Hoping for Warmth in the New Year: Mandis and Eggs

It's TBSunday:  On the heels of my departure for a very cold clime, I just thought you might enjoy one of my never-to-be-forgotten snippets from my first trip to one of Earth's Paradises--Bali.  So hard to believe this was twenty-eight years ago...Happy New Year, everyone!

Sunday, August 05, 2007

Mandis and Eggs

Not too much has changed in 20 years: pictures of the Puri Saren--now known as the Puri Saren Agung--on Jalan Raya, Ubud, Bali.


To round out my "Bali Tetralogy" (Bali: A Love Affair; Bali Kopi; The Dogs; and my Java-based Mad Dogs and Englishmen: The Search for Wayang Beber), I sheepishly present you with Mandis and Eggs:

MANDIS AND EGGS

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

My rain shower sprinkle of a showerhead was dotting me with cooler and cooler water the other day. Uh, oh. Coming out of my tub, I immediately thought: hot water heater.

I tried the sink: same. The bidet: same. (And its flow is usually liquid steam.) Rushing to the kitchen, the sink yielded the same results. Returning to the bathroom, I tried the tub hot water faucet again. Tepid water. Oh, no.

Stay calm, I told myself. Give it a while. Then try again. Then—if need be—check the hot water heater outside, get a repair number, call someone. Anyone.

I knew for a fact the hot water heater hadn’t been touched since 2000 or so. One more thing in this house that has an about to expire five year warranty on it. I sighed.

Why fuss? I also asked myself. It’s hot outside. But, wait: it’s the principle of the thing. Or, rather, it’s an almost twenty-year-old memory.

Mandis. And eggs.

So what’s a mandi, you’re wondering. A mandi is the Indonesian equivalent of a tub. A square, tiled, sink-like structure with a spigot, and a bucket on its edge, the idea is to fill the bucket with water, and then sluice it over your body.

And that’s your bath, with—needless to say—cold water.

Other than squat toilets, this was the other terror that awaited me during my first trip to Southeast Asia.

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

Why weird? Because not only were the shells a darkish hue, but so were the so-called “whites.” I couldn’t stand to look at them, let alone scoop them out and consume them.

My husband didn’t mind. He cheerfully ran around, taking pictures (especially of food), and eating that tepid food, including those weird eggs.

He was doing a good job of putting up with my complaining, too. That is, until a Balinese mandi and eggs proved to be too much for a squawking tourist to bear.

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

Following our instructions, our travel agent had made reservations for us at a hotel that boasted “hot water.” The Puri Saren turned out to be the puri (palace) of the local prince. My husband was all but jumping up and down.

We were led to our bungalow, at a respectful distance (and decline) from the residence of the prince. We had a bird’s eye view of the central courtyard, where, under shelter, the masks and other paraphernalia used in religious performances were housed.

The man who kept assisting us appeared to have been assigned to us: a member of the prince’s retinue, no less.

Look! Look! My husband kept exclaiming, pointing in every direction. We even have a SERVANT…

I just sighed, and kept protesting. This bed all but takes up most of the room! It’s too hard! It’s too hot in here!

WHERE’S THE BATHROOM?

There it was, to the side. A Balinese bathroom, as it turned out, with shrubbery encasing what would have been one corner of a Western bathroom. It was very private, very beautiful… and very open.

It had a normal toilet. Thank heavens. And it had a tub. Uh, oh. Good, though, I sighed, thinking of the hand-held showerheads I’d just endured. I turned on the water.

Cold. Not just tepid, but cold water was coming out of both faucets.

I screamed. What’s wrong, Georgina?

THERE’S NO HOT WATER!

My husband rushed to find our “servant.” Yes, the hotel was supposed to have hot water, but they were having trouble with their generator, the man gracefully acknowledged, with that slightly apologetic laugh to let us know he meant us no harm.

What came next was my own torrent. OK, I won’t take a bath.

Suit yourself. Whereupon my husband climbed in the tub, used the mandi bucket, and gave himself what he jokingly referred to as a Western mandi.

I snapped away, taking discreet pictures of him sluicing water over himself with that bucket.

Making our way around Ubud later that evening, I was becoming stickier and stickier. Returning to the Puri Saren, and that stifling room with its hard bed, only made things worse.

It was then that we discovered the true function of a Balinese bathroom: to let all the mosquitoes in.

Sweaty, sticky, I climbed in the tub, turned on the water. BRRR! Sweaty, sticky, exhausted, I tried to fall asleep on the hard bed. NO. With the door left open to the bathroom, all we succeeded in doing was in letting all the mosquitoes in. NO.

That long, hot night was surely one of the most miserable of my entire life. In the morning, I told my husband I’d had it.WE HAD TO FIND A DIFFERENT HOTEL.

WE? You mean, YOU, Georgina! YOU go find us a hotel. FINE!

I stormed off just as our cheerful “servant” was bringing us our next round of weird eggs, tepid fruit, and (admittedly) delicious Bali kopi. The man looked at me, not quite knowing how to react.

Going up and down Jalan Raya (the main street), I managed to find a place that, indeed, had hot water (I tested it).Very proud of myself, I returned to the Puri Saren.

I DID IT – I FOUND A PLACE WITH HOT WATER! I told my husband.

He shamefacedly turned to our “servant,” offering his apologies.

Take our luggage, I told my husband. NO! YOU TAKE IT! It’s the price you have to pay, he said. We even had our own SERVANT, he plaintively continued.

So I trudged to the new hotel with our luggage, a little at a time. Where I found the strength (as we didn’t travel that lightly), I don’t know to this day.

We spent the last night on Bali that year at the Nusa Dua Beach Hotel. We ate from a sumptuous hotel buffet, mingled with upper-crust tourists, slept in air-conditioned splendor, and—yes—I took a long, hot shower. Maybe two.

However, walking along the hotel’s carefully manicured paths, I realized, even then, how artificial it all was.

I don’t fully remember, but I bet you the Nusa Dua egg whites were white. The coffee was watered down Bali kopi.And we sure as heck didn’t have our own servant.

Back to the present: miracle of miracles, within half an hour, I had my hot water back. Almost scalded myself with the bidet spigot.

Must have taken a very long shower, thinking about the Puri Saren.

Silly girl.

Santa's Elves

Saturday, December 24, 2005

Santa's Elves

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

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

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

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

SANTA’S ELVES

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

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

It's Nochebuena, nine years later.  You know by now that I'm an amateur sociologist ;-).  This is one of my favorite pieces.  Yes, it's "Miami--or, should I say, "Doral"-bound.  The population of the City of Doral consists primarily of Venezuelans, Argentineans, and other South Americans.  Shaquille O'Neal wants to be a cop there, I've read...

Not too many of us Cubans, floating around (although Sweetwater, one of our "strongholds" in "Wes'chester" is not far away).

Yes, it's Nochebuena.  Los cubanos are roasting their pork on a spit; preparing to serve it with frijoles negros (and/or moro); yuca (with plenty of mojo!!); arroz blanco; platanos fritos (or tostones/chatinos if tastes run in that direction); the requisite ensalada con mucha cebolla, tomates, y no mucha lechuga...and the equally essential pancito calentado en el horno:  who needs it, but it's there, nonetheless :-).  All, of course, washed down with mucha cerveza (especially consumed by the men--solamente hombres, por supuesto!--while they're roasting the pork and talking about la vida como fue en Cuba antes de Castro).  Or, now--as of just the other day--the conversation debe de girar alrededor de la noticia de que se va a "abrir" a Cuba.  Let's get back to the meal:  cerveza; vino; tragos mas fuertes...y sidra para los ninitos--si!--y para las viejitas.  

And now we get to the most important part of the meal:  el chicharron--the pork rind; especially the pig's ears, which are an enormous delicacy!  If you're high enough up in the hierarchy of la familia/los invitados, you'll be offered some...I've heard the pig's snout is also a treat:  still a bit gelatinous, perhaps?  Y que se puede decir de the pig's feet?

My mouth is watering, folks.

I'm in DC, now--for the third time in almost twenty years--and I'm happy.  No, no chicharron pa'mi, esta noche--but that's ok:

Just PLEASE, mis compatriotas, PLEASE treat LeBron with respect tomorrow afternoon!!!

He's Santa's Elf, too--

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!  Feliz Navidad y un Prospero Ano Nuevo!!

Midsummer Alaskan Holiday Cheers (2012)/Paris (2009)/My Google Year in Pictures

Here's my other holiday card this year; based on my Alaska/Vancouver cruise in late July, 2012:

Customize a photo slideshow

And this was my card last year; based on my trip to Paris in late November, 2009:

This free digital slideshow generated with Smilebox

And here is Google's version of my year in pictures:

Unless I can think of something else to post for now:  Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!!!

Babes 'n Pearls

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.

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!

For a self-taught chef of my acquaintance--proof positive that you have continued to imbue every day of my existence with your presence.  Peace and love for a fruitful, positive 2015!

Feliz Navidad de La Ninina!!

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And here is La Ninina's Christmas tale:  first in the original Spanish; and second in the best "metaphorically-correct" English translation I could muster:

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!

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.           

           

           

           

           

           

   May President Obama's decision bring peace to Cubans on both sides of the Florida Straits.         

Something (Almost) Seamless Capital Way Comes

Here's some more of my "line 'em up and spit 'em out type of writing" -- again, Miami-based (but now, DC-bound)--

--from a stream of vignettes titled, "Almost Seamless":

ALMOST SEAMLESS:  REFLECTIONS ON AN OTHERWISE TORN WEEK

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

            Oh, to be a seamstress:  a good one, at that, able to expertly execute a seamless stitch.  None of that rip out the stitch and begin from scratch business.  And yet that is precisely what I found myself doing, over and over, this past week.

            Writing, gaffes; ups, downs:  one and the same.  At least the first I do in private.  Keep my lips zippered:  my Albesia wood statue, “Silent Wisdom,” is staring down at me from the top of my old tall teak bookcase this very moment.  How can wisdom lie in a piece of silent wood seamlessly carved by someone who lives half a world away?  And yet I stare back, and, at some level, agree.

            Two rows down I find my other medicine:  wood pulp, this time, printed with many long, difficult words.  How can such expertly executed words stitch my soul back together?  And yet they do, at some level:  almost – but not quite –seamlessly.

            For the final stitching I invariably have to do for myself.  And here are some of the not quite seamless – hell, almost seamless – results.

THE ANOINTED

Do I really have to wait?  On a beautiful, cloudless Saturday, I found myself at the Douglas Gardens Jewish Home and Hospital Thrift Shop.  A friend of mine had found some of those ultra-expensive knits there at a fraction of the price.

            Take the Dolphin, the man with whom I spoke when I called for directions informed me.  Oh, no:  anything but the Dolphin, that claustrophobically criss-crosses the city at the worst possible point of intersection.  Once I was on it, I realized I could have taken LeJeune and saved myself precious moments of aggravation.

            Finding myself on 27^th Avenue, the same 27^th Avenue I know that criss-crosses my more familiar terrain of Eighth Street, and following it blindly, I soon found myself in the southernmost reaches of North Miami Beach.  It didn’t dawn on me, however, until I was about to squeeze into a parking spot.

            Squeeze was right, for the parking lot was full.  In frustration, and less than comfortable with my surroundings, I asked some ladies who were about to enter why the thrift shop is located there.  Because the Jewish Home and Hospital is located right behind the store, was their answer.  Oh.

            Soon I found myself browsing through rack after rack of dated, yet stylish, jackets, dresses, coats; even furs.  I even found a few size 2’s, but the sleeves were too short, and the length was too long.

            Almost everything appeared to date from the 1980’s:  huge shoulder pads; loads of sequins; brightly colored appliqués; snakeskin.  Fingering many of the items, the bulk of them appeared to be in pretty good shape.

            It was when I tried on several of the furs, with their stiffened pelts and unraveling linings, that it hit me:  these items are here because they belonged to little old Jewish ladies who are now either residing at the Home, or are since deceased.  I became very sad.

            There’d been no ultra-expensive knits available for a song, plus there was no dressing room in which to try out a sequined number or two.  So I quickly selected several purses with the ubiquitous snakeskin and a dressy evening bag that needs a good cleaning, and decided to check out the rest of the store.

            A little square topped butcher-block dinette set surrounded by four sprightly chairs reminded me of my own twenty-five-year-old tastes.  Lots of dark wood and some lacquered pieces brought my ex-husband’s grandmother to mind. 

            The bric-a-brac and silver were all over the place.  Whole sets of china; outdated appliances; mugs advertising some Jewish charity or the other:  you could outfit an entire home with what this store contains.  And many a family probably has, too.

 A ceramic Ferdinand with his cart briefly caught my attention.  But then I turned to the books.  Law books; almanacs; cookbooks; tons of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books; books having to do with Jewish lore; and Judith Krantz:  I saw at least two copies of Scruples Two.

Spotting Louis Auchincloss’ The Cat & The King, I grabbed it.  What a non-surprise:  Auchincloss had dedicated his book on Louis XIV to his cousin, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

Standing in line, I contemplated my soon-to-be purchases.   They amounted to less than thirty dollars.  I would have gladly paid up to triple for one of those knits.

But I’ll wait.  And, in the meantime, perhaps I made it a little bit easier for one of those old ladies.

Snakeskin and The Sun King:  I can think of worse coordinates.

580 words

                                         

AND THE CASTLE STILL ROCKS

            Heading up 27^th Avenue, I figured I’d catch I-95 at 79^th Street.  Right before the intersection, the sign for the highway pointed in one direction.  For some reason, I became confused.

            Crossing over, though, I saw a sign I hadn’t seen in many, many years:  Royal Castle.  Immediately thinking of the Royal Castle on Eighth Street, oh so many years ago, I figured, why not?

            So I pulled into the parking lot behind the smallish restaurant, and entered into a mid-sixties time warp I had not expected I’d encounter on this beautiful, cloudless Saturday.   

It didn’t bother me in the slightest that I had the lightest colored skin.  A young Latino couple:  a skinny Sean Penn look alike; his decidedly young wife with long, curly hair flowing behind her; and their two daughters, were patiently awaiting their hamburgers.  As were grizzled old laborers in their rumpled jeans and tan work boots.

            An elderly woman and several children were sitting at the counter.  I couldn’t help noticing that the counter seats were old, frayed.  The floor was clean enough, though.  And signs behind the counter advertised the specials in all their pictorial glory.

            Hamburgers, I want two hamburgers, I told the corpulent, but friendly clerk.  Just two?  You’ll be back here in a jiffy for more.  She smiled.  Oh, no.  I have high cholesterol.  She seemed to understand.

            Placing my order, I then realized I’d have to wait, for everything’s cooked to order:  no fast food, this.  As a matter of fact, there was a sign stating:  Sorry if you cannot wait.

            So I waited.  And waited.  Longer than I would have at even a Johnny Rockets, I daresay.  The Latin family was served.  The construction workers were served.  One had even sat down across from me at a booth to do the same thing as I:  to patiently wait.

            Finally the friendly clerk called me up, and handed me a basket with my two hamburgers, as well as the Diet Pepsi I had ordered.  Pushing four o’clock, I was ravenous.

            I decided to take my food outside to sit at one of the flagstone patio tables.  The sky was so blue, so brilliant:  a little warmth shining down on my face wouldn’t hurt me.

            And then I surrendered to the graceless beauty of an irregularly shaped Royal Castle hamburger, with its obviously hand-chopped corners.  Scalloped little bites, actually, with a dab of ketchup, mustard and two pickles on the underside of the burger.

            I bit into the first one.  It had been nonchalantly slapped onto the rectangular, freshly warmed bun:  who cared if it was sticking out at odd corners?  I didn’t.

            All I cared about was that I was stepping back in time, in all its grease-encrusted splendor.

            For a few, short, glorious minutes, I was seven, eight, or nine years old again.        

Except that this is one of the last two remaining Royal Castles in Miami, and it’s not on Eighth Street.  Except that I paid the $2.56 tab myself.  Except that I developed a major case of heartburn within an hour.

I don’t care.  For me, this Castle still rocks.

523 words

YOUR PURCHASE, PLEASE?

Handing the Marshall’s clerk the Buxton wallet, she looked at me.  Yes, this is what I’m buying.  Taking out my Fendi wallet, we both laughed.

25 words

And some stitches are so seamless you don’t even realize it at the time.

THE PENNY COLLECTOR (Circa, several months ago)

            A gringo stood behind me in the Express Lane at Publix.  He just had to be a gringo: with his white hair, rosy complexion, horn-rimmed glasses, crisp pink Ralph Lauren polo-pony embossed shirt, khakis, and tasseled penny loafers.

            Not being able to resist, I tested the waters:  Things have changed so much in Miami, haven’t they, I asked him in my best meaningfully pointed manner.

            Yes, yes they have, he responded.  He had an almost indistinguishable accent, but I was still sure he was a gringo.

            Telling him all about my background and how I’m a people observer, he quickly surprised me by his:  Latin American.  Oh.  A former banker, with ties to the diplomatic corps:  perhaps not such a big oh, after all. 

            I’m a people observer, too, he informed me.

            By this time, I was at the front of the line and was getting ready to pay.  Taking out bills and change from my (Fendi ;-) wallet, he stated:  “That’s very Cuban.”

            Very WHAT?  I was astonished.  With his fingers, he demonstrated how I’d flipped the dollars and change out in a certain way.  A Cuban way, obviously, according to this savvy, non-gringo world traveler.

            Yes, that’s the way I do it, I conceded.

            Darn, another Penny Collector had beaten me at my own game. 

           

215 words

I think I’m all stitched up…  for now.