Babes 'n Pearls

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

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

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.

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

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

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!

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!

Copyright, 2008 by Georgina Marrero All Rights Reserved