More Ad-Libs...Thinking cap on, I think.

Here we go again. It has been a few days since I had been able to put more than 3 lines together and it took a public confession to force me to do so. There are some things that get me off the "deep end". In the next entry, I promise to retake my "advanced training" in Fort Dix. It was productive: met my first wife during these three months; also learned how to drive heavy equipment.

This past week, there have been four different attempts to sit and write something, anything that can be put on to the blog. Every time I sat down to start a train (or a piddle) of thought, an issue came up and usually it has been one that could not be postponed.

So here I am again, and the phone has already rung at least 4 times since my sitting down. This time, however, even if it is in fits and starts, it will be done. More “fits” than starts, anyway.

This morning there was a public apology and “press conference” during which I suppose (since I did not take the time to watch) Mr. Woods (as in: Tiger) tried to explain his behavior to the world. Or, at least, to that part of the world that gave a flying cra…cker about said explanations. I am not a golfer, nor do I have much care for the “sport” of leisurely chasing a little white ball (the manner in which about 95% play it) in between off color jokes and a couple of beers. However, anyone who has already made 1Billion US$ in a few years worth of this type of work, will undoubtedly get much attention in any conference he gives, especially following his “somewhat” insulting and much uneven performance on the home green. Sometimes I wonder how much in these “mea culpa” conferences do the sponsor moneys come to play… or pay. Already some of these sponsors are showing a tendency to come back to the man after he finishes his rehabilitation, assuming he decides to go back to work on the fairways. Most don’t much care what happened as long as their guy produces sales for them.

Personally, I think there are too many issues at large which are sooo much more important; a few that come to mind:

How many people (men, women and specially, children) are going to sleep on an empty stomach every night?

How many of these will not wake up tomorrow, because their bodies just give up?

How many children do not get to see the inside of a schoolroom because there are none where they live?

How many of these children are placed on a strict work regime (more often than not by their own parents) from the moment they are strong enough to pick up whatever the tool of their particular trade is?

How many of these children don’t get to see adulthood because they die along the way, victims of drugs, malnutrition, violence and abuse?

How many people around the “free” world are thrown in hellholes just because they have the temerity of expressing their ideas, especially when these do not agree with the governing body of the moment?

How many young men and women live in total black despair because they have fallen prey to drugs?

You get the drift… Don’t You?

I guess I’m in a funky mood today. Everything has slowed down to a crawl this week and issues that should have been resolved already are not. It is very difficult to live one’s own life when these impacting issues are in the hands of others; one can only push from the outside in order to get them completed. But complete them we shall.

This coming week I’ll be going to Miami. What was supposed to be a week long trip to be enjoyed has turned out to be a 4 day turnaround quick-stop. Not much time left to do any visiting. Luckily, I will be staying with “brother” Hector, of Camp Matecumbe days. Last I saw him was in l999 (before that, saw him last during the time we shared in Richland during the mid 60’s) and in this visit we met only for a few minutes. I truly look forward to this visit and the time to do some catching up.

Another issue that has caught my eyes and my ears these past few days (nothing to do with the preceding thoughts, as usual) is how intransigent many people are. It seems all are very “democratic” (and I don’t mean the Party) as long as the other person is in agreement with whatever we are espousing. The moment that other person is not in agreement, the conversation turns sour and becomes an argument. Whatever happened to the concept that everyone is fully entitled to his/her own ideas and/or his/her own likes and dislikes? When did we, as a society, lose this? Whatever happened to “agree to disagree” without ripping the other person’s head off? Lately, it seems that in all manners of discussions you are “either with me or against me”. THAT is a load!! Each one of us has a brain (many choose no to use it too much, apparently they have not figured out yet –or haven’t been told- it does not wear out from use but even that IS their right also!!) and each one of us SHOULD look at issues and come up with our own take. It does not take a public figure to tell me what, how or when I should agree or disagree with a certain statement, idea or project.

So, I sign off on this the Lord’s day, February 19^th, 2010.

Tomorrow I shall be in a better mood… Be Well.

YOU are in the Army now!

I will try to look at the better parts of my two years of service. In the overall context there were many. Just that the times and the reality of the war in Viet Nam were not conducive to having good memories. Even though I was not actually in the war zone, my day to day work brought me very close to the realities of this hell on earth. Several friends did not make it back and others made it physically back, but having paid an incredibly high emotional price; a cost that would become a life long issue to be handled. Then, we came back into a society that had turned against the soldiers who were there; it was not a good time for those who had made the sacrifice.

“OHMYGOD!!!”…

-“What’s going on at this unmentionable hour?”

-“Why all the racket?”…

Then it all came back to me, quickly making its way into my brain center and bringing me into my new reality. It also brought back the words of an old WWII song in which the chorus repeats: –“You’re in the army now….” And, so, I came to my first 04:00 (to be read: ohfourhundred) wake up call or, to better call it by its new name: reveille. We had ten minutes to throw on our underwear, t-shirt, and boots, and make it out to exercise formation. At 04:15 sharp we started basic calisthenics to be followed by a short march (this being the first day for our already aching muscles) and so, start our basic training to be in “This Man’s Army”.

The exercise routine followed a verbal dress down during the few minutes it took to throw on the before mentioned items. Amongst the several bits of news and information we received, were included:

-“your behind is Mine now BOY!!! ”

–“Your mama ain’t here now BOY”…

-“She ain’t gonna be able to wipe your behind”…

-“I’M YOUR NEW MAMA, BOY!!”

-“MOVE, MOVE, MOVE IT”.

All of the above came screamed at my face from about 2 inches away, in a matter of 45 seconds by what looked to be a bodybuilder on gorilla steroids, foaming at the mouth and dressed, I am sure by some incredible mistake, as a Sergeant, E-5 ranking. I’m sure my mama never looked like this, no matter how much he may have insisted on making me believe so. It was certainly reassuring to belong to a new “club” where apparently someone would be looking out for us, including the wiping of our collective behinds.

After the calisthenics and short (about one mile) run, we headed back to the barracks and a shower, redress in the day’s uniform, fix our bunks and have breakfast. To accomplish all these little things we were given half a day or 45 minutes, whichever came first. Once in the dining room (excuse me, mess hall) we were reintroduced to the buffet style breakfast: One roll, one cup of coffee, two toasts with butter and chipped beef in a white sauce over an overtoasted slice of bread. This serving is better known the world over (well, in the armed forces world) by its acronym: SOS. It could be interpreted justly as a call for desperate help but in reality, during the first two weeks of this breakfast it simply meant “Sh.. on a Shingle” and then, after two weeks of pretty much the same breakfast almost every day, the letters stood for the “Same Old Sh..”. As in: -“What did you have for Breakfast?” and the answer –“Oh, Same Old Sh..”.

Much can be said for KP or, Kitchen Patrol; most of it not good. Whenever it was your turn, you had the privilege of getting up at 03:15, have the shower to yourself and also the hand basin. There was quiet in the barracks and a glorious morning sunrise would soon be starting… Of course, you wouldn’t get to see any of this, since you’d be in the kitchen, at the mercy of the “cook” –usually a low grade sergeant, often close to a resentful retirement and little concerned with the servings for the day and, worse yet, a couple of second tier trainees (those who had “survived” the first half of basic training and had “graduated” to the second half) who thought you were the scum of the earth… and treated you accordingly. KP was not welcome news and we did all we could to get away from this; I found out that by volunteering for some services I would be on “special assignment” and exempt from KP. So I did. Besides, “special assignment” sounded so, well, James Bondish you know. Anyway, cleaning the house of an in-base officer was better than KP anytime. As for 007?... well, he did clean some quarters while in training, I’m sure.

After 3 weeks, the routine was assimilated and then the rumor mill about how those who did not make it in the final exam (no, an exam not about knowledge, but about being able to leap buildings in a single bound) would be made to repeat the initial basic training under much more difficult conditions (really??) and would be sent directly to the front lines. Of course none of this was real; only close. Due to the demands for more bodies from the VN front, indeed there were few who did not pass and these would be given a “refresher” for a week, and then sent on anyway to advanced training. Truth be told, however, I had never been(nor have I been since) in such good physical shape as I was when the basic training was done. We were up to “double timing” –that’s running, for you civilians- under a full load (about 35-40 pounds) some 5 to 7 miles every day, as well as forced marches (a little less fast than double time) of 15 miles. I am not sure I could leap buildings in a single bound, but I felt like I could.

About this time, our orders were in. This meant that our life in the army was already defined, as to what we would be doing for the next 21 months, in the drafted ranks, or 33 months for the regular volunteers. Yes, that’s right. If you were drafted, you were in for 2 years; if you had volunteered, you were in for 3 years. I think stuff like this gave way to that old saying: “when in the Army, never volunteer for anything”. My orders came in and I was going from Ft. Jackson, South Carolina, to Ft. Dix, NJ, where I would be trained as a heavy equipment operator (read: heavy truck driver).

One truly good and heartwarming memory I have from my basic in Ft. Jackson was directly related to the originally mentioned staff sergeant. He was a young guy and turned out to be a truly good guy. Usually with the enlisted men (as opposed to “officers and gentlemen”) there was a better rapport, since they came up through and from the ranks. Anyway, this man invited me to his house for Thanksgiving, since there had been a general leave and I had declined mine. At that moment my relationship with my step mother was not the best and I chose not to go, staying behind in what was fast becoming a ghost town.

One morning this huge mountain of a man who could order me to jump off a running truck, very shyly asked me if I would care to share Thanksgiving with his family. Why so shyly, you ask? Well, this was the deep south, circa 1966, when and where Jim Crow was still king and the sergeant was a black man. The invitation was gladly accepted and I went home with him, to his wife and two children: a baby boy and a beautiful 5 year old little girl who took to me immediately, and I to her… the beauty of children’s innocence; no black-white issues for her. Just an I-like-you attitude that would melt an iceberg, and I’m not even close to being one. It was a great holiday and I enjoyed it from the beginning to the end, turkey included. After I left Ft. Jackson I never saw that man or his family again, but my wish is that at least those children have grown in a world where racial issues are truly becoming a thing of the past. I hope I made an impression in them half as good as the one they made in me.

Well… next stop: Fort Dix, NJ. With maybe a detour or two along the way.

Be Well…

Week After SuperBowl...

I should be grateful (and am!) about the fact that I am having difficulty in finding the time to sit down and write something for the blog. It means my time is being used for something else which might actually make some income. That is good. Yet, the blog has become a personal issue with me and I do want to continue to write, and will, as much as possible. Thank you for your support.

Whatever you want to write about, but just do it! That is the message that is being received by my senses at this time. It has been a while since I had a chance to actually sit down and write for the blog, As a matter of fact, I am not sure this will get finished today. Tried earlier, but several phone calls and some other interruptions stopped me from even starting. It is almost like going in circles and never getting off. Frustrating, yes… fruitful or efficient, definitely not!

Not even sure about the topic. Perhaps it is time to write about those two army years and the social upheaval we lived through during those years from 1967 to 1974 or so. Perhaps, as a historian has put it: “the closest this country has come to a second revolution since the 1770’s”. Those were extremely moving, heartening, frustrating, social changing, structure shaping years and we were in the midst of it all. After I was discharged from the army, I worked in NYC (primarily Manhattan); I remember walking down St. John’s Place and in just one block, by the time one came to the Fillmore East Theater corner, it was easy to be high, just breathing the local air. Definitely not the 50’s anymore. The first “daily televised in-your-living-room-war” changed our world forever. All innocence went out the door and horror seeped into the living rooms across America, as people would sit down after dinner to watch the daily news, being primarily full with views of one bombing or another, often accompanied by shots of children and women running from the fire. What wasn’t put on the screen was the fact that the VC very often used (as do Al-Khaeda terrorists today) these very women and children to kill US soldiers. This was a war that took away our traditional sense of “chivalry” and horror at having to aim and often fire a weapon at someone who could be your sister, daughter or son. At the end of the analyst’s story and recount of the day’s activities “on the front lines”, came the all too well known head counts for the day. Perhaps there was a hardening of our collective conscience or thinking processes; what should have truly been a horror show, turned into a nightly ratings race.

Or, we can talk about the Super Bowl… especially after I called it in the last blog. I had the feeling that the group from NO would prevail; as good as the Colts may be (and they are indeed) the Who Dat crowd simply had more heart and guts. They showed this in the play calling and in the fact that after initially falling behind, their reaction was much better than the reaction of the Colts after they fell behind New Orleans is a great city indeed and I hope this win will bring an aura of positive possibilities which will help put Katrina into the distant past, as a nasty memory and a guidebook as to how not to act under catastrophic circumstances. On the other hand, (as Tevia would say in his arguments with himself…) from these ashes a much better city should come to be, and we will all be the better for it.

There is a remodeling project going on in this house. The owner decided he was going to stay here until he goes out feet first, so he is tackling all those changes he had been meaning to get done over the last 3 years… all at once!

A stone façade was put on several sides of the house, the front door is being pushed out to make a larger foyer and all the carpeting on the main floor is being replaced with marble tiles, cut into defined shapes and such. It will look very pretty once the work is finished but, in the meantime…. OY VEY!! We occupy the rear apartment and in order to go out, we must go through the war zone: marble cutting saws and tables, cables, dirt, pieces of tiles, wood planks… you name it. The cables are really special: different colors, widths, coming from different sources and, especially, all over the place. I still insist that the color of the existing bricks on different parts of the house (a quite-not-red-orangy-color bricks) really does not look good with the stones, which are closer to medium and darker grays that to reddish… anyway, his house, not mine. If he and his wife like it… what can I say? NOTHING!! you shout back to the screen? Well, YOU’RE RIGHT!!!

I told you I would not be able to finish this yesterday… Sure enough, some documents came through and had to be reviewed, edited and sent back, a translation included for one of them. Now I am advised some more are coming in so, rather than risking another unfinished day (a very likely outcome) I will plaster this on the web and do my best to come back tomorrow.

Be Well!!

Who DAT?? An all This and That...

In the beginning, there was a note every day. This began as a short exercise about a time in my life, the years when I came from Cuba to the US, as a sample of what many of my friends and I had lived through in those years. Then, it began to expand and now it looks like a life story with many (like today's entry) side trips that really are not much more than meanderings... We will see where it all goes in the end. There certainly is a lot to write about after 30 years of traveling in many countries, selling ideas, getting to know many in the lower echelons of international financial deals... looking back, this should be in a book. For now it is only here.

If you are an NOS fan (if you don’t know what NOS is, then skip this paragraph) then that is who you visualize when you read the above “title”. It really has not much to do with the body of this entry, but I thought it was a good lead. After all, it has worked very well for the Saint’s fans. So well in fact, that the NFL appears to have wanted to cash in on this whole bandwagon. I’ll go out on a limb and say that they will win the SB; it should be a classic meeting of refined technique vs. brawn and bravado. Skills don’t come into this equation, since there is a pretty equal amount of this commodity in both camps. Yet, I believe that brawn and bravado will prevail. We shall see.

It is getting very close to the end of 02-01-2010. There is nothing special about this fact, other that it seemed it was only yesterday it was 02-01-2009; I was getting over my first surgery of the year, and looking to either the radiation treatments or the hip replacement as my next course of action. As we know by now, the rad treatment won out because, in the balance of things life, the villain being attacked by it was much more dangerous to me than an atrophied hip. I remember thinking then that it was going to be a very long and slow year; probably full of pain as well. Actually, it wasn’t. Yes it was long and sometimes tedious but as those who have or are going through treatments, convalescence or medical procedures, especially those involving cancer, the fear is not of the treatment itself but of the outcome. Will it or won’t it? Only Our Lord knows for sure; in the meantime, we can only trust Him and those He has put to work for us. Now it is a year later, the treatments went exceedingly well and the results have been also. The hip is great and just this past week end had my chance at trying it out on a dance floor for the first time… it was good to be able to dance again!! We were at a birthday party for a good friend and the ladies around us (my wife and I) were saying “let the Cuban get up and dance…” After a few of these ribbings the Cuban got up and danced, which he does fairly well even after a long “sabbatical”, and they were silenced. Not bad…

This past weekend we had a snow day, as did most of the center of the country. Since we were at the bottom end of the snow system, by the end of the snow fall there were maybe 3 inches of snow on the ground. We went out to do some things that had to get done, only to find out that most of the town was “snowbound”; most everyone had stayed home because they were afraid of driving in the snow. I realize that this city is not in the middle of Vermont or Michigan, where they can expect to drive in the snow 40-60% of the time in the winter but… snowbound in 3 miserable inches of snow? C’mon!! The banks were closed and many of the stores were also closed. I really could not believe this. If it was Miami, OK… but here in North Carolina?

I think the town has maybe 4-5 trucks which are snowplow ready (certainly looked that way). I can actually understand this in a town that gets maybe 3 snowfalls per winter since it is a costly structure to maintain for such little use. As a result, only the main drags were cleared; the side streets were not, and this created a hazard overnight when the temps went down to 14 degrees. On Sunday Morning, before the sun had a chance to melt some of the stuff, most of the side streets (where many are hilly) had an ice cover. Now it really became an issue to drive. I went out for my walk (yes, like the old time mailman… neither rain nor snow shall derail me from my walk) and it was actually treacherous in many spots, where the ice was slick. We are supposed to get another such weekend this one coming up; let’s see whether our fair city becomes a ghost town again at the sight of a little of the white stuff.

What else has happened? I look to the written word and wonder what this is all about. Then I know. I am supposed to be writing, in a coherent time line, about the time I went into the army and about what happened in those two years. I’m not sure that my brain is quite ready to do this. Many who were in the services then, including some very dear friends, had a much rougher time than I. My services in Okinawa were reduced to receive much of the broken down equipment that came from VN. Blood included. I could only imagine what these souls who occupied these vehicles were going through if survivors, or had gone through if not.

Anyway, today is a short note. As matters are developing, it is getting more difficult to sit and write regularly. But I will promise to do so at least 4 times per week, since I am as curious as you might be as to where this will all eventually go.

Be well…

Asturias, a A Place in my Heart

In writing these entries, I have usually kept to places where I have been. In creating one's own memories, a life is slowly but inexorably formed. What happens when the memories written about belong to someone else? After some thinking on this, I decided that although these memories belonged to someone else originally, they were passed on to me as part of my upbringing so in essence, they have become mine and, as such, I accept them and pass them on. Perhaps as a small shrine to the person who allowed me into his memories.

Whenever I actually do sit down in front of this old computer and try to concentrate on one issue or one topic or one consecutive set of events to the ones which preceded the writing I am about to try and create, too many images and too many moments come to life in my mind. I really don’t know how many people are following these mental meanderings; I know of at least 10-12 people who tell me they do. In the end, this is mostly written to cleanse my memories. Because of too many wrong turns along the way, my communication with my own children has been curtailed. Again, who’s right? Don’t really know. In a way, this may be a way for them to eventually get to know me a little more. That is, if any of them may actually get to read these blogs sometime.

This brings me back to today and now. Where to go? Spain comes to my mind; it is a country considered to be our (Cuba’s) cultural mother country and, actually in my case, both my family lines (mother’s and father’s) do come from this beautiful country. My mother’s from Asturias in the north, and my father’s from the southern region, near Seville. I truly believe that the only reason I actually exist, is that both lines ended up in Cuba, consummating their togetherness there. In Spain, in those times, this North-South marriage would have been almost impossible.

I have had the opportunity to visit Spain several times over the years, while on business trips. Most of the time spent there has been divided between the two primary cities: Madrid and Barcelona and their surrounding areas. Although there are many instances and moments from these trips that could be (and probably will eventually be) the source for one of these postcards, I think I will actually try to write about a place where I have not set foot yet, except in my mind and during my childhood years.

In order to do this, we will go back to Cienfuegos, Cuba, circa 1951-55. As in most medium and larger size cities in Cuba, there was a “Centro Gallego” in the center of town. These centers were to enhance the memories and the presence of the men from the Province of Galicia (Northwest corner of Spain, above Portugal) a fishing, sea faring people who probably made up the true majority of immigrants from Spain who have covered the world. These centers were very beautiful, ornate buildings. On the first floor they would usually have a huge hall which doubled as a ballroom during festivities, with marble floors and gilded doorways and walls. On the second floor there would be the offices and other assorted rooms.

My grandfather did not come from Galicia, he came from The Principality of Asturias. So, I really never "officially" set foot in one of these centers. We belonged to the “other” group and had our own, separate commemorative celebrations. In my hometown The Asturian Club, in those days, was yet to be built (we were a much smaller, less wealthy community) but there was –as a property and for the future building(s)- a very large tract of land on the outskirts of the city near the airport, where there was a very large gazebo like structure in the center sitting, as an overlord would, ruling its demesnes. This was the only roof in the property, so the get-togethers would rely heavily on the weather forecast for the day.

The outings were the physical and fun part, but the underlying spiritual and emotional aspect was the most important. Through my grandfather’s imagination, his memories and stories, I traveled in Asturias long before the “virtual world” of the computers were created. He empowered my own imagination as I visited the green mountain top belt of northern Spain, where I smelled the pine forests and the fresh mountain air. I walked along the small rivers which dot the mountainsides and there were moments when I could feel the cold water touch my feet. I entered, holding his hand, the Grotto of Our Lady of Covadongas, the Patron Virgin Mother of Asturias. In his stories, along with the books he would get for me, I learned about how in the 800’s, it was from Asturias that those who liberated Spain from the more than 5 centuries of Arab domination came. They never gave up and, in part thanks to those mountains, were able to hide, grow and hold their own over the centuries. Still today, as I write this, my eyes close and his voice is in my mind, telling me about the beauty of his motherland.

-“Rafelito… no te ensucies” -“Rafelito, don’t get dirty” would say my grandmother, while I and many friends would be running in the dirt, chasing each other and ending up usually in a head first slide in the grass. But, we knew she was busy with her cup of “sidra” which is Asturias regional beverage; a hard apple cider which is truly unique so her admonition was just a reaction to our running and noise, and would not go much further than the already proffered warning. The music, with the "gaiteros" (The gaita, or bagpipes, are the folkloric instruments in Asturias) would be blaring everywhere, while the smells from the cooking pots would permeate the air; the shrimp and flounder, the pork and, best of all, the Asturian paella. We would continue to run around as we all kept our eyes open since we were very much aware that, as children, we were not allowed to drink the sidra which, although mild, was still an alcoholic drink. We also knew that most adults would start a glass and then get sidetracked with all that was going on, leaving the glass half full and, guess what? It was time to sneak into the gazebo and steal a sip or two before running out again. This beverage is another happy memory. I have been able to buy the same brand here in the States (well, Miami) and enjoyed sipping it. But it has never tasted, as an adult, as good as I remember those stolen sips would taste as a child.

I look forward to one day being able to physically walk the mountains in Asturias, to visit the countryside my granddad so loved. The rivers and small streams which help the green grass and the forest trees grow; to visit the city of Avilés, which over the years swallowed his little town of birth. Alberto Cortés, an Argentinean singer, sings a song about a grandfather who came from Galicia. How, much later in life, the grandson was able to visit that countryside which his grandfather talked about during his childhood, and how he would see his spirit in every tree, every stream and in every village he visited.

I hope I will be able to do the same; for I would like to remember my grandfather to his beloved Asturias since those living memories will have, sadly, ended with me. Most of all, I hope to be able to visit the Grotto of Our Lady of Covadongas and, there, light a small candle in memory of one of her sons who, even though he was never able to return, never forgot her.

A mixed postcard from Asturias, a place I have yet to visit.

Lisbon, Summer 2001; Part Two.

One of the -I think- too many places where I have spent sometimes "forced" time over the last 12 years. Lisbon is an old heart city; after too many years under a political dictatorship, it just began to crawl into modern urbanity late in the 1980's. The city has a lot of character and it is very traditional, holding on to its customs and culture which is not really a bad thing to do. There are many places I did not get to see or visit, I hope to be back with the time and the resources for a more thorough visit. It is really a worth while place to get to know.

My search for this wonderful food oasis started and grew more feverish by the minute. I could not wait to be seated at a table and to order… how would you say rice and black beans in Portuguese? How about ground beef “picadillo”? My, My… they were sure to have pictures on the menu there… I went into circles and noticed that this restaurant, along with several others, was on Neptune Avenue.

My hunger was getting stronger and I had visions of dancing with “La Negra Tomasa” (this was the name of the restaurant –hence the caricature like figure) while listening to a cha-cha or a rumba, all the time sipping a rum and coke… By now it was getting to be past 3pm and my stomach was following me some three meters behind, dragging on the asphalt and making noises of complaint and dissent.

“Where can this Neptune Avenue be?” I asked myself, as my turns into several little corners failed to produce the wanted sight. Suddenly, I had a revelation: “Oh My God!!” “Neptune, the God of the Sea” – “You fool (said loudly to myself) “where can Neptune Avenue be, if not on the water’s edge?”

With this new insight, I made to the river’s edge like a dog after a favorite bone. And then, there it was! Neptune Avenue was nothing but a walkway on pontoons, each restaurant having a little entryway, like a small bridge into nirvana. “There she is!” I almost shouted. For sure enough, there, at the end of the walkway, was the biggest of all the entry bridges, leading right into the arms of that beautiful big, black, cigar chomping lady. With her promises of tropical nectars and tropical flavors to be had. I almost ran the rest of the way and coming to the door, I pulled to open this promised paradise… and the doors did not open; I pulled harder this time, bordering on the desperation that only an unrequited love affair… or desperate hunger can bring about. Nothing. Then, my eyes became focused on the center of the door I was trying to pull off its hinges, where a small white paper note simply said: “We will reopen at 9:00 for dinner”.

OH NO!!! “Where are you Tomasa?” I cried silently, “Where are your promised dishes and drinks?” “Where are the rice, the black beans, the picadillo and bananas?” My mouth went dry and my stomach dropped to the floor, this time with an almost audible PLOP!. I kept looking around, hoping to find someone I could bribe and perhaps get a little taste of what might have been… All I found was a copy of the menu, pasted to the other door. Yes, there was rice, there were beans and beef to be had. Yuca, bananas and all… then I looked at the price list and it was my heart that skipped a few beats!!! There was no way I could have enjoyed their fruits, even if the doors had been wide open. At those prices I would choke with every bite!!

“I know” I reasoned, as my head began to slowly clear. “This is an international fair and this restaurant must belong to the Cuban government… This is just a way to get more funds for their propaganda” then, in a sad and forced conclusion: “I’m glad it was already closed”. You could argue it was just another version of the fox and the “green/sour” grapes routine. And... what could I say when you’d be absolutely right?

I walked back to the center of the park, on a pathway bordering the river. There were schools of nice looking fish which followed me, swimming right next to the walkway, probably used to being fed by the people who usually walked here... Little did these fish know I was frying them slowly in my mind, tasting their cooked meat on a bed of rice, showered with lemon juice.

I eventually ended up having a late lunch at that internationally renowned double arches restaurant (local version) where, at least, I could have a Spanish ham sandwich, French fries and a beer. All this while listening to an often off-key Portuguese “gaucho”, singing about Argentina and its beautiful pampas.

I know, it didn’t make any sense to me either.

Anyway, a postcard from a late summer Saturday in Lisbon.

Be Well!

Lisbon, Summer 2001

Part One... part Two tomorrow...

The hotel room seemed to be getting smaller and smaller every day. Today was another Saturday and if memory served, this would be the fourth Saturday spent in this place, waiting for something to happen. The long history of what had brought me to Lisbon, a city I had not known before, started back in 1997 and had brought me here via long, similar stays in Zurich, New York City, London, and other places. That story probably merits a place of its own, but only once it is completely finished. For now, it will suffice to know that my arrival in Lisbon had been some 4 weeks before and since then, my daily routine consisted of breakfast, telephone calls, internet café visits, local street walking, and a late lunch at the hotel cafeteria, where the cost of the food was covered by my hotel room fee, and an occasional visit and/or trip with the friend who had received me at the airport and brought me to the hotel. He was part of the reason for my wait, since some of the issues pending had to be resolved by him and these were nowhere close to being so resolved. Every day there was a new reason for further waiting, and every day the relatively meager resources I had dwindled further.

This particular Saturday I simply refused to stay at the hotel or to just walk the streets. Besides, there are only so many times you can visit a shopping center –even one with piano music being played and with many very nice stores to see- when there is no money to be spent there. The streets of Lisbon are fairly empty on summer weekends since most everyone will head out to the beaches, to their summer places, or to family homes in the countryside. Also, it was fairly hot and not conducive to much aimless walking. My knowledge of the city was really reduced to the immediate 4 square miles or so (within walking and not getting lost distance), and I knew there was much more to see in this very old and beautiful capital city.

I asked the lady at the front desk to direct me to where I could go on an inexpensive Saturday day trip, a place to which I could take the beautiful metro system (inexpensive and very efficient) and she mentioned the International Park. This is on the outskirts of town and had been built to host an international festival some years before, having remained as an attraction–like park on the shore of the river. There were usually ongoing shows, there were also exhibits to see and many restaurants, including several “fast food” (read: cheap) ones. So, with her map in hand I headed to the nearest metro station and took the appropriate line and knew that, at the final stop, there would be the park.

The trip took about 35 minutes and 6 stops. When we were at the park, all who were left on the train went out so I, very intelligently, followed suit and found myself at the entrance to the park. One very nice surprise which had not been part of the information: it was free to enter. This meant I could actually use some of the funds I had with me and buy lunch there. But this would be later on. After I sort of triangulated the station’s location, so as to be able to find it on the way back, I shouldered my backpack and headed into the park, getting swallowed by the steady stream of people going in.

Sure enough, there were many things to see and some concerts going on. The maritime museum, not as big as some of the ones we have here, but nice and tidy, with many examples of the local fish and water fauna. The concert at the bandshell was being offered by a local rock/punk band and I remember there were some tunes I recognized as being Portuguese renditions of some of the international hits of the moment. They weren’t bad and it made for an entertaining hour or so. It was also very entertaining to see their fans, wearing their own version of the then current punkish outfits more commonly seen in the streets of London. As “theater” goes, it was fun to watch all this while listening to the music.

As the small crowd began to break up and the smaller groups now went their different ways, I headed further into the park, looking to find a place to park my bones and get something to eat and drink. The boards advertising the different restaurants began to spring up and, much to my surprise, there was the outline of what must be their concept of a Caribbean black woman: big, round, flowery mu-mu dressed black woman, with a towel like turban on her head and smoking a cigar in all her splendor; here she was inviting me to eat some “Cuban food”. WOW!! My mouth began to salivate and my stomach to rumble. I would go to the ends of this here park, but I would find this restaurant!! Rice… black beans… ground beef… fried sweet bananas… flan… Oh My!! My diet, since coming to this city, had centered on the every day fare which is mainly fish based; once in a while I would go to the mall’s cafeteria and by some sort of wrap. But these really did not have the taste to satisfy someone raised in Cuba and living in Miami…

More tomorrow...

Be Well!