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A Father's Day Gift From Ninina

2009-06-21T14:41:00.000-07:00

It's Father's Day. Twenty-four years ago on the 18th, my papi passed away. I think he would have liked the following story--you will, too (if you can read Spanish). Happy Father's Day to Luis and James; and to Ross (a dad in the making)!

LA LOQUITA DEL ZIG-ZAG: LA GORRA BLANCA

POR NININA MAMEYEZ

Estaba acurrucada debajo de mi cubrecama, soñando con los angelitos, cuando mi tata se apareció en el cuarto. “Niña, sal de esa cama…YA!” Me dio un pequeño pau-pau.

Salté en el aire. “OOW! Por que hiciste eso, tata? Estaba soñando de los Guantes y de los Crocrodilos; de los datiles; del desierto; de…”

“PARA, niña! Tu y tu imaginación!”

“Pero abuelito me contó todo esto.” Eché pucheros. “Todo esto es VERDAD!”

“La verdad, Ninina, es que tus papis te quieren llevar al restaurante de los tenientes. VEN—a la ducha contigo! Mira: te tengo tu vestidito azul y blanco…”

Ahora si que salí de la cama como un relámpago. “Al restaurante de los tenientes? YIPPEE! Me puedo poner la gorra de papi, tata? Si?”

Tata se sonrió. “Bueno, le tendrás que preguntar a tu papi. Al baño contigo!”

Cuando me bañe y me vestí, me reuní con mami y papi. Papi estaba vestido en su uniforme de capitán. Estaba al ponerse su gorra, cuando le pedí, “Por favor, papi! Por favor?” y extendí a mi manita.

Papi se sonrió y me la entrego. “Pero cuando lleguemos al restaurante de los tenientes, me la vas a tener que entregar. De acuerdo?” Guiño.

Yo me sonríe, y guiñe. Mami me miro de reojos. “Te bañaste, hijita?”

“Si, mami, solita!” Me sonreí hasta más.

“Y te vestiste a ti mismo, también?”

“Si, mami! Pregúntale a tata.” La indique con mi dedito. “Si, tata?”

Ella miro a mami, y le dijo, “Si, señora. La niña ya sabe bañarse y vestirse solita.”

Mami nos miro, un poco sospechosa. “Pues. Bien.” Se sonrió con esa sonrisa chiquitica de ella, cuando casi no se les ven los dientes. Después se asomo en la puerta, y dijo, “Chino! Es tiempo de irnos!”

Volé pa’fuera, con la gorra de papi encima de mi cabeza. Casi ni podía ver en frente de mí.

“Ten cuidado, Ninina!” me dijeron mami y papi a la misma vez, saliendo de la casa detrás de mi. Nos metimos en la maquina, y Chino nos llevo al restaurante de los tenientes.

Cuando llegamos, estaba al punto de salir volando otra vez de la maquina, cuando papi me paro: “La gorra, nene.” Guiño. “Verdad?” Se la entregue. Que lindo luce papi en su uniforme de capitán, con su gorra! Hasta mami se sonrió (y esta vez se le vieron los dientes). Mano en mano, entramos al restaurante de los tenientes.

Todos los tenientes empezaron a saludar a papi con mucho respeto. “Buenas tardes, Capitán.” Papi los saludo de vuelta. Entramos a la sala de comer. Estábamos al punto de sentarnos, cuando uno de los tenientes se acerco a papi, lo saludo, y le dijo: “Capitán, El Colonel Yambien va a llegar pronto. Tiene muchas ganas de conocerlo!”

Papi por poquito hizo una mueca: yo lo conozco. Pero no dijo nada, aparte de: “Pues, cuando llegue, preséntemelo, por favor. A mi; mi señora; y mi hija.” El teniente se despidió; nos sentamos; y un mozo nos entrego menús.

“Que quieres comer, Ninina?” me pregunto mami.

“Helado. Helado de vainilla; y arroz. Arroz blanco. Como mi vestido. Como (mire a papi) la gorra de papi!”

Mami suspiro. “Ay, que se puede hacer con esta niña? Es de tan mal comer…”

Papi me miro; se sonrió un poco.” “Déjala, Ani. Yo pediré tres muslos de pollo con plátanos maduros; arroz amarillo, y frijoles negros. Vas a ver como La Ninina va a querer un muslito, y frijoles negros, para acompañar a ese arroz blanco…”

Mami se horrorizo. “Y no vas a pedir a una ensalada, Epi? Eso es lo que debe de estar comiendo nuestra hija. Y una sopa—no, un potaje, también.” Señaló para que se aparezca el mozo. “Señor! Yo quisiera un potaje de garbanzos (hice una mueca: yo odio a los garbanzos!) y una ensalada de lechuga y tomate. La niña quiere (me miro con desapruebo) arroz blanco, y un helado de vainilla mas tarde. Y tráigame dos platos, por favor.” Miro a papi. “Epi?”

El mozo se dirigió a papi; casi lo saludo. “Y Usted, Capitán?”

Papi estaba al punto de ordenar a sus muslos, sus plátanos, su arroz, y sus frijoles cuando se apareció El Colonel Yambien en la puerta del restaurante. Tenía a una gorra negra; también tenía a una barba negra. El mozo se desapareció; parecía estar asustado. El teniente quien había hablado con papi más temprano lo estaba acompañando. Miro a papi directamente. Papi se levanto; cruzo al restaurante; saludo al Colonel; y le dijo en una voz muy baja: “Buenas tardes, Colonel.”

“Pues, buenas tardes, Capitán!” Le dio su mano; papi pensó un segundo—yo lo conozco—pero se la tuvo que dar. Nos vio a nosotras. “Parece que están de fiesta, Ud., y su familia, este domingo. Presénteme a su señora y a su hija.” Fue una orden.

Papi y el Colonel se acercaron. Mami y papi se miraron brevemente; mami me miro a mí; y yo mire a papi. Mire a su gorra blanca, y supe lo que tenia que hacer.

Corrí hacia papi, y lo abrasé. Solamente después que me deje mirar al Colonel.

El se sonrió. Sus dientes no eran lindos, como los de mi papi. (Y los de mami, aunque ella se queja mucho del espacio entre sus dos dientes de frente.) Y no olía bien, tampoco. Pero sabía que me tenía que comportar bien.

“Que niñita tan graciosa! Como tu te llamas?”

“Ninina,” casi me salio. “Ninina.”

“Pues, Ninina”—y cuando me toco ligeramente encima de mi cabeza, me quede muy quietecita—“me alegro mucho en conocerte. Y a Ud., también, señora.” Mami no tuvo remedio: le tuvo que dar la mano. Nos saludo; se viro; lo estaban esperando en otro salón.

Cuando se había ido, el mozo volvió a la mesa. “Capitán?”

“Por favor tráigame cuatro muslos de pollo, plátanos fritos, arroz amarillo, frijoles negros, una ensalada de lechuga y tomate, y—si—una sopa de pollo, con muchos fideos (a mi me gusta mucho la sopa de pollo: especialmente, todos esos fideos!). Y dos platos, por favor.”

El mozo se fue; pronto nos trajo la comida; y mami y papi compartieron conmigo. Hasta probé a los garbanzos (pero todavía no me gustaron tanto). Al fin del almuerzo, papi señalo al mozo.

“Si, Capitán?”

“Es tiempo para el helado de vainilla.”

“Si, Capitán! Por supuesto, para la niña…”

“Y (papi miro a mami; ella señalo que estaba de acuerdo) para nosotros, también.”

Me sonreí. Se me podían ver a todos los dientes!

Cuando Chino se apareció en frente del restaurante, volé hacia la maquina. El momento en que me encarame, mire a papi. Me entrego su gorra. Cuando llegamos a la casa, salimos de la maquina, mano en mano. Otra vez casi ni podía ver en frente de mí, pero no temía: estaba con mi mami y mi papi.

Ningún Colonel Barbabudo—o Yambien—se iba a acercar a mí. Más nunca.

Es propiedad de Georgina Marrero, 2008 1159 palabras

The Stone Bed (La Cama de Piedra)

2008-12-31T17:13:00.000-08:00

LA LOQUITA DEL ZIG-ZAG: THE STONE BED (ENGLISH TRANSLATION)

BY NININA MAMEYEZ

Thum, thum, thum, thum. “What’s that?” I’m thinking to myself. Entering the library, I find Papi playing his record player. He has many records from Our Country and from Our Other Countries. He loves the guitar. The thum, thum is coming from the guitars.

“AY, Papi, you’re playing your guitars!”

“Yes, little one. Listen to Mister Mariachi. He’s singing: ‘Guitars, o please cry, guitars.’”

“WHAT? Guitars can’t cry, Papi!”

“Yes, little daughter. Guitars cry. Listen to this other song: ‘The bed is made out of stone/and so is the headboard…’”

I begin to rock back and forth: I like it. But I think; I say, “WHAT? A Stone Bed? And guitars that cry?”

“It has to do, Ninina, with how much I love you and your Mami.”

“OH. And I love you and Mami. And I want to have a Stone Bed.”

Papi thinks about it; sighs. “How about a crying guitar, instead?”

“NO, Papi, I want a Stone Bed!”

“Well, ask Santa Claus for one, all right?”

“All right.”

Santa Claus arrives; he brings me a beautiful doll. “AY, what a beautiful doll,” says The Pretty One.

Umm…Umm…Umm…”Where is the Stone Bed? WHERE IS THE STONE BED?” Running to my room, I throw myself face down on my bed. I begin to sob; to cry and cry. I cry like Mister Mariachi. I cry even more than the guitars. The only one who can make me feel better is my Pink Chicken.

The first day of the New Year, everyone in the house is running here and there.

“What’s happening, Papi?”

“Mister Whip left his palace last night, little one. And now Colonel Beardful is in power.”

“The friend of Lieutenant Cries Before He Knows?”

Papi sighs, “Yes. But—smiling a little bit—The Three Kings will be here in several days, right?”

“All right, Papi. All right.” Giving him a little kiss, I go out to play on my slide.

The next day, Papi goes out alone in his Oldsmobile, without The Man Who Drives Him Around. He returns home, smiling more and more.

The day of The Three Kings, I enter the library. I see a HUGE present, with a beautiful bow.

“Open it, little one. It’s for you.”

Tearing apart the paper and the bow, I find a small record player. And on top of the record player is…THE STONE BED! Running to Papi, I hug him hard and give him a huge kiss. “THANK YOU, Papi. THANK YOU!”

Thum, thum, thum, thum. “The bed is made out of stone…” sings Mister Mariachi.

“And so is the headboard…” I sing. I begin to rock back and forth: I like it. I still don’t know why it’s a Stone Bed. And I still don’t know why the guitars cry.

Wednesday, December 31, 2008

50 years after Colonel Beardful (Castro) took over from Mister Whip (Batista).

68 years since Efrain and Ana Marrero married in Lyon, France at the mairie there.

Very hard to translate, but I think I got the message across. Senor Mariachi, by the way, is the incomparable Cuco Sanchez. According to both my parents, “La Cama de Piedra” (The Stone Bed) was my favorite childhood song.

For Papi, Mami, and Jesus (Chuchu) Yanez Pelletier.

Shenandoah

2008-12-27T14:21:00.001-08:00

Shenandoah Elementary School in 1946 -- from the Miami Area Schools, etc. website; copyright, Don Boyd.

The end of the year always brings up memories...well, I'm always reminiscing, aren't I?

Below is a piece I wrote to present to the Shenandoah Elementary School children for Career Day in May, 2004: forty-one years after my partner, Nicky Perusina, and I had skipped our way out into the courtyard as we danced a Hungarian Gypsy Dance; and just shy of forty years since I exited from underneath one of its stately arches for the last time as a rising fifth grader.

For what it's worth: in December of 2004, an artist friend of mine, Ana Canas de Lopez, was being presented with the key to the city of Miami for her artistic accomplishments. Awaiting the presentation in the reception hall, I noticed that Manny Diaz, the Mayor of Miami, was present. I'd read that he'd attended Shenandoah. I'd done the math: we'd been there at the same time. Therefore, I could not resist approaching him to find out if, indeed, he had been there. Indeed. It was not long before I touched on Mrs. Echevarria: it turned out he had been in the third grade (and in the same room) at the time! His memory, as mine, was of the day that Kennedy was shot. It didn't appear that we remembered each other, though: we "intermediate" fourth graders were probably all but tied to that table! Trust me: with Mrs. E in charge, we were. We were...

SHENANDOAH

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

In the old days, walking down from Calle Ocho on Southwest Tenth Street Road, one was able to run smack into Shenandoah Elementary School. All three floors of it, with its Mediterranean tiled roof and graceful arches. The first floor held the first and second grade classrooms; the second, third and fourth grades; and the third, fifth and sixth grades.
Passing underneath these arches on November 29, 1960, I embarked upon my first grade experience in the United States. No hablaba ni una palabra de inglés. I didn’t speak one word of English. I remember my first grade teacher, Mrs. Morvil, speaking to me in English. Looking up at her, quizzically, I responded en español. And that’s pretty much how it stayed, all year.
At the beginning, I wrote a few letters to my teacher in Cuba, asking her to send me my textbooks. And then I didn’t open my mouth, to the point that I almost failed first grade. I had learned enough to know that an “F” was a bad grade, and I had received six of them. I don’t know how – or why – but I was passed on to second grade.
The first six weeks of second grade were pretty bad. Then something happened. A small group of us were handed over to Mrs. Bustillo, a Cuban teacher who spoke enough English that she was able to teach us in both languages. I did much better with her, ending up the year with my lowest grade being a “C” in Physical Education. And, oh, how I hated P.E.!
Mr. Latona – “Latón de Basura” is what I called him – was very hard on me. I was already a little bit chubby, and had a very hard time keeping up with everybody else when we had to run laps around the huge schoolyard. Then, again, perhaps I couldn’t see in front of me. It was sometime between second and third grades that I became “Miss Four Eyes.” Did that help me with P.E.? No.
Huffing, puffing, and with sweat pouring down my forehead, in front of, and behind, my eyeglasses, I tried and tried. I cried and cried. I received many “D’s” in P.E. Fortunately, I did better and better in the other subjects.
Third grade meant the second floor. Room 201, which is where I would stay for both third and fourth grades. Our teacher was Puerto Rican. Mrs. Echevarria was fair, but very, very tough. I had to work very hard for my ABC’s. Evidently I misbehaved from time to time, for I received three checks in “Self-Control.” “Cafeteria manners must improve,” she wrote in her fifth period comments. What did I do – start food fights, or something?
On the other hand, I didn’t fight learning English, any more. I did really well: all “A’s” and “B’s.” Except for those pesky “D’s” and “C’s” in P.E. I became the spelling champion in our class, and runner-up in the entire third grade. I actually remember breathing out, “hand-ker-chief,” in spurts. But that did the job.
Third grade was my year of glory at Shenandoah: the Spelling Bee, and the Hungarian Gypsy Dance.
Two Hungarians were the obvious choices to lead this gypsy dance out from underneath the central arch, under the lights one May evening in 1963. Nicky Perusina and I were all dolled up in our red velvet and gold-trimmed jackets. He wore black pants, and a long black bow fringed with gold tassels. I wore a white skirt with red and green stitching, a flower-trimmed headdress, and carried a little bouquet of flowers in my hands. I even got to wear makeup – I felt so grown up!
Getting all dolled up was one thing. Dancing the dance was another. I’m not exactly sure who taught me the dance – I remember the hopping and the skipping to and fro – but I’m fairly certain Mr. Latona must have had something to do with it. This was his department, after all.
I DO remember being nervous, and trying to remember on what foot I was supposed to skip out, first. Most importantly, I remember telling myself, “Don’t trip. Don’t trip.”
Well, I didn’t trip. We all had a good time. And I became known as The Hungarian Dancer.
That summer, my parents and I moved several blocks away from El Vanta Koor (Vanta Court; now Shenandoah Square), the apartment building next door to Shenandoah, where we had lived since November of 1960. As Shenandoah was still my school, I entered the building on September 3, 1963, fully expecting to finally be in a “normal” classroom.
Instead, I was redirected back to Room 201! A group of us were to remain in our old classroom, at a table all to ourselves. We were in what was called an “Intermediate” fourth grade. Always a slow starter, I received the following comments on my report card at the end of the first period: “Georgina always starts ‘cold’, but warms up later to do good work.” That was the last time I ever got a “D” in P.E.
I was sitting at that table on November 22, when our principal, Miss Hatfield, made an announcement over the loudspeaker. President Kennedy had been shot and killed. We stood up, observed a moment of silence, and sang “God Bless America.”
The Beatles arrived in the United States in early 1964. Our friends who were boys became a little jealous. I took time out from listening to the record player and from playing with my Barbie dolls to get good grades, especially in English, Spelling, Writing, Social Studies, and Conversational Spanish. This time, I was class runner-up in spelling. If there was a May Festival that year, some other little girl was chosen to hop and skip away. But that was all right – I’d had my moment of glory.
My last day at Shenandoah was June 5, 1964. I’d been promoted to fifth grade.
We moved to Georgia that summer. But I arrived speaking, reading, and writing in English. Thank you, Shenandoah, for four wonderful years. I wish I had made it to your third floor.
Copyright, 2004 by Georgina Marrero 1020 words All Rights Reserved

Babes 'n Pearls

2008-12-10T07:04:00.000-08:00

Aaugh! I feel as frustrated as Charlie Brown when Lucy made him slip up or something.
Trying to share an old post from "La Loquita" with my Theater Lovers' Community friends in Miami, I was informed the address link did not exist. Oh, yeah? Flummoxed; frustrated; board--and in the immediate aftermath of this year's Art Basel exposition--HERE IT IS (and it's worth your time, even if you don't live in Miami). Enjoy!

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Babes 'n Pearls

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

Yes, You Did

2008-11-06T14:33:00.000-08:00

TWENTY-TWENTY FORESIGHT

Noble, noble, please be noble, Mr. Horse of a Face.

Your daughters and wife have assured us that you are.

Show us your scars – don’t just talk about them.

Cheerful, upbeat, please be upbeat, Mr. Namby-Pamby Good Ole Boy.

You’ve faced adversity before, you bright upstart of a whip—

I’m counting on you to keep the show going (for the time being).

Doctor, doctor, is there a doctor in the house?

Heal thyself first, please.

Preacher, preacher, sermonize our way—

We promise to clap our hands.

General, will we return your salute?

Dunno.

But you, O Eloquent Young One:

You’ll get my vote, one day.

For Barack Obama.

7/31/04

2008-09-06T14:47:00.000-07:00

My mother in medical school. Five women in the class. Why not? Why not then? Why not now? Why not, more now? (Well, yes there are.)

It's personal.

2008-08-31T13:40:00.000-07:00

The front of the house; Coral Gables only permits panels on external walls. At least I was able to tend to my accordion shutters myself (and was able to have some light enter the house during the daylight during the two-week aftermath before the electricity was restored).
The wooden door that could have blown in.

Praying very hard for the smallest possible impact on the Gulf Coast.

It's personal.

Monday, November 14, 2005
Anatomy of a House
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!

Feel

2008-08-26T13:47:00.000-07:00

If anyone had told me earlier than mid-February or so that I'd be rooting for Hillary Clinton today, I would have told him or her to go jump in the lake...

I barely remember anything from the early 90's--I was so wrapped up in my own dramas. On Election Day, 1992, I entered the polling booth and numbly voted for George H.W. Bush's second term. I knew there were a number of spoilers--well, actually, quite a few of them--for Russ Perot. "Oh, no, I can't do that," I remember telling someone. The Clintons were young; energetic. I was not prepared to see a First Lady become so personally involved in public policy. National health care: did I discuss this with my mother? I was more wrapped up in returning to a more grown-up existence in Florida; to meandering up and down the East Coast; traveling to the West Coast, and beyond. November 1996 found me in Upstate New York. By then my mother was sold on Bill Clinton: "He feels," she said. In her own way she was trying to convert me. She lost one of her best friends in the process, at least in this lifetime. I've realized why she'd "turned": she was so very smart herself, yet she did not wear her empathy on her sleeve (unless you really knew her: her adopted family in Cuba; staff and patients at South Florida State Hospital; and a select handful of friends had been the beneficiaries of her emotional largesse...but not necessarily members of her own family, I now realize).

Through Bill, she felt. Believe it or not, she almost convinced me. However, by the time I'd entered the polling station in Ithaca, I had a crisis of conscience...and voted for Bob Dole. Monicagate ensued soon afterward, by which time I was ensconced up the street at Rodman, glued to CNN, and/or reading The Post, for all they were worth...We discussed the issue on the phone. Once again, she tried to intervene: "Mitterand's mistress attended his funeral," she said to me on more than one occasion. As I'd been raised--well, let's just say that now I understand better than ever. In the long run she backtracked a bit: for the sake of the various levels of national shame/pain her adopted country was experiencing? Should I translate this to mean, her shame/pain? Perhaps. Anyway, her current events focus was usually global: she was still keeping an eye on Saddam Hussein. She periodically used to send me news clippings on developments in the Middle East, and elsewhere. Or else--usually--she was focused on me. She passed away just shy of the end of November of 1999; the pre-2000 election jitters were already under way. Was she paying attention before she had the final stroke the first weekend of November? Knowing her, probably. Was I? I was becoming excited about the governor of Texas. However, I was more concerned about Y2K...That's the way I began my return to Miami. There was so much to do. Election Eve 2000 found me in my third home that year--I remember staying up til after 3 a.m.; as well as keeping an eye on the weeks that followed. Hanging chads? I think I had a butterfly ballot. I don't have to tell you who I'd voted for. That's when Hillary became Senator from New York; all I thought at the time was, "How ambitious." She quickly joined Rudy in the aftermath of 9/11. All well and good; and proper. Afghanistan (and how did I remember my little Afghani refugees in Nashville in the late eighties). "Shock and awe": even as I watched, that first day and night, shamelessly glued to the tube, I also thought: "Vietnam." My pre-teen through my early adolescence: had nothing filtered through? Obviously something had...Moving along in Miami by now, I watched both conventions in 2004. As mesmerized as I was by Barack's speech, Kerry couldn't motivate me...and, sure enough, I voted for 43 again. I noted, however, that Colin Powell--whom my mother had admired immeasurably--got out. I'd begun to perk up. It was an interview Byron Pitts had with some soldiers on CBS that resurrected my teenaged memories once and for all. Now what to do? The 2008 race was shaping up. I didn't fully tune back in until I returned to D.C. I was fully back on board by the Iowa Caucus: reading (usually online this time); and watching the tube into the wee hours of the morning. Reading; watching; listening; and...yes, making up my mind: for myself; and by myself. I'm not going to go into a blow by blow at this point, except to say that, by the time I'd heard Ed Rendell and Terry McAuliffe and Kiki McLean and other Clinton surrogates endorse Hillary for the umpteenth time--and I was paying attention to the Obama presentations, too--I began to realize what she stood for, and what it means for me, as a woman: what her nomination could--and would--mean. By then I'd remembered one of my mother's most oft-mentioned stories: about how, when my parents had spent time at the University of Michigan during World War II, one of the things she'd noticed was that women worked in the laboratories, awaiting their turn to be able to enroll in the medical school. There were quotas...(as opposed to the relative self-attrition that seemed to be more the norm in Europe). And how could I forget that one of her aunts had been the third woman doctor in Hungary? Ilonka hadn't practiced, for she'd married a wealthy man, but she'd made it. Pioneers: my great-aunt; my mother; and now, you. All it took was for me to make this connection, between the woman who wanted to feel; and the wife of the man who feels--who does, herself, feel. You didn't just make dents in the ceiling, Hillary: you broke through. On this, the 88th anniversary of a woman's right to vote in this country you and my mother love so much (and she did), I salute you!

For Hillary Rodham Clinton, Ana Raab Marrero, and Rosario Camacho de Golderos

Craig in 1935: A Record to Hold On To

2008-08-17T14:15:00.000-07:00

Here we go again...

With Florida about to be assaulted by (hopefully not more than Tropical Storm) Fay, it's hard for me not to be there in heart and mind. Lower Keys; Middle Keys; Upper Keys: it's still The Keys. Here's a little something I wrote as Rita was pounding the area around a little town named, Craig, back in 2005. It was in 1935, however, that a record was set there that's--shall we say--worth holding on to?

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Tres Aguitas and Seventy Years

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.

Shakshuka!

2008-08-11T08:50:00.001-07:00

Shakshuka!

Shakshuka: a Moroccan dish of eggs poached in tangy stewed tomatoes, which makes a good breakfast but is eaten any time. (Lonely Planet guide to Israel & the Palestinian Territories, 5^th edition, March 2007, p. 63.)

By Sunday at 8:00 a.m., I was on my own. The money changer at the Hotel Dan wouldn’t open until 9 a.m. My cousin had told me I’d find restaurants right on the beach, so I headed down toward Frishman Beach.

Down; and then up; and then, down again, just to be sure (and to while away the time until 9 a.m.). At the appointed time—sharp—I crossed the money changer’s threshold and promptly changed $330 US into 1089 NIS. The exchange rate was 3.3 scheckels to one American dollar on that first Sunday of my trip.

With mainly crisp 100 NIS notes in my purse, I headed back down to the first sand-side place I’d stumbled into. I still hadn’t gotten the hang of the NIS—or New Israeli Scheckel—U.S. dollar conversion, so I was a bit of a captive audience. However, I was quite hungry.

Other than a la carte, there appeared to be three specials. They all came with juice, bread, and coffee. I remembered reading about shakshuka in Lonely Planet. Tomatoes sometimes give me heartburn, but I decided to take a chance.

I hadn’t had a glass of juice since the States. I was about to find out that, unless you order a fresh-squeezed glass of some juice or the other (and it is, indeed, some of the very best in the world), you’re presented with something that remotely resembles Tang. The coffee turned out to be strong enough: more than American; less than, say, Turkish (which is also often available). It was quite palatable.

And then the shakshuka arrived, with three perfectly just this side of runny eggs gently continuing to cook in a boiling sea of stewed tomatoes. Stewed—and seasoned—as it turned out: I added an unnecessary dash of pepper out of habit.

Tearing off a piece of bread, I dunked it into the shakshuka. True to form, I cautiously worked my way around the egg yolks. Soon enough, though, I couldn’t resist. How could I? Hell, though my HDL is blessedly through the roof, all this cholesterol ingestion wouldn’t help my cause on this beach-side and increasingly hot day in Tel Aviv, Israel. But I was hungry, and so I went to town, devouring every bit of egg white and egg yolk in that skillet. As I could already feel the heartburn rising, though, I refrained from finishing all those seasoned stewed tomatoes.

As in other Mediterranean climes, the bill came in its own good time: 48 NIS. Should I tip, I wondered? I handed the waitress one of those crisp 100 NIS bills; she returned with two twenties and change. Change enough—though I still hardly knew what was what—with which to leave her something? I took the liberty of asking a young hunk sitting across from me. 5 or so scheckels, he said. So I left seven.

55 scheckels divided by 3.3 equaled $16.67 on that particular Sunday, that was growing steamier and—if humanly possible—sunnier by the minute.

Worth it, for that sunny-side-up concoction of eggs and spicy stewed tomatoes that is otherwise known as…Shakshuka!

Nebraska Avenue--or, Always First

2008-06-14T15:04:00.000-07:00

Ever since the late 90's--since Monicagate, to be precise--I have kept a close eye on politics. I remember watching the impassioned hearings leading up to President Clinton's impeachment: wide-eyed and wondering with whom to side all the way. Living in D.C. at the time (and attempting to find a niche on The Hill), I got in the habit of perusing both the Washington Post and the New York Times on Sundays, after having spent my mornings with Bob Schieffer; Sam Donaldson, Cokie Roberts (and, needless to say, George Will); and--first; always first--Tim Russert.

After surviving Monica and the impeachment, I found myself back in Florida. Just in time for the 2000 Presidential Election. Tim called it: "Florida. Florida. Florida." Once again, I was glued to the tube on Sunday mornings. (And almost every day at almost every conceivable hour during the "Recount" scenario--always glued to one of NBC's cable competitors, though.)

First--always first--I turned to Tim Russert.

For several years after 9/11, I confess to having gotten off the track. Until the 2004 election: once again, I tuned in. Come Sundays, first--always first--I turned to Tim Russert.

Four years later, I'm back in D.C. There's something about being here that, well, just keeps me on the ball. By the end of 2007, in heavy anticipation of the primary season, I was back to the Post and Times (online, this time); to the cable channels; and to the Sunday talk shows.

First--always first--I turned to Tim Russert. How wonderful: he appeared on MSNBC, too! (And on the nightly news, although by now it was Charlie Gibson with whom I kept company.)

Was it just less than two weeks ago that he for all intents and purposes anointed Barack Obama?

I could not believe what news awaited me when I returned home Friday night.

58 years old. I wonder, indeed, how Walter Cronkite and Mike Wallace must feel...

Eleven years ago, I spent my first few months in D.C. at The Greenbriar, a grande dame of an apartment building down Mass Ave. Northwest, I 'd told the realtor. A good neighborhood. Fine. I very quickly discovered I'd have to take a bus to get me to Dupont Circle; and that this bus had a quirky schedule. Were there any alternatives, I asked. Yes: go up a short ways beyond The Greenbriar, and turn right on Nebraska Avenue, I was informed.

So I learned to trudge up Nebraska toward Tenley Circle, often in blazing heat. On the right-hand side, I used to pass the WRC-TV's sign; and then the National Presbyterian Church. This lasted about two and a half months: by September I'd moved to the Village at McLean Gardens (now known as Vaughn Place). I knew I couldn't sustain that walk in the wintertime (and I didn't want to always have to depend on that fickle bus!).

Eleven years later I'm a little ways down Wisconsin Avenue (and am finally eating my words regarding that bus--well, sort of). I'd just returned from Georgetown when I turned on the computer.

Tim Russert has passed away, at age 58. At WRC-TV headquarters on Nebraska.

I hadn't been on Nebraska on this side of Wisconsin once since I'd moved back. But today--following an eleven-year-old instinct, I got in the right-hand lane at Ward Circle and found it. Admirers had already begun to lay flowers, posters, and mementos around WRC-TV's sign. Turning right on Van Ness, I turned left, and found a spot on Veazey Terrace. Then I walked back to Nebraska in--yes--blazing enough heat--turned left, approached the makeshift growing--yet loving--tribute to a very special human being, and paid my respects.

It's weird what you never think about until you realize you should have been thinking about it.
I never thought about that turn from Mass onto Nebraska Avenue. I just did it then, and didn't give it--or who might possibly work there--much thought. Admittedly, I hadn't politically "turned on," yet. Within months, though, I knew who came first--always first--on Sunday mornings. Tim Russert.

My thoughts and prayers are with his family and his colleagues, not only at WRC-TV, but beyond.

Georgina Marrero
June 14, 2008

Very Special

2008-04-15T08:50:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, April 15, 2008: Tax Day. Also awaiting the imminent arrival of His Holiness, Pope Benedict XVI. Even for this very lapsed Catholic, this is Very Special. Below is what I wrote when his predecessor, Pope John Paul II, passed away. He was Very Special, too...in many ways.

Sunday, October 16, 2005 (from La Loquita del Zig-Zag blog)

October 16, 1978

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

Kinder if not Gentler

2008-03-16T20:45:00.000-07:00

Paul Giamatti as John Adams, left; with his wife, Abigail Adams, as portrayed by Laura Linney.

HBO's mini-series, John Adams, based on David McCullough's biography, premiered tonight. I'm not going to say that it was perfect, but it was riveting and realistic. What I kept thinking about, though, was that those were kinder if not gentler times. Given all the political wrangling that's going on right now, especially the way that the Democratic Party stands a chance of tearing itself apart if it continues on its current path, both campaigns should take some time to watch this show; to be reminded of what it is that they're ultimately fighting to protect. The act of compromise has surely not been forgotten in modern times, now, has it?

The Twitch

2008-02-20T16:11:00.000-08:00

Overtown in 1900

THE TWITCH

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Do you know what it’s like to make a wrong turn when you leave Jackson Memorial Hospital, and end up in Overtown?

What I see is blight, and boarded-up buildings. A few stray people lolling about listlessly slumped against the sides of these buildings.

What I sense is despair.

What I feel is a twitch, an almost imperceptible twitch of something between shame and guilt.

“Why don’t they help themselves?” quickly becomes, “Why don’t we help them?”

Then I turn my car around, make the correct turn on 12^th Avenue, and head back toward Eighth Street.

You know, where I come from, everyone’s pretty much alike. We might call someone “El Polaco,” or “La China,” and that person might pretty much be as white as the driven snow.

My father’s best friend had a great nickname: “El Moro.”

All right. So he was dark complexioned. We were taught not to care. However, when we got here, we learned about things like Jim Crow, segregation, and the KKK.

All we could do was shake our heads.

The Civil Rights Act stirred up a lot of Black Power, and made Afros fashionable. I’ve heard there’s a neighborhood in Atlanta where the homeowners and the gardeners have turned the Oreo cookie outside in.

However, here in Miami I can’t help noticing the envious stares; the sullen, angry looks; or, worse yet, the faces turned away.

My mother’s coworker told her many years ago that her grandchildren were being taught to hate us. “Why?” my mother very calmly, yet plaintively, asked. “Because. Just because,” responded my mother’s right arm.

They had enormous respect for each other.

I confess to the twitch: that brief, “How can they? How dare they?” And then it fades away into nothingness.

When I see the Overtown shacks, though, it lingers. It festers, and rebounds… all the way to my cozy cottage.

We know corruption. Art Teele knew corruption. He just wasn’t very good at disguising it, as an old-timer in my community informed me the other day, all the while wisely shaking his head. His cronies agreed.

Art Teele wanted to help his own. He did it the right way, and the wrong way.

However, his twitch rebounded throughout Miami.

So every day that I—that we—sit in our comfortable homes, let’s carry through on the twitch, a little bit at a time, a little bit more each day.

If not, that little “aah” that follows will smack more and more of hypocrisy.

Go take that wrong turn: you’ll see what I mean.

One Doctor's Dignity

2008-02-05T06:39:00.000-08:00

Anne-Louis Girodet (de Roucy-Trioson) (1767-1824)
Raphael Urbain Massard (engraver)
Hippocrates Refusing Gift from Alexander
20.5 x 25.5 inches, sheet (Paris: 1816)

To Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama:

I would like you to read the following. I didn't write it--my mother did. She was Hungarian: a European-trained doctor who received her medical degree in Paris in 1940. One of her aunts had become the third woman doctor in Hungary (though she never practiced, as she married a wealthy man). My father--also a doctor--got her out of Europe in 1941; they proceeded to live in Cuba (my father's homeland) for the next nineteen years. I was born in 1954. In 1960, we arrived in the United States. My mother had been a housewife for twenty-five years when she decided to take the foreign medical exam--the ECFMG, as it was called--in 1965. We were living in Georgia at the time. She passed the first time; went on-staff at the state hospital in the town where we lived; and, in 1967, she began a residency in psychiatry. She was 54 years old. When she finished her residency three years later, she rejoined us in Florida. Two years later, when I went off to college, circumstances led to her landing a job at South Florida State Hospital. She was 59 years old. She worked at SFSH until she retired at age seventy. My mother was an extraordinary woman: principled; dauntless; with a privileged and exquisite mind. She was also extremely practical. She was also fascinated with politics; with current events; with progressive ideas, culling them from all of her constant and voracious reading. She was a true product of her generation, "The Greatest Generation," (she was born in 1913). She kept news clippings and notebooks about almost anything and everything. By the way, she voted for Bill Clinton in 1996, causing a severe rift with another member of her generation, a dear lady who's now in a nursing home (and who has forgiven her, I think).

Some time during the 1990's, she shared the following with me (and I haven't overly-edited: English was technically her fifth language): "About doctors." Among the many changes the world experienced through the 20th century, the changes of medical practice are among the most significant. Physicians used to be involved with the patients personally--they made home deliveries, home calls, they even operated on kitchen tables: simple things like tonsils and appendix. They often worked pro bono and in my generation who does not remember the old country doctor who often left a few dollars next to his prescription. The doctors listened to the patient and their families and they often smiled at each other. They were generally respected, trusted, and loved. Nobody ever heard of suing the doctor and the insurance was not a major issue. Now everybody is covered by insurance (or else!). The doctor is secluded in his office, surrounded by assistants, submerged in paperwork and technicians, (who are) performing procedures and even "examinations." The first thing requested from the patient is not a list of his complaints, but to fill out forms concerning the type of their insurance, their SS number, etc. The P.E. (physical exam) is minimal, technicians and technology replaced the Hippocratic methods. Errors are more frequent than when the practice was more personalized and Malpractice--the big M--often caused by negligence, and sometimes by ignorance is more prevalent. Accidents and human error always existed, but we used to remember the saying "Errare humanum est." Now we think more in terms of suits than philosophical concepts. A special chapter should be dedicated to the Medical Business proper, directed by the owners of HMO's, Hospitals, etc., limiting the physician's humanistic role and his income, but not his responsibility. And let's face it, in spite of technicians and technology; in spite of the so-called Medical Business, Doctors are still needed. Who else could sign your death certificate?

-- Ana R. Marrero, M.D. 1913-1999

Thank you for reading.

Rosa

2008-02-01T11:24:00.001-08:00

Last Wednesday was Panni's birthday. I was otherwise engaged. Perdoname, Mami.

Here's a La Loquita vignette I've never published before. Bring out your Spanish dictionary!

LA LOQUITA DEL ZIG-ZAG: ROSA

POR NININA MAMEYEZ

Olor a rosa (el perfume francés de mami); las rosas del vecino; Los Zapaticos de Rosa (El Gran Patriota); La Gran Tienda – comprando mas perfume de rosa (la vendedora se llama Estrella), no le queda mucho a mami, porque Ninina se lo ha estado poniendo, todo; asi que mami le compra una botellita solamente pa’Ninina, aunque ella olfatea a muchas otras (PEE-U!); abuelita (se llama Rosa); peo – uh, oh! – pero, al final, lo más importante es el pollo rosado...

UMM! UMM! Estaba olfateando a las rosas de nuestro vecino, el señor Gonzalo. Olían tan bien, y tenían colores tan bonitos: rojas; blancas; y, claro, rosadas. Estaba al punto de cogerme una, cuando se apareció La Súper-Planchada.

NININA! Que estas haciendo? Uh, oh. Nada, tata, nada. Pues, ven conmigo. Tu mami te quiere ver. Y me halo de la mano pa’la casa.

NININA! Ay, otra vez. Que has hecho? Uh, oh. Nada, mami, nada. Solamente estaba olfateando a las rosas del señor Gonzalo.

Tu y tus rosas, niña! Mira, me iba a poner mi perfume francés de las rosas, y descubrí que casi no me queda. (Mirándome.) Tu sabes por que-e?

Uh, oh. AY, sí, mami. Me lo puse el otro día antes de ir a casa de Ofelita, verda?

Y cuando fuimos al cine. Y cuando fuimos al museo, y al zoológico, y al...

Ay, nene. (Riéndose.) Claro. Te gusta a ti, porque me gusta a mí. (Riéndose, otra vez.) Verda?

La mire. SÍ! Pues, m’ija, creo que tenemos que ir a La Gran Tienda. Chino, llévenos, por favor.

En La Gran Tienda, empecé a volar de vitrina en vitrina. AY, mami, como hay perfumes aquí! La vendedora me miró, y me preguntó, “Quieres probar algunos perfumes, niñita?”

SÍ! La señora echo un poco de perfume encima de pedacitos de papel. Los olfatee a todos.

AY, QUE RICO! Me gustaron cuando olían a mi talco de bebe. PEE-U! Algunos eran muy fuertes. Hice una cara cómica – la señora se rió.

Mami me estaba mirando. Como te pareces a mí, hijita. Y suspiro.

Señora, por favor entrégueme el perfume francés de las rosas. La señora sacó a una botella de la vitrina. Mami lo pensó, y siguió: dos botellas mas, por favor.

Ninina, mira! Te estoy comprando una botella del perfume francés de las rosas, solamente para ti. AY, mami, gracias! Y otra mas, para tu abuelita. Acuérdate de que ella se llama Rosa.

HEE-HEE. Sí, mami. Podemos ir a ver a los libros, también? La señorita Zina dice que yo ya puedo leer MU-CHO...

Subimos al segundo piso. Al lado de los juguetes, y esa casa de muñecas, estaban los libros. MIRA, mami, Rosa!

Mami le dio un vistazo. Pues, sí, Los Zapaticos de Rosa. Sabes quien lo escribió, nene? El Gran Patriota. Abriéndolo, mami y yo empezamos a leer: “Yo voy con mi niña hermosa,” le dijo la madre buena. “No te manches en la arena los zapaticos de rosa!”

Que bien, Ninina! Cómo has aprendido en la escuela! Me dio un beso, y me compró el libro.

Gracias, mami. Pero, tu sabes que? Yo nunca mancharía zapaticos de rosa. Nunca!

Me imagino que no, nene. Vamos a bajar ahora, ok? Me aguante de la mano de mami, porque no me gustan las escaleras mecánicas. Una vez vi a alguien caerse.

Y todavía les tengo miedo. Pero menos, porque ya soy GRANDE.

Chino nos devolvió a La Nueva Ventana. Fui volando a mi cuarto con mi perfume francés de las rosas y con mi librito de los zapaticos de rosa.

Porque mi rosa favorita me estaba esperando. Mi pollo rosado.

Es propiedad de Georgina Marrero, 2005 522 palabras

The Little Black Hat

2008-01-27T07:45:00.000-08:00

In 1964, when I was ten years old, I paid attention to a man from the other side of the world who was wearing a little black hat. His name was Sukarno. He was overthrown by another man with a little black hat. His name was Suharto. He passed away earlier today.

For what it's worth, it was that little black hat that opened me up to my interest in Indonesia. What a ten-year-old pays attention to, eh?

So Sad

2008-01-22T17:34:00.001-08:00

Heath Ledger was brilliant as Ennis Del Mar in Brokeback Mountain. As good as Phillip Seymour Hoffman was in Capote--and he was--in retrospect, shouldn't Heath have won (and I wanted him to)? I'm sad. Oh, so sad. Twenty-eight years old? He'd barely begun to live...

Panni's and Pepi's Paris

2007-12-31T17:46:00.001-08:00

Ana (Panni) Raab in a medical school class at The University of Paris School of Medicine, ca. 1937. She's in the second row from the top, scrunched in between a fellow who appears to be looking at her (or at someone in the row below?); and another fellow with whom she appears to be (quite?) chummy. Must have been one of her Romanian friends...

December 31: there are so many anniversaries attached to this date. Here's the story of the one that's most fit to print:

PANNI’S AND PEPI’S PARIS

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

For me, Paris is synonymous with the two most important persons in my life: my parents. Anna “Panni” Raab met Federico Efrain “Pepi” Marrero in a medical school class at the University of Paris’ Faculty of Medicine sometime in the mid-1930’s. At the time, people “group” dated, or so my mother told me, so I’m not quite sure when they began to formally date. By 1940, though, they knew each other well enough that my father either sent for or went to pick my mother up in the South of France, they traveled via Orleans to Lyon, and married in the mayor’s office there on December 31, 1940.

My parents’ stories about their years in Paris shaped me. Their stories about forty francs being the equivalent of one American dollar; about a paper cone’s full of French fries costing four to five francs (and that was dinner). About students gathering in the Luxembourg Gardens: I have pictures of them doing just so. About Henri Bergson giving lectures that were so packed that the best my mother could hope for was to strain to hear through the open door. About how he presented himself as a Jew before the Nazis when they occupied Paris.

Those were very difficult times. My mother defended her thesis eight days before the Occupation. And then she fled to Vichy France. As for my father: well, with a middle name like Efrain, his professor, Clovis Vincent, wanted to keep a close eye on him. It just so happened Vincent was a great French patriot, decorated during the First World War. So he ingeniously gathered all his residents together to serve at the Pitie Hospital under the auspices of his “Neurosurgical Wartime Service.”

One of the residents, a man named Rabinowitz, escaped at least several times from detention camps, and eventually made his way to Canada.

For the record, when Princess Diana was rushed to the Pitie and Salpetriere Hospitals after her fatal car crash, my mother’s comment was: “That’s the best place to treat head injuries.” No two ways about it: my mother would have known.

My mother’s strength may have ebbed and flowed, but her stories never wavered. After her death, I had the good fortune to speak with one of her best friends, a fashion designer named Kati Cohn, who filled in many gaps. According to Kati, the Hungarians went to France to study, she said, because they were “freer” there. They were not held back… just because they were Jewish.

Young, carefree, (perhaps?) in love – and she never studied, according to Kati. Panni joined Kati and her crowd at the cafes every afternoon. When did she study, we both mused out loud. She graduated, though, producing a thesis on Nietzsche and Psychiatry. And, oh, yes: she once cooked a veal steak on the back of an iron!

As for Pepi, he studied very hard, yet found time to play ball with his fellow Cuban classmates. He also cooked chicken and rice: hard for me to believe, later on. He had to wash his own clothes, and, at one point, had to do with very little money, for someone had stolen his stipend. I guess that’s when those French fries came in handy.

My father’s passion was neuropathology, so he hit pay dirt when a very eminent Spaniard fled to Paris during the Spanish Civil War. This man, Don Pio del Rio Hortega, guided my father’s thesis. My father dedicated it to him.

Did they have fun? They all had fun, according to Kati.

In the midst of all the storm clouds brewing, yes, they did.

They were young, carefree, and – perhaps – falling in love.

If the following is not an example of young love, then I don’t know what is: According to my mother, she once stumbled into Vincent’s operating room, tripping over wires, and whatnot. The Great Man – a big, hulking French peasant – turned, glowered, and asked Panni: “Mademoiselle, what are you doing here?”

“I’m searching for Monsieur Marrero,” my mother responded. She proudly continued, “He’s supposed to be operating.”

Monsieur Vincent tersely replied, “Go to the sub-basement. You’ll find Monsieur Marrero there.” Sure enough, my father was operating… on bedsores.

As a teenager, I went to Paris, where I spent time with my mother’s cousin and his wife, who’d been made to wear the Star of David during the Occupation. Their daughter’s married to a devout Roman Catholic.

A little later on that summer, my mother came to join me. I’d wanted to go running off to Scotland to do who knows what after finishing my language course in Tours. In a panic, my father had sent her over.

Still highly energetic, my mother marched me up and down the streets of Paris, pointing out this, that, 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.

A rebellious child of the times, all I did was fuss, fret, protest, and complain… all the way to the Folies Bergere. Even then, however, I sensed the enormous bond my mother had with her lifelong best friend and her Cuban husband, a bon vivant who’d married the peppy little Frenchwoman, never again giving a second thought to the medical career that had brought him to Paris in the first place, as it had my father.

After she passed away, I braved a cold, damp Paris holiday season to visit with our relatives. I also spent many wonderful hours with her best friend’s now widowed husband. He’d known Efrain for even more years than he’d known Anita. I returned once more, four months before 9/11, when I got to see him for the last time.

I’m bound to return to Paris, and to enjoy The City of Lights more and more in my own right. However, for me, this beautiful, carefree, romantic city will always be… Panni’s and Pepi’s Paris.

How did I mark today? Among other things, I saw "The (Aryan) Couple" for the fourth-fifth time. It (somewhat) juxtaposes "The Sound of Music"--if nothing else, both sets of protagonists end up in Switzerland: the former, from Hungary; and the latter, from Austria. Someday, someday: I--or, rather--Panni and Pepi--have a story of their own...

Caroline Carver; Kenny Doughty; and Martin Landau in "The Aryan Couple."

La Cama de Piedra

2007-12-19T06:53:00.001-08:00

Y ahora pa' un poco de espanol:

LA LOQUITA DEL ZIG-ZAG: LA CAMA DE PIEDRA

POR NININA MAMEYEZ

Thum thum thum thum. QUE es eso, pienso. Entrando en la biblioteca, encuentro a papi tocando su tocadiscos. Él tiene muchos discos de nuestro país y de Nuestros Otros Países. Le encanta la guitarra. El thum thum viene de las guitarras.

AY, papi, estas tocando a tus guitarras. Si, nene. Escucha al Señor Mariachi. Esta cantando: “Guitarras, lloren guitar-ras.” QUE? Las guitarras no pueden llorar, papi!

Sí, hijita. Las guitarras lloran. Mira, escucha a esta otra canción: “De piedra ha de ser la cama/ de piedra las cabeceras...” Empiezo a mecerme: me gusta. Pero pienso, digo, QUE? Una cama de piedra? Y guitarras que lloran?

Tiene que ver, Ninina, con como te quiero a ti y a mami. OH. Y yo te quiero a ti y a mami. Y yo quiero tener una cama de piedra. Papi lo piensa, suspira. Que piensas de una guitarra llorona, en vez?

NO, papi, yo quiero a La Cama De Piedra! Pues, pídeselo a Santi Clos, ok? OK. Santi Clos llega; me trae una muñeca lindísima. Ay, que muñequita mas linda, dice La Linda. Umm... Umm... ¿Dónde ‘sta La Cama De Piedra? ¿DÓNDE ‘STA LA CAMA DE PIEDRA?

Corriendo a mi cuarto, me encaramo bocabajo sobre mi cama. Empiezo a sollozar, a llorar y llorar. Lloro como El Señor Mariachi. Lloro hasta mas que las guitarras. El único que me puede consolar es mi pollo rosado.

El primer día del Ano Nuevo, todos en la casa corren pa’qui y pa’lla. Que’sta pasando, papi? Don Bastón se fue de su palacio ayer por la noche, nene. Y ahora tenemos al Colonel Barbabudo en el poder. El amigo del Teniente Llantes De Saber? Papi suspira, sí. Pero – sonriéndose un poco – en varios días llegaran Los Reyes Magos, verdad?

OK, papi, ok. Dándole un besito, salgo a jugar en mi columpio. El próximo día, papi sale solo en su Olsmobil, sin El Chino. Vuelve a la casa, sonriéndose mas y más.

El Día De Los Reyes Magos, entro en la biblioteca. Veo a un paquete ENORME, con un lazo lindísimo. Ábrelo, nene. Es para ti.

Desbaratando al papel y al mono, me encuentro con un tocadiscos chiquito. Y encima del tocadiscos esta... LA CAMA DE PIEDRA! Corriendo a papi, lo aprieto y le doy un beso y un abrazo enorme. GRACIAS, papi, GRACIAS!

Thum thum thum thum. “De piedra ha de ser la cama...” canta El Señor Mariachi. “De piedra LAS cabeceras...” canto yo. Empiezo a mecerme: me gusta. Pero todavía no sé por que la cama es de piedra. Ni por que las guitarras lloran.

FELIZ NAVIDAD Y UN PROSPERO ANO NUEVO A TODOS MIS AMIGOS!

PARA EPI Y PANNI. SIEMPRE.

Balthasar's Bounty

2007-12-19T06:47:00.001-08:00

In The City Beautiful: across the street; and several back yards over, lies...

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.

HappyHolidays to my friends and former neighbors in South Florida!

Teeter - Totter...

2007-12-18T22:05:00.000-08:00

"Sex and the City: A 'Vogue' Idea (#4.17)" (2002)

[in the Vogue accessories closet]
Carrie Bradshaw: [shrieks as she picks up a pair of shoes] Do you know what these are? Manolo Blahnik Mary Janes! I thought these were an urban shoe myth! -- from IMDB Website

"Teeter - Totter..." is probably what I consider to have been my "breakthrough" piece. As the only time I ever posted it before was on a website I possibly might never be able to recuperate, let's just consider that I'm treading in virgin territory here. Sigh.

TEETER – TOTTER…

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

In life, sometimes, you end up – albeit briefly – wearing someone else’s shoes, both figuratively… and literally. Someone through whom, perhaps, you vicariously wish you could live your life – or, at least, an episode in your life… or, rather, their life. The interesting thing, though, is that this event is actually happening in your life, so, in effect, you are actually living out a part of your life. Am I making sense here?

Carrie Bradshaw. “Sex and the City.” True to my form -- that is, “after the fact,” I finally discovered the show four years after its inception. No matter: I was hooked. I quickly realized that I empathized with Carrie. I may not have long, curly blonde hair, nor a shoe fetish. Nonetheless, I do obsess about relationships, I can be funny, and I do write.

Slavishly following fashion has never been my style, especially when it comes to footwear. On the contrary: Chinese slipper Mary Jane equivalents, loafers, sneakers, sandals with non-existent heels – and a few medium heeled, yet sensible, pumps: a compendium, here, of my adult life below the ankle wardrobe. Fiercely and stubbornly resistant – memories of unbecoming, ghastly orthopedic lace-up booties still send shudders up and down my spine – my childhood flat feet problem continues to haunt me. AARP membership is around the corner. Arthritis is beginning to rear its ugly head. Casual observers, aestheticians, and shoe vendors alike feel I am a podiatrist’s dream/nightmare come true.

Why all this obstinacy when it comes to my feet? False pride, perhaps. There is something about the idea of entrusting one’s feet over into the care of someone else that both repulses and terrifies me. After all, Carrie’s good friend, Charlotte, reacted as such when a foot fetishist-turned-shoe salesman tried to have his way with her feet. Perhaps her motto became: “Shoe boutique shoppers, beware.”

Boutique department stores, however, have Choos – and Louboutins – and Weitzmans – of a different color. As Neiman Marcus was having its First Call sale, I had to – at the very least – strut through the store, indulge some whim or the other, and proudly swing my Neiman’s bag back and forth for all to see. If not down Fifth Avenue, then, at least, all the way back to the parking lot.

A shoe fetish I may not have – but a handbag one, I do. As the “sheep” mentality to which even I succumb had prodded me to indulge in the most practical Prada I could find several weeks earlier, no purse – either sensible or frivolous – enticed me. The sale was too good, however, to think of walking out empty-handed. Before I could regain control, my flat, thong-clad feet had made their way to the shoe department.

Carrie Bradshaw and Manolo Blahniks are synonymous with each other. Neiman’s is known for its selection of Manolos. The sale racks were stocked with a handsome selection of the lovely footwear for which my New York loving, intrepid, cigarette-smoking, articulate, neurotic alter ego is known. As with men, are all the good ones always taken? Are we compelled to not only wear the shoes, but also wear the same size? (It’s not that complicated, really – 7 ½ Medium is probably among the most standard of shoe sizes for women.) Even on sale, each pair cost more than three hundred dollars. Just as well. A decent pair of black shoes, however, would come in handy.

The kind, patient, very down-to-earth (for Neiman’s), knowledgeable salesperson also happened to be the manager of the department. Upon informing him of my elusive quest for “torture-free” footwear, he brought out a few very appropriate pairs for my perusal… including a pair of “ballerina” Manolo Blahniks! Black, flat, butter-soft, pointed, yet roomy. A done deal, Ms. Carrie Bradshaw Wannabe: who says you cannot live out a fantasy, albeit a non-existent heeled version of one?

Obsessive, excessive – and delighted – I asked him about sandals. Sexy sandals. Not too many Manolos left in my/our size. No matter: the pair he and a coworker presented me with screamed out, “Carrie Bradshaw,” nonetheless. I beheld a beautiful pair of black Marc Jacobs sandals, made out of black leather and black suede – a thong model, if I recall correctly – with a black suede flower saucily perched at the tip of each shoe. Very sexy! As only one pair remained – in my/our size – it was drastically reduced, which made it even more appealing. I/we excitedly proceeded to try it on, in all of its three-inch-heeled glory.

Teeter – totter. This is the best way to describe what happened next. There I stood – sexy, three inches taller – but I could not move. My face registered a panoply of emotions: exhilaration, shock, total dismay, shame. Which is worse, shame, or pain? Tentatively inching forward in these exquisite instruments of torture, I remembered Carrie describing walking twenty – nay, forty-seven – blocks in Manhattan in one of her special numbers and stating, “These shoes pinch my feet.” Better to have my Carrie footwear “bubble” burst this way than to suffer with blistered feet… if I could even manage to take more than a few steps in the shoes, that is. Life from a flamingo’s point of view: teeter – totter.

Dejectedly, I stepped out of the shoes. Simultaneously, I breathed a sigh of relief. The “ballerina” slippers would have to do. Life was imitating art - by now owning a pair of Manolo Blahniks, our bond was further strengthened! (However, CB owns one hundred pairs to my now extensive collection of four/recently decimated to two: 12/19/07 postscript.) Carrie Bradshaw is not the protagonist here, though. This is my life. I write, I can be funny, and I do obsess about relationships. However, I do not smoke.

Sling Backs

2007-12-18T21:49:00.001-08:00

The perfect accompaniment to Swirl: these sexy, racy Sling Backs. Oh if only I could really, truly do more than stumble mere millimeters in them...

SLING BACKS

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Brad and Jen had just split up when, one Friday afternoon, I found myself in Coconut Grove. As it was gray and threatening looking, I had my fuchsia Totes ready and waiting.

Pedro Almodovar’s La Mala Educacion had just made it to Cocowalk. After parking and grabbing a quick bite to eat, I’d breathlessly climbed the three flights of stairs to the theater.

I was not disappointed.

Emerging in between movies, I was greeted by a torrential downpour. On the eleven o’clock news that night, I heard it had all come down within twenty minutes. Indeed, during the twenty minutes when I rushed down the stairs for a gelato.

In Good Company, an entertaining romp, also managed to hold my attention. As I had slept well the previous night, I was wide-awake.

So awake, in fact, that I decided to spend more time in the area.

Proceeding in the general direction of Peacock Park, I was on the lookout for the Steve Madden Outlet, which I’d first discovered during the Herald Hunt several months earlier. Soon enough, I found it.

A wonderful assortment of flats: some in suede, and one memorable pair in leather flanked by patent leather that actually curled up when I tried it on; some ridiculously high-heeled pumps; and the store’s signature platform wedgies greeted me. Teeter-tottering, hanging on by the tips of my fingers, I struggled to retain my balance.

Would you like to sit down, a clean-cut, clear-eyed young salesperson sporting a chain with a small cross on it, asked me.

Stubbornly resistant, I said, no, thanks. The young man began to follow me around as I futilely tried on pair after pair, grimacing as I went. As he seemed nice, and kind, I began to speak with him.

I’m a writer, I said. I’m studying to be a teacher, he said. I used to be a teacher. Oh. What kind. I told him. What are you interested in? History. Oh.

When I mentioned I’d just seen La Mala Educacion, he said that was the next movie he wanted to see. He’d seen Maria Full of Grace. That’s what it’s like on the streets of Colombia, he said. I mentioned City of God: he’d seen it. What a brave soul. Serious movies. Heavy topics.

Deciding to lighten things up, I switched to the obvious: shoes. My feet. Did you notice my hammertoes? Yes. He seemed to know quite a bit about shoes. He seemed to know a great deal about a great many things.

Returning to writing, I told him, I want to write for your generation. OK, he responded, a little hesitantly, yet kindly.

Shoes. I can’t do shoes, but I can do purses. And bras. Woman things, you know. Girl things. These are the primary girl things, are they not? He agreed.

Hair. There’s also hair. And jeans. Those low-riders, where you can see everything when a girl bends over, right? Do you like that? He fudged a bit on this one.

Hey, what are guy things, I then asked him. Looking up, I noticed his neat, razor-short hair; his trim, almost invisible, beard. Hair’s a guy thing, yes? He agreed.

What else do guys care about? Jeans, he said, looking down at his own. Having their hems hit the shoes just so. Having them hang just so. What about the underpants hanging out of the jeans? I’m still into them, he sheepishly admitted. Whereupon he raised his T-shirt a bit, revealing the gray tops of his underpants.

It’s hard to break my teenage habits, he said. Thinking back on my own teenage habits, I fuzzily remember octagonal wire-rimmed glasses; long, curly hair. And jeans.

Jeans and hair: that’s what girls and guys have in common. We both agreed.

Saying goodbye, I didn’t feel as if I was leaving empty-handed. Sling backs: I’d purchased a pair of low-heeled, T-strap sandals covered with a fun, colorful print containing flowers, a pensive woman, and a thought bubble: “Ah. Ah. This is funny!” that somewhat qualify as sling backs during my last visit.

This time, a pensive young man managed to sling me back in time. Now to see if it’s true that Sling Blade’s ex is responsible for The Split.

Oh, what we care about.

Training Wheels

2007-12-18T07:56:00.001-08:00

A tried and true--yet, fresh--piece. Behold the debut of "Training Wheels":

TRAINING WHEELS

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Why is it so difficult to be a modern-day woman? I think it’s because we begin at such a young age to try to become so. Take our obsession with bras, for example. Recently I bought a black French number, euphemistically named, Swirl. Its manufacturer tries even harder: its name is, Le Mystere.

The real mystery was that it had fit me, at least in the store’s dressing room. After donating several woefully worn out holdouts from who knows when to my local Goodwill, my black bra collection now consisted of Swirl; a fancier French model from the Chantelle line intended for “special” occasions; and a clingy animal print Roberto Cavalli with just enough black in it to “qualify.”

Planning to wear a mesh weave black top, I pulled Swirl out of the drawer. A nice fit, a pretty bra: good. Soon I found myself at my accustomed Friday afternoon spot: in front of a movie screen at Sunset Place in South Miami.

By the middle of the movie, Swirl’s under wire was cutting into me so deeply I could barely breathe. Pulling at the cups under the blessed cover of darkness, I felt something give. Some stitches appeared to have come undone, providing me with some relief.

Not enough. No sooner was the movie over, than I rushed to the restroom and removed the blasted thing. Should I, or shouldn’t I? I asked myself. Yes. Stuffing Swirl into my purse, I made a discreet dash to the local Chico’s. They were bound to have a cover-up of some kind.

An earth-toned jacket just to my liking awaited me. I’ll wear it out, I told the saleswomen. Telling them why, we began to discuss the merits of should we or shouldn’t we. Wear a bra, that is. The tall, reed-like saleswoman said she doesn’t wear one if she doesn’t have to. Her more womanish coworker, pointing down at herself, said she must. And I responded, well, in my mother’s generation women wore camisoles, and I’m built like my mother.

We then got on the topic of how much we want to show. I don’t stick out, said the more fleshed-out of the two. Oh, you’re like squash blossoms, I ventured. She demurred. And I, I contributed, have been compared to pencil erasers. We both giggled.

Little nine or ten year olds are already wearing training bras, I plaintively continued – there’s nothing there. They want to grow up as fast as they can, the well-built saleswoman said. When they were younger, they got rid of their training wheels as quickly as possible. And, she continued, they’ve replaced them with their training bras.

With their training bras? I never made it beyond my training wheels.

Before I left the mall, I tried Victoria’s Secret. Alas: long in the shoulder blades, pencil-pointed, round, neither A nor B, I found nothing. So what else is new?

However, on my way out of the parking lot, while pulling Swirl out of my purse in order to retrieve my wallet, I could not help noticing that the young parking attendant perked up for a second. Thank you, I said, as he handed me my change. You’re welcome, he drawled out for a split second longer than necessary.

Not chucking those little wheels didn’t hurt me in the long run, I guess.