue, a waste bin, and a sparkling porcelain hole in the ground. Finding toilet tissue was in itself, a novelty. Using my little metal can filled with water, I had already become adept at what I fondly termed: “splashing and dashing”.
“For you, Madam...good one!” Lakpa grinned happily, while motioning in the direction of our “charpi” of the night. I would have hugged him were it not for the Nepali taboo against male/female affection. Later as I lowered myself over that shiny porcelain space, it almost seemed like home.
If You Decide To Go:
1) Our travel arrangements were handled by Yeti Travel, located in Durbar Marg, Katmandu. Other possibilities in Durbar Marg are Adventure Travel Nepal and Everest Express. Yeti Travel contracted our trek with the Annapurna Trekking Company. Among the myriad of trekking company options are International Trekkers and Lama Excursions. There are lodging and meal options to fit every budget.
2) Numerous carriers fly to Katmandu, but Thai International is regarded as the most reliable. With Royal Nepal Airlines, we experienced delays of up to twelve hours.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)