Wednesday, May 28, 2008

¡El placer de tener un auto!



Por supuesto, en Cuba siempre teníamos un carro ---y en él papi nos llevó a conocer la isla de punta a punta. Pero cuando llegó el momento de aprender a manejar, no lo hice. Cuando tenía edad para ello ya vivíamos exilados en Miami y como fuimos muy pobres los 6 años que vivimos allí después de nuestra salida de Cuba --no podíamos comprar carro, ni pensar siquiera en esa posibilidad. ¡Algo que en Miami es una absoluta necesidad! Pero así era la cosa entonces para los recién llegados 'refugiados cubanos' --y nos tuvimos que arreglar usando ‘guaguas’ -y con la ayuda de buenos amigos que nos hacían el favor de llevarnos y traernos en sus carros de vez en cuando.

Después mi hermano León se compró un cacharro por 25 dólares, cuya puerta se cerraba con una soga --y nos retratamos junto a él nada menos que en el Palacio de Vizcaya de Miami, vestidos todos con nuestras mejores ropas (¡me parece estar viendo aquel momento!) --y con gran alegría le mandamos a Cuba la foto a papi, muy orgulloso mi hermano de tener ‘su’ primer carro. ¡El sueño americano comenzaba!

Después, ya viviendo en NYC, y con una situación económica mucho mejor y más estable, yo seguía sin saber manejar. Y como ya no hacía falta tener carro, porque la ciudad no se presta a ello, y son poquísimos los neoyorquinos que viven en Manhattan y tienen auto --¡pues nunca lo eché de menos!

Pero un día -¡alas!- mi papá me dijo que cuando supiera manejar, iba a descubrir la libertad. ¡Y así fue!

Y cuando aprendí a manejar fue --¡maravillosa!-- la sensación de independencia y de total libre albedrío que produce arrancar nuestro carro --y seguir el camino que más nos guste. ¡Total emancipación de todo y de todos! Y también comprendí –tal como papi me decía- que pasear en carro y poderlo llevar aquí y allá a nuestro antojo, es también una gran ‘compañía’, pues se convierte en nuestro cómplice y nuestro amigo. El lugar donde estamos solos --pero a la vez a apenas a unos segundos de nuevos mundos a descubrir.

Y así fue que –a los 30 y tantos años- mi padre mi regaló su viejo carro –y desde entonces soy una mujer libre y soberana --¡y nunca he dejado de tener auto!

Algo que es realmente una locura viviendo en Manhattan. Algo absurdo y carísimo, pues tengo que guardarlo en el garaje de mi edificio, y cuesta una barbaridad mensualmente. ¡Pero prefiero cortar cualquier gasto que dejar de tenerlo! Es así de fuerte mi pasión por mi libertad de movimiento. Y aunque no manejo todos los días, como se hace en otras ciudades, uso muchísimo mi carro, especialmente cuando salgo de noche, en que encuentro parqueo en la calle y es más barato que tomar un taxi de ida y otro de vuelta. Y estando viva mi madre, tanto mi hermano León como yo la sacábamos continuamente "a dar una vuelta", a pasear a New Jersey, a restaurantes, al súper mercado, al médico y siempre nos decía “¡Sin este carro no podríamos hacer nada de esto!...Qué maravilla es tenerlo”.

Y ahora, tanto sola como acompañada, el auto es un consuelo y un aliciente, porque sigo descubriendo mil recovecos, mil rincones --y de pronto veo un edificio viejo en el que nunca me había fijado --o un nuevo rascacielos que han construido tan rápidamente que ni me había dado cuenta de su existencia…¡Todos los días hay algo nuevo! Y a veces mi hija –mi compañera en estos paseos y a quien le gustan tanto como a mí- me dice “¡Mira, por esta calle nunca hemos pasado antes!” ¡Que sorpresa tan agradable!

Y así hacemos excursiones a Philadelphia, a los pueblitos de New England, a las playas de los Hamptons, a las montañas de Vermont. Y llevo a pasear amigos que vienen de otras ciudades y les muestro 'mi' Manhattan iluminada de las noches. ¡Y es fascinante comprobar que todavía hay lugares que son nuevos para nosotros después de casi 40 años aquí! Rincones con historia, calles de siglos atrás, edificios de los 1700 que siguen estando ocupados – y el encanto de la infinidad de barrios étnicos que me fascinan.
El primitivo barrio ruso de Coney Island, el barrio indio de Jackson Heights en Queens, con olor a ‘curry’ y unas fabulosas tiendas de telas para ‘saris’ y joyerías; divertidos barrios italianos en Manhattan y en Brooklyn (pizzerias de sueño, tiendas de comestibles traídos de Italia, pastelerías y ‘gelatterias’ como en Roma o Nápoles); interesantísimos barrios judíos ortodoxos en Brooklyn; infinidad de barrios Latinos en el Lower East Side, el Bronx o Queens; enormes barrios Coreanos en Manhattan y en Flushing -- y cruzando el río Hudson en Union City ¡una cafetería cubana llamada El Artesano donde desayunar café con leche con tostadas como si estuviéramos en Miami!

Maravillosos mundos neoyorquinos ---a donde mi carro me lleva feliz.

Saturday, May 24, 2008

Havana Lifestyles



























I remember the day my Aunt Pura adamantly- declared the family’s favorite dressmaker her personal property for the next 30 days --while her sister (my mother) begged her to give her up for a few days.

“Don’t be so selfish Pura, I only need her to make a few summer tops and shorts for Maria Antonia... It would take a couple of days, three at the most”

Tita Pura would not hear about it. Turning the pages of L’Officiel she explained her ordeal.

“You don’t seem to understand Antonia. The Varadero ’regattas’ are coming up in 5 weeks and Purita needs a completely new wardrobe. You very well know how important this is! She needs at least a dozen new beach outfits, 6 or 7 party dresses, blouses, skirts...You have no idea how worried I am. Guillermina will have to sew day and night to be able to finish it all on time”

Mami sighed and gave-up Guillermina without a fight. It was useless trying to convince her stubborn sister.

In 1957 Pura Ichaso de Fernández Llorens, one of my mother´s older sisters, was a handsome woman of 48 with quite a forceful demeanor. She had been a concert pianist during her youth --and until she married her husband, my beloved uncle Tito Rogelio, music had been the only meaningful thing in her life. From the moment she woke up at 7am, until very late at night, she obsessively practiced at her piano, hours at a time, wasting away, skipping meals and banging her fingers mercilessly --until the family could not take it any more and one day took her piano away and sent her to ’el campo’-- to San Diego de los Baños-- to ’take the waters’ and improve her frail health! She never got over "their betrayal", and for a long time her obsession yearned for a new focus, until -after her marriage- the birth of her only daughter, my cousin Purita-- took over where the piano had left. (To this day -at age 97- she remembers all these stories and laughs with us about them)

I remember that afternoon vividly as the sisters sat together at Tita Pura’s home. Mami was aware that for months her totally obsessed sister had been shopping all over Havana for her daughter’s summer wardrobe. Searching in every fabric store in the city -from the less expensive Jewish-owned ones, along Muralla St., to the more elegant ones in Galiano and San Rafael Sts. -she had bought the most beautiful materials, linings and perfectly matched -'serpentinas’, eyelet trimmings and ivory buttons! Heavy 'piqué panal’, 100% Egyptian cottons, the purest Irish linens in every shade of the rainbow, exquisite hand painted organzas, magnificent gazars, pastels silks, sheer lace...Magic cloths that Guillermina -the handsome mulatto dressmaker who had once worked for famous Ismael Bernabeu, Cuba’s ‘resident’ French designer- transformed into identical copies of Paris’s latest creations.

My cousin Purita was one of the prettiest and most stylish young women in Havana- and her clothes were -of course!- of paramount importance. “A 'trousseau’ for the princess”-Guillermina used to say, as Tita Pura pulled out hundreds of clippings from fashion magazines, together with drawings of her own adaptations of the designs created by Christian Dior, Balenciaga or Jacques Fath.

Her exquisite taste was well known to every dressmaker in Havana --and sometimes there were two or three different ones working for her --at the same time! Ana y Nena, two elderly Spanish sisters, did the hand embroideries and hand stitching (”just like those done at the ’clausura’ convents in Spain!”). Sweet Isabelita made the simplest designs and all alterations or 'arreglos’. Moody Carmen (a Spaniard from Barcelona who still spoke with a deep ‘catalan’ accent) was hired when good tailoring was vital (“she did wonders transforming ’English cashmere’ men’s suits into handsome ladies ’tailleurs’ ") ---and fabulous Guillermina did all the ’couture-like’ clothes “that required a 'toile' and at least 2 fittings”.

These magnificent clothes were the perfect props to emphasize Purita´s beauty --and I was lucky because after a few months I would inherit my cousin's new dresses, since she only wore them a few times. This arrangement also suited frugal ‘mami’, whom, one more time, decided not to pursue the matter --while her dazzling niece walked into the room.

Tall, with wavy blonde hair, a perpetually tanned and slightly freckled skin and yellowish eyes Purita was beautiful in a very-un-Cuban way. Everybody had to stare at her whenever she walked into a room. Unusually tall, her body had great posture, slim hips and elegant long legs. I used to be mesmerized by her because she always seemed at ease, in complete control of her surroundings, and looking stunning every minute of her life, no matter what she was doing, or how she was dressed.

At the time, her purpose in life was to marry her fiancée Julio Carrillo Silva (which she would do the following November and above you can see the photo of their engagement party) --and live happily ever after (which they have for 51 years and counting). Thus, her 'simpatía' and beauty was the only Abracadabra she had needed in her 22 years to open every door and enter every corner of the world she moved in.

“I am going to the movies with some friends mother” -she had announced as she came into the living room that Havana afternoon, wearing a cool white cotton dress that accentuated her 22 inch waist and white high heeled strappy sandals, that showed perfectly pedicured red toenails. She breezily kissed her aunt and mother and quickly took off, leaving behind a delicious trail of perfume - “See you later”.

Oh yes! --- Before she left she had asked me if I wanted to tag along with her and her girlfriends, and in no time I was out the door like a rocket! (I loved being with my 'older' cousins and being treated like an adult!) Tita Pura kissed her daughter back and sighed. Her beauty was such a reward for a proud mother! Mami (and all the other Ichaso sisters -as well as all the family cousins) were also bewitched by Purita's style.

While my mother and aunt discussed dresses and God-knows-what, Purita and I were rapidly walking away from her home in the Vedado section of Havana.

The most charming neighborhood of the city was built at the turn of the century, escaping the confining and narrow cobblestone streets of colonial Old Havana into much cooler areas; growing from the flat ocean seawall, up into a succession of gently rolling hills. By 1957 el Vedado was filled with a new and surprisingly good looking blend of modern apartment buildings and stunning turn of the century mansions. Its wide and beautifully designed avenues were accentuated by formal French gardens, as well as hundreds of wild-growing ’ceiba’ trees; some Parisian-style rotundas and huge white marble monuments to Cuba’s glorious patriots and some ex-presidents.

From the top of all of its avenues one could see -and smell- the ocean that bathed Havana 24 hours a day; while tall and thin condominium towers lived in perfect harmony with European inspired grand family homes, surrounded by stone and iron fences and lovely small gardens, bursting with jasmine and bougainvillea trees.

Some ’old money’ families still lived in their old palatial Vedado homes, filled with servants and gardeners who took great care of the beautiful structures and their magnificent gardens. Others had fled the charmed palaces and moved away to the more modern and exclusive neighborhoods of Miramar, Country Club and Biltmore, very near the Havana beaches. Some of the old Vedado 'casonas’ had become guest houses, or were divided into smaller dwellings. Others stayed behind, inhabited, but treated with indifference, standing in place through scorching sun and wild rains, and more or less abandoned to their own destiny. Decadent and weather beaten, they stood alone, in a sad state of disrepair, while flowers, plants and trees grew totally wild, their huge roots breaking up the sidewalk stones.

That afternoon my cousin and I walked fast, turning a few corners, avoiding to scrape her Italian leather heels in the deep cracks of the sidewalks. We passed one beautiful Vedado ’palacete’ after another; without looking at them twice, since this was just an old neighborhood. I don’t think we liked them very much, since they seemed to be old decadent relics of the past and most of us preferred the tall and modern condominium apartments and the huge modern mansions surrounded by enormous gardens and a kidney shaped swimming pool --miles away from the pungent smell of the small wet flowers that stained our shoes as they rotted in the Vedado sidewalks.

Very soon we were walking along Vedado’s glorious and very busy, six-laned 23rd St.
A wide and buoyant street, filled with apartment buildings of all sizes and styles; hundreds of shops, 'bodegas’, fun-filled cafés, theaters and restaurants-- 'la Calle 23’ had marvelous character and flair. Traveled by scores of buses, taxis and private cars, 23rd Street crossed ’el Vedado’ for many miles, from one end to the other ---starting down by the water, at Havana Bay, near all the newest 'lounges’, bars and cabarets of the bustling 5 blocks of the La Rampa area -- all the way to the Almendares River and a skimpy clump of trees, which was pretentiously called ‘Havana’s Forest’. ('El Bosque de La Habana').

Numerous street food vendors crowded the sidewalk at the well known corner of '12 y 23’ --near the familiar arched gates of our magnificent Colón Cemetery and two well known glass enclosed cafés --one of them the hangout of many 'bohemian’ characters (like my father) and a nest of anti-Batista conspirators.

The smell of fried fish 'minutas’, pork rinds, 'fritas’, and plantains 'mariquitas’ filled the air, and every Cuban in the world just loved to eat from these quaint street vendors. Even though my taste for food was much more ‘international' -- ranging from Canneloni Rossini to Shrimp Cocktails and Roast Chicken --the smell and feel of our delicious street food and the omnipresent ‘rice and beans’ was always tempting, although most ‘middle class’ families preferred a more international fare -and ate ‘frijoles negros con arroz’ mostly during certain occasions, like Christmas Eve’s traditional ’Nochebuena’ family dinner. Of course we all ate ’Arroz con Pollo’ or ‘Paella’, during the Sunday’s luncheons held at our grandmother’s.

Leaving behind the street smells and flavors, we walked as fast as she could by the groups of people waiting for buses, incessantly talking in clipped loud voices --and by the lines of men, women and children buying syrupy dripping 'capuchinos’ and wanna-be-éclairs from “Triana’s Bakery” . Skipping bodies here and there, avoiding contact with sweaty faces and hands, pretending we did not notice the lewd eyes of the men who crossed our path -- fifteen minutes later we had finally arrived at the entrance of the “23 y 12” cinema, a jewel of an art-deco building we hardly paid any attention to.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

F.W. Woolworth: Memories in 2 Languages











































This is a bilingual entry. The photos above show the famous corner of Galiano and San Rafael streets before –and after- the "debacle" of the Cuban Revolution.
I still cannot fathom why everything had to be left to decay and self-destroy! You can also see the small townhouse building (like a ‘jewelry-box’) of the jewelry store La Casa Quintana (see how it looks today!) --and some other stores which in 1958 were varied, stylish and filled with modern and beautiful merchandise accesible to every budget!

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¡Me encantaba merendar allí con mami cuando íbamos de tiendas!

Por eso recuerdo los deliciosos “especiales” de la fuente de sodas del Ten Cent de Galiano. Valían $0.10, venían en unos sobrecitos de ‘wax paper’, estaban hechos de una pasta de jamón con queso crema y eran riquísimos. También me gustaba tomar “frozens” de chocolate, y comer “cosas americanas” –como el “pie” de limón con un merengue altísimo- mientras alguien esperaba turno, parado detrás de nosotros, con una extraña demostración de paciencia cubana.

Cada vez que pienso en aquellas visitas al legendario F.W. Woolworth cubano, vuelven a mi boca instantáneamente los conocidos sabores del pasado.

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I loved eating there when Mami and I went shopping!

Located in the old downtown Havana area –in Galiano and San Rafael Streets- where all the big departments stores like El Encanto, Fin de Siglo and the gorgeous jewelry store La Casa Quinta, were located, the big F.W.Woolworth (which we called “the Ten Cent”, albeit pronounced in a very Cuban way “el Ten Cén”) was quite a landmark of my childhood memories.

I especially remember its Soda Fountain and its yummy ‘Especiales’ Sandwiches, made with a creamy mix of ham and cream cheese in a soft hamburger bun. Wrapped inside of a wax paper little envelope, they cost $0.10 and were amazing! I also loved their ‘chocolate ice cream frozens’ (similar to those served now at New York's trendy "Serendipity") --and all the very ‘American’ things they served, like scrumptious, mile-high Lemon Meringue Pie.

And I also remember –with a sense of wonder!- the unusual demonstration of patience we all showed --as we waited for our turn to sit, quietly standing behind those who were seated and finishing their meal at Woolworth's soda fountain counter. (The picture above shows how it looks today!) --It was such an un-Cuban thing to do-- but we did!

Every time I think about those weekly outings to Havana’s legendary F.W. Woolworth --my mouth still waters and I can ‘virtually’ taste the delicious flavors and smells of our Cuban past!

Monday, May 19, 2008

The Miami Years






















After a brief Summer and failed stint in New York (more about it in another entry) after our arrival from Mexico -we finally settled in Miami. And those six and a half years were very difficult for all of us. In my memory I see them as a solid block of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ that defies description and details.

There were learning years! And there were mostly very sad years.

After we came back from New York we lived with my aunt for a couple of months, but their finances were so bad (my uncle was selling vacuum cleaners door to door and they were flat broke), that we decided to look for our own apartment and avoid being a burden for them. This is how we became tenants of a lavender ‘efficiency’ at the old and rickety “The Betty Apartments ” -on SW 9 St between 23 and 22 Aves., where the three of us slept in one room -on a couple of pull out old couches- and shared a tiny bathroom. Since I had found a job as a salesgirl at F.W.Woolwoth in Coral Gables, many of my American co-workers had contributed with old pots, pans, towels and sheets. And we finally had a home of our own!

It felt good being 'secure' under one roof -and even though the conditions were very humble, and we lived in squalor- I have sweet memories of those days and the kindness of all the neighbors in the small building. Sometimes it fell like we were living in some sort of ‘commune’ – an American version of a Cuban ‘solar’- because there were lots of opened doors, and comings and goings from one ‘efficiency’ to another.

And with the exception of one older married couple (who had a dilapidated car and took us all to church every Sunday) we were all Cuban families led by a single woman with young children. And we all helped each other very much. One of our neighbors was a lady called Obdulia, who had been the cook of one of my mother’s friends in Havana and now-- in exile, where Fidel made us really ‘equal’ and fortunes were reversed--was the soul and heart of the building. We spent in her home our first Christmas Eve Dinner away from Cuba --and when I look at that night’s small Instamatic snapshot of all the neighbors gathered around this teeny table, adorned with a small Cuban flag, I realize we all had terribly sad faces.

To this day, everytime I visit Miami I drive by “The Betty” and check it out. Now it looks better than when we lived there, and (almost like a ritual) -I always take pictures of it --and tell my patient daughter the same stories one more time!

My job at F.W. Woolworth was not a happy one, because the older American ladies who worked there were very weary of the young Cubans who were practically working for nothing (well below the minimum wage) --and logically, they made my life as difficult as they could. Since I spoke English, French and Spanish, the Store Manager -a handsome lecherous old man called Mr. Gurley- thought the best place for me would the ‘Cosmetics Counter’ (selling Maybelline, Tangee and teeny bottles of Evening in Paris) and he also ordered me to advertise the store specials through the PA system --in the three languages! Later on -after he forcibly kissed me and harassed me during the store Christmas Party, while he was totally drunk- and I pushed him away , he decided to ‘punish me’ and transferred me to the Snack Bar, where I started my days at the store’s kitchen, picking up supplies to slice ham, cheese, salami, lettuce, tomatoes etc -to prepare 4 dozen of ‘ hoagie sandwiches’ for the ‘lunch crowd’- plus huge boxes of pizza shells, enormous cans of pizza sauce, hundreds of ‘hot dogs’ and jugs of coke and grape syrup.

From talking in French to the crowds, soon I was feeding them! From ‘cosmetics expert’ I turned ‘short order cook’ in a matter of weeks!

Although I was qualified for a much better job, I was terrified of even looking for one and I stayed at Woolworth for almost 2 years. Security was paramount for all of us, so I did not care if my salary was only 43 dollars a weeks, which became 37 dollars after taxes! Of this I gave mami 35 and kept 2. Those 2 dollars were enough for ‘transportation’ for 4 days, so the fifth day of work I had to find ‘a ride’ with someone, or walk to work about 5 miles. I was lucky that a very kind and beautiful young Cuban girl called Maria Domínguez also worked at the store (at the Stock Room) and she was so friendly and helpful that very soon she was picking me up and taking me back home at the end of the day. Since she worked from 8 to 4 and I worked from 10 to 6, we both stayed over the extra hours to facilitate the arrangement –plus I got to save my 2 dollars every week!

I brown-bagged an American cheese sandwich for lunch every day and -one day a week- my job at the Snack Bar entitled me to eat ‘hot food’ from the store’s Soda Fountain, which was the biggest treat of the week. I still remember looking forward to the delicious meat loaf and mashed potatoes, or the open turkey sandwich with gravy I would ‘devour’ one day a week, sitting on the soda fountain stool like a regular ‘paying customer’!

I could also take home the unsold ‘hoagies’, so every morning - under the coaxing of ‘savvy’ Lourdes, the other Cuban woman who worked with me at the Snack Bar. So we made at least a dozen more sandwiches than necessary, to make sure at the end of the day we could take home 3 or 4 of them!

Maria Domínguez was pretty and funny. With huge blue eyes and brown curly hair she was skinny and lanky. I vividly remember that one day she told she had bought herself “a plot in the cemetery” which she was paying on monthly installments, because she was “27 years old and by now I am old maid and nobody is going to marry me, so I have to think about my future alone” . She had been in Miami for a while, her family (they were from Banes) had a little more money than us (her also beautiful sister worked in a bank as a cashier and had married ‘un americano’); so she never accepted any money for the ‘car service’. Soon we became good friends, she was introducing me to her own friends and all of us were going to the beach on Sundays (South Beach, which in 1963 was as un-trendy as one can imagine!) --and afterwards to the 25 cents movies at the “Cameo Theatre” on Washington Avenue. We were young, mostly ‘broke’ and with huge amounts of energy and ‘joie de vivre’. Been ‘poor’ was not a problem, nor a ‘social stigma’, because in 1965 90% of the Cubans in Miami were poor -and we all shared stories and funny anecdotes about it.

My mother -after working as baby sitter, laundress, companion to an old lady and picking tomatoes in a tomato farm in Pompano Beach (where she fainted and fell to the floor, thus having to leave the well-paid job all Cubans wanted to have!)- had found a job as the ‘candy girl’ at the Miami Theatre on Flagler St., where she became the Queen of Popcorn and where most of the employees were Cubans. One of the ushers had been a ex-Ambassador; the other a famous engineer; the cashier was a very uppity ‘society’ lady and the Candy Counter was shared by Mami and a sweet old American lady called Thelma, whose son was in prison at the time. Mami had to work from 2pm to 10pm, never made the ‘minimum wage’ either and- since we never had a car in our almost 6 years in Miami- had to ride the bus to and from work. (One night she was assaulted and robbed in the corner of our house around 11pm)

León had a paper route of The Miami Herald before school, sold the Miami News after school at the corner of SW 8th St and 8th Ave (‘8 y 8’), in the evenings was a ‘pastry boy’ at the posh Barcelona Hotel --and on Saturdays cleaned bathrooms in a small Cuban cafeteria on 8th St. called San Juan Bosco, owned by Leonard, a friend of my dad. The place was located near our house and Leon worked in exchange for a free meal --although he later was fired “because he ate too much”.

During those early years in exile, Cubans of all classes, backgrounds and educations forgot all the pre-conceived ideas about social standings and we all worked at whatever was necessary to survive. This courageous spirit created the ‘rebirth’ of Miami, a city that was practically dead when we got there! And in retrospect I feel very proud of the way we all reacted in such difficult and sad circumstances and raised to meet -and surpass- the challenge.

We were all so poor that pennies were carefully counted and everyone knew that some things -like going to restaurants, to the movies, buying clothes or buying an ice cream in the corner shop were totally off limits...Out of the question!. In exile, rich, middle class and poor Cubans became “very- poor-struggling-Cubans”, but we were rich in freedom, hopes and dreams, which under Communism would have been impossible to even fathom.

So our lives became very simple --and a daily challenge to face. For the younger generation like my brother’s -who was 14- the priority was going to school and having part-time jobs. My mother’s generation threw themselves into the fight for survival without looking back, doing anything and tackling any job that came their way, while trying to hold together a family and the semblance of a ‘home’. That was the most difficult part, since we were still rootless and many families were divided.

It was difficult to find in Miami a ‘complete’ and ‘whole’ family! Husbands and wives were separated; children and parents did not see each other for years and an example of this are the so called “Pedro Pan Children”, around fourteen thousand of small children who left Cuba totally alone, to be placed in homes or schools all over the United States, where most of them grew up to be very successful and today lead exemplary lives. It was something we are proud of now, almost 50 years later, but extremely traumatizing and painful at the time.

Many people had a worse tragedy, having parents, husbands, mothers or sisters in Castro’s prisons, serving long and cruel sentences, while others had been shot or killed or had died trying to escape the island. We were lucky in a way because with the exception of my father’s very revolutionary brother Raúl, who had been condemned to 12 years, we did not have that added pain to our lives. The three of us were together, very close, surviving the best we could. But I still cried a lot when I was alone. I felt sad when I thought my father had stayed behind and my brother missed him so. And I missed the sense of permanency and security my home in Havana gave me. That sweet ‘cocoon’ feeling.

It is difficult to explain, but one can miss ‘a country’ and hurt terribly about it. It’s like losing the earth under your feet and becoming a person who ‘floats’ like a helium balloon, without one single ‘iota’ of control over your life. Tremendously vulnerable.

When mami had fainted in the ‘tomatera’ and she was ‘unemployed’ and very sick for a few weeks I was terrified. We had no money to buy medicines and our eating habits were all wrong, so her recovery was very slow. American cheese, some sort of pressed meat in the style of Spam the Refugee Center gave away and neighbors passed on to us (remember we did not ‘qualify’ for any help!), corn flour, bread were the staple of our diets –plus the occasional hamburgers from a chain called “Royal Castle” where it was a treat to buy their 19 cents burgers and their 15 cents grits!.

I remember as a great ‘family outing’ merely going to church on Sunday mornings with my mother’s sister my Aunt Fela, my uncle Gustavo and our cousin Cristina and afterwards having ‘breakfast’ at Royal Castle. I can still visualize my very stylish Tafela, dressed to the nines with her still elegant ‘Cuban clothes’, holding on to her beautiful calfskin italian handbag, while standing in line behind the orange vinyl stools of Royal Castle’s, waiting for our turn to sit and eat our 69cents ‘full American’ breakfast of Bacon and Eggs or her favorite -and even cheaper- Chile con Carne!

When mami got sick, I was very scared that we were not going to be able to pay the $65 rent for our apartment at The Betty -our new and by now beloved ‘home’! I worried about being evicted or something worse. Mami’s salary was gone and my brother’s earnings barely paid for his lunches, dinners and school expenses. But (and I still dont understand how she could find strength to physically do it) as soon as she felt better Mami started taking care of an old lady called Mrs. Franzelle, who lived with her alcoholic daughter Ethel a few blocks away from our house. She was paid in cash --$18 a week! She also baby-sat for this Lebanese family who had a baby girl about 6 months old who had just had open heart surgery. Mami was worried about the baby’s delicate health (she had a huge thick scar from one end of her chest to below her navel) , but the parents did not seem to worry too much and used to go out very often, until very late at night, trusting their daughter’s care to my mother, who also was supposed to iron baskets and baskets of clothes for a paltry $1 an hour!

I used to go with her many times, just to keep her company, so she would not have to walk home in the dark at 2 or 3am. On one occasion the baby’s father drove us back home, and made a pass at my beautiful and still young mother, who -not speaking English- never understood him and I never had the heart to tell her.

Friday, May 16, 2008

Cines de La Habana










































































































Eran mi paraíso desde pequeña.

Y no era mi padre -el artista- el que allí me llevaba, sino mi madre, la que me llevaba semanalmente al Dúplex (después de dejar a León viendo muñequitos en el Rex, encomendado al portero de que lo cuidara) en donde recuerdo como si fuera hoy que vimos "Autumn Leaves" de Joan Crawford y Jeff Chandler y "Room at The Top" con Simone Signoret y Lawrence Harvey --y yo era tan pequeña que el acomodador le preguntó a mami si estaba segura que yo debía ver esas películas, lo que a ella no pareció importarle mucho, porque aunque era muy conservadora, nunca me puso prohibiciones de ningún tipo (¡jamás me prohibió leer un libro o dejar de ver una película!) lo que creó en mí el espíritu fuerte y curioso que tengo. (Fíjense en la foto del Dúplex con su reloj 'art deco' destruído, igual que otros de aquellos cines también los verán destrozados en estas fotos)

También fui con ella dos veces en el Prado al cine Fausto (donde lloró como una Magdalena cuando vió "Vecinos y Amantes" (Strangers when we meet) de Kirk Douglas y Kim Novak y "Angustia de Un Querer" (Love is a Many Splendored Thing) la que provocó que las dos nos enamorásemos locamente de William Holden y las lágrimas le mojaran su cartera de charol). En una ocasión fuimos a un cine en la Calle Reina, cerca de Sears, donde una señora con una bandeja colgada del cuello vendía caramelos por los pasillos (¡como mucho despúes vi hacer en España!) --y donde un viejo se sentó a nuestro lado y me tocó el muslo, lo que fue algo espantoso --- ¡y mami y yo salimos corriendo de allí, lo que provocó que papi después nos regañara porque "¿a quién se le ocurre ir a ese cine de mala muerte?".

Con mis amigas iba los domingos al Rodi (aunque este era más de 'pepillos' y realmente nunca me volvió loca estar allí rodeadas de niños imberbes, porque a mi me gustaban los "hombres mayores"), al Trianón (viejísimo ya en los años 50 y pico, donde mami tuvo que pagar $1.50 cuando se estrenó Adios a las Armas y después fuímos a merendar en El Carmelo). El Riviera era muy bueno, peor no iba mucho a él. Y al Payret frente al Capitolio solo fui dos o tres veces. Y en el Auditorium era donde veíamos ballet, conciertos y ópera ¡y fue donde con mi tío Paco oí cantar a Renata Tebaldi!

El enorme Warner que después se llamó Radiocentro (y ahora es el Yara) donde había una película y un show 'en vivo' de Los Chavales de España y a donde siempre me llevaba mi prima Purita, que estaba enamorada junto con sus amigas de Luisito Tamayo, el cantante del grupo ¡que años más tarde oí cantar en un barcito de New York! El teatro-cine América, muy art deco, muy bello, con una cafeteria de 'chinos' que por alguna razón no me gustaba mucho porque olía a apio.

El teatro Blanquita -ahora se llama Karl Marx (¡que ridiculez!)- era enorme y allí vi a cantar a Sarita Montiel cuando salió El Ultimo Cuplé. ¡Fue divino! El Cine-Teatro Campoamor, a donde me llevó mi tío Paco. Un cine en La Víbora llamado "Alameda" me parece, donde comenzamos a ver una película maravillosa llamada "Mientras Estes a mi Lado" (Solange Du Da Bist) de Maria Schell y O.W. Fischer ¡de la que hasta el día de hoy nunca he podido ver el final, porque mami se sintió mal y nos tuvimos que ir y he quedado obsesionada con ella y nunca la he podido conseguir!

El Cine Miramar (¡mi cine de niña, pues era el de mi barrio, donde los domingos veíamos con mi Tia Alicia dos películas, la principal y la de 'relleno' y después merendábamos cosas 'americanas' en su cafeteria, donde también comprábamos revistas de cine en inglés)....El Arenal y el Avenida de cuando en cuando....El Roxy, en la Sierra, cerca de casa de mi abuela Isabel, otro viejísimo, chiquitico y feíto, pero con el una vez soñé -aunque nunca fuí a él- estando ya aquí en el exilio. ¡Qué cosa más rara!....El Metropolitan, al que fuimos muchas veces, y a mi hermano le encantaba....Y cuando nos mudamos al Vedado ¡el Cine 23 y 12, que era tan acogedor, donde en Semana Santa ponían "Quo Vadis" ---y después el Arte y Cinema La Rampa ¡con sus maravillosas películas europeas que muchas veces no me dejaban ver porque no era 'aptas para menores'! Y en la calle 14 con la 15, frente al parque, uno un poco de 'mala muerte' llamado El Ambar, donde vi El Hombre con el Brazo de Oro, aunque el cine parecía que estaba cayéndose a pedazos. El Acapulco estaba en el Nuevo Vedado, era moderno y cómodo -- y tenía una acera llena de unas piedritas verdes fosforecentes...¡y fue donde Eva y yo tuvimos una pelea horrible con Rosita Sorí Marín sobre la pena de muerte, porque acabábamos de ver la película de la vida de Caryl Chessman y salimos horrorizadas del mismo!

¡Qué maravillas los cines habaneros de mi infancia y después adolescencia!

Cuando llegó la Revolución y pasaron los primeros años ---¿por que aquel empeño de prohibir las películas americanas y mostrar aquellos bodrios rusos?....¡Qué cosas más idiotas!....No se me podrá olvidar nunca el final de un espanto llamado "El Ultimo Disparo", y como la gente en el Cine Trianón comenzó a silbar cuando la revolucionaria 'mujer soldado' mataba a su amante -¡de ahí lo del 'último disparo'! -por querer traicionar la revolución. ¡Que anormalidad, como si el público fuera idiota! Era una manipulación tan burda como los televisores del año de Maricastaña que trajeron los rusos en la Exposición Rusa del 1959, ¡que se suponía nos iba a enseñar a los cubanos los adelantos del futuro! ¡Otra broma torpe y surrealista!

En aquellos años hasta las idas al cine dejaron de ser una aventura --y de pronto se hicieron contestatarias, aplaudiendo todos 'en masse' al León de la Metro ¡como símbolo de protesta! Igual que nunca olvidaré cuando con unos amigos aplaudimos una escena religiosa en "Serenata" de Sarita Montiel y Mario Lanza, en que aparecía la pantalla cubierta por un enorme crucifijo, y el cine se cayó en aplausos ---¡y muy pronto el pequeñito cine Focsa fue invadido por milicianos con metralletas que nos llevaron a todos los presentes presos por contrarrevolucionarios!

Qué bueno es poder recordar y no estar allí --y no haber sido víctima de una larga vida contestaria....¡que probablemente me hubiera llevado a la cárcel o Dios sabe a qué!

¡Qué bueno poderme reír de todas estas idioteces!...Las buenas y las malas.

Porque después de todo, eso es lo que ocurre en el espíritu cuando se vive en libertad.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Política americana




No he hablado antes de política de los Estados Unidos porque prefería mantener este blog con otro aire, pero como ‘adicta’ que soy a la CNN y a los noticieros de TV que oigo y veo, por horas y horas, casi como ‘música de fondo’, mientras escribo mis artículos periodísticos --¡estoy asombrada de lo que oigo y veo!

Nunca me había caído bien Hillary Clinton, pero desde que es víctima de la mayoría de la prensa americana --y de los ‘expertos’ que dan opiniones políticas (paneles con un 99% hombres) –igual que de supuestas grandes figuras del Partido Demócrata (como Ted Kennedy y Christopher Dodd, de los que es mejor ni hablar, porque especialmente de Kennedy habría mucho que comentar y no precisamente ‘bueno’, ni ‘edificante’) –me parece el colmo de la falta de democracia, y una gran falta de respeto a sus derechos, que la quieran ‘forzar’ a dejar la carrera por la Casa Blanca.

¡Todavía no puedo creer la agresividad que tienen en tratar de arrinconarla, decirle que está dañando al Partido Demócrata, que no debe seguir adelante, etc, etc. como si estuviera cometiendo un 'horrible crimen' por desear llevar la lucha hasta el último estado!

¿Es esto Democracia?

Y pienso que si fuera Barack Obama el que estuviera en el lugar de Hillary ¿se atreverían esos ‘pundits’ a hacer lo mismo contra él y decirle esas cosas? ¡Claro que no!

Y esto me indigna, porque es un ataque absolutamente machista y muy injusto, en que se burlan de ella, de sus ‘pantsuits’, de su tono de voz, de todo --y es el sujeto de diarios chistes crueles en los shows de Jay Leno y David Letterman, ---¡los que jamás se atreverían a hacer lo mismo con Obama! Y en consecuencia ya Hillary me cae mucho mejor.

Al menos ha demostrado constancia y fuerza --y más ‘calor’ humano --mientras que Obama me molesta mucho por su aire de superioridad, sus crueles (aunque ‘inteligentemente’ dichas) indirectas y comentarios condescendientes hacia Hillary (de los que le he oído 4 o 5 muyyyy feos, aunque dichos con fría elegancia), su ‘actitud’ que lo sabe todo, que tiene respuesta a todo, que va a cambiar los Estados Unidos y va a cambiar ¡el mundo! (¿por qué ‘el mundo’?-siempre me pregunto, pues me sorprende esa frase que tanto repite….y su facilidad de hablar, hablar y hablar….¡que tanto me recuerdan a Fidel Castro y aquellos discursos tan perfectos, tan lógicos y tan llenos de promesas vacías!

Y todo esto sin mencionar el incidente y su pasado con ese ministro lleno de odio que él defendió hasta que no pudo hacerlo más. ¡Obama me impacta como una ovejita misteriosa de la que no sabemos una palabra!...Habla de que el Reverendo Wright lo llevó a la fé cristiana ¿y me pregunto qué pensaba y cuál era su fé antes de ello?....Eso nadie se lo ha preguntado. Y su mujer, con ese gesto en la boca -y en los ojos- de cierta amargura y resentimiento (quizás con razón de sentirlo, porque en Estados Unidos los negros fueron siempre muy maltratados y los prejuicios raciales han sido muy crueles) --y sus palabras que 'nunca antes se había sentido orgullosa de su país' ---pues casi es mejor ni hablar, porque Michelle Obama me impresiona peor que su ‘suave’ marido, como una persona más radical. Comprendo que esto es una 'impresión muy personal, que ocurre ‘en mí’ -- y que soy un poco escéptica cuando oigo estas promesas políticas. Y quizás esté equivocada.

Pero es que hay mucho de ‘desconocido’, de incógnita, en este señor sin una gota de experiencia administrando una ciudad, o un estado, y sin una larga o distinguida carrera en el Senado- para entregarle el futuro de nuestras vidas, nuestra economía y nuestra seguridad. Y viviendo en New York, la ‘seguridad’ es muy importante para mí --y no sé si tratar de sentarse a hablar con los enemigos (¡de esa calaña y de esa maldad!) como quiere hacer Obama, sea una buena idea. Tampoco se qué piensa Obama de Cuba –aunque ese tema es casi un ‘caso perdido’ --porque ningún presidente hasta ahora ha sabido ‘entender’ la complejidad de nuestra tragedia y todo queda en manos de puros burócratas, algunos buenos y otros malos.

Por otro lado debo admitir que tampoco me gusta John McCain, quien siempre me ha parecido un hombre de mal genio, con opiniones que cambian, como un ‘loose cannon’ (frase muy buena en inglés, que significa un ‘cañón sin dirección’, que tira para donde se le ocurre, de forma inesperada) – y quien sin duda no está en la onda del siglo XXI y el deseo del pueblo americano de terminar la guerra --y poner la economía en un buen camino. Pienso...¿es él el menor de dos males? ¿O no?

Por lo que la posible contienda Obama-McCain me tiene enfrentada por primera vez desde que soy ciudadana americana a mi propia ‘contienda’. Y mis propias dudas.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Havana's Magical Nights





























In Havana , as night fell over the city, an automobile ceased being a form of transportation, to become an exciting instrument of pleasure. I learned this secret when I was barely a child --and it was through these endless car rides that I started loving Cuba. In Havana a car was a conduit to explore the city, discovering its many 'recovecos' , mysterious dark corners and centuries-old, narrow cobblestone streets. A vehicle to discover the inexplicable appeal of some of its most humble neighborhoods, which always seemed to drip sensuality -- a 'chiaroscuro' of images, their streets overflowing with people, music coming from every bar and every corner, illuminated by thousands of the brightest lights imaginable.

In Havana people would go “for a ride” -- 'a dar una vuelta'-- to enjoy the simple pleasure of cruising the city, up and down the wide modern avenues, as well as the beautiful colonial 'paseos', its streets filled with old fashioned gaslights-turned-electric-posts, hundreds of arcades, small parks and the widest of sidewalks, where orchestras --including one integrated only by women!-- played in the open air cafés.

A car would become a magic flying carpet, taking the 'habaneros' from neighborhood to neighborhood, across rivers and bays, beaches and mountains, all so close, so near --- while so different from each other. A study in the most marvelous contrasts, the city unfolded its sensual beauty at night, dressed in the darkness of the blue sky and perfumed with the intoxicating fragrance of evening-blooming-jasmine or 'galán de noche'.

I remember my older cousin Purita –the family’s undisputed beauty queen—who in the 50’s enjoyed the best of the Havana nights, when all the women dressed up and looked marvelously beautiful, while the men wore the smartests suits --and the city seemed to have been created to show off her splendor and offer everyone a wonderful time! With a small group of friends she would start the evening with drinks at the club, then dinner at Monseigneur or La Roca, and afterwards a show and dancing at the Casino Parisién of the Hotel Nacional, or at Montmartre, where there was always a great show with Edith Piaf, Katyna Rainieri, Josephine Baker or Tongolele. If the evening lingered, they would go to a bar called 21 and have breakfast at 5am at Las Culebrinas, a terraced café near the ocean, on the way to Miramar – and very close to the mysterious high-fenced house of the eccentric Loynaz del Castillo family (Federico García Lorca’s hosts when he visited Havana in the 30’s) which had an intriguing hand written sign: "No Tiren Perros", begging people "not to throw dogs" over the high cement enclosure.

Their outings were typical of young well-to-do couples, but less lucky ones also enjoyed the city to the hilt, dressing as best they could, the women's skirts tight and pulled-in to enhance the 'derrière' and every curve of their voluptuous bodies -- the heels high, the perfume intense. Together with men in guayaberas -or very clean and starched short sleeve cotton shirts- and baggy pants, falling over spotlessly clean shoes, they all rode the crowded buses to downtown Havana to dine in its many hundreds of inexpensive 'fondas', or family-owned cafes and restaurants. Or to have a beer and dance in a bar, while the 'victrola' played the latest musical hits, or a guitar totting troubadour spontaneously serenaded the multi-racial clientele. Or they simply walked around the city, sat on the ancient rod-iron and wood benches of its many parks, ---or on the Malecon's concrete seawall, where the bursting cool mist of the ocean waves brought a welcomed freshness to their bodies.

My evenings were of another nature. I was filled with love for my city-- in complete awe of my birthplace-- and spent many nights amassing what one day would be my best memories, as I explored it with my parents -driving around Havana after dining at some of the out of the beaten path places my father loved to 'discover' (maybe a new Chinese-Cuban restaurant, or an out of the way Spanish café filled with all the cheeses, olives and sausages he loved). Or enjoying a night at the theater, since my mother never missed the new plays of the many different tiny theaters around town. This way I learned to love Alejandro Casona as well as Garcia Lorca, Tennessee Williams and Jean Anouilth-- and after the performance we would go to a nearby café to discuss it all, while eating a 'bocadito' ( a savory and slightly larger version of a tea sandwich) accompanied by a coca-cola, or 'café con leche'.

Other evenings I went out with my friends, and it was a thrill to ride around in Marta Larraz´s green Cadillac convertible -with the top down!- as men in nearby cars raced us as we laughed and flirted, speeding away along the boulevards. Since Havana at night was always breezy and cool -marvelously inviting for 'a night on the town'- we also loved the La Rampa area, where 3 or 4 couples -and at least one chaperone- would have drinks at pitch-dark bars like "La Gruta" or "La Zorra y el Cuervo".

The first time I visited one of the tiny lounges (in Cuba there were no age-requirements to be served alcoholic drinks, so this happened when I was barely 13) it was so dark I thought the lights had been turned off by mistake, and immediately was surprised and fascinated as the 'maître' took us to the table --flashlight in hand! Sometimes we would all go to the 'roof' of the St. John Hotel and sit around the piano-bar while listening to Frank Domínguez's already legendary ‘boleros’, which overflowed with 'feeling', were an intimate part of the enchanting Havana nights.
Rumor said married-man Frank's most sexy composition "Tu me acostumbraste" (You Got Me Used to It) was dedicated to his first male lover. Disturbing and provoking rumors of ‘carnal forbidden pleasures’, in complete contradiction with our conservative values, and the eternal battle between “good and evil”.

Havana's evenings had a marvelously relaxed 'tempo'. Not a drop of stress in the city's 'vaivén', its unique sensual rhythm untouched by hastiness; as the night unfolded and people went from place to place, delighted, contented, without much hurry, undulating from here to there, from there to here, traveling slowly along the ocean road, the sky almost black but always filled with stars -- as they rode the streets illuminated by the colors of its many neon signs and bright lights.

Thursday, May 8, 2008

¿La ley de la vida?




Una vez iba con mi padre conduciendo el auto por Manhattan, camino a uno de esos paseos que tanto le gustaban, bordeando el río Hudson y cruzando ese puente de George Washington que siempre llamaba "glorioso" --y recuerdo que de pronto dió con la mano un fuerte golpe en el panel frente a su asiento y me dijo muy molesto..."A ver...dime...¿por qué es que hay que morirse?...¿Por qué razón tenemos que morirnos?....¿Por qué no se puede vivir para siempre?....¡La vida tiene tantas cosas maravillosas!"

Aquel genuino 'ex-abrupto' en que cuestionaba con rebeldía 'la ley de la vida' era algo tan propio de la pasión de mi padre por la existencia, que recuerdo que me eché a reir --y seguimos hablando sin darle una respuesta a lo que yo tambien compartía.

Y desde aquel día, ese pensamiento me viene a la mente muy a menudo. ¿Por qué este nacer y morir?....La perfección de la Naturaleza -que siempre me ha confirmado la existencia de Dios o como querramos llamarle a esa Fuerza Superior, que escapa a toda lógica y a toda explicación- está tan llena de armonía, que me pregunto por qué los hombres no pudiéramos vivir un poco más....¡cientos de años quizás!...Y así ver crecer y multiplicarse a nuestras familias, y poder viajar más ... y poder leer más... y poder ver más cine...y poder conversar infinitamente con gente inteligente e ingeniosa...¿Por qué no podemos vivir cientos de años para poder ver como se rectifican las injusticias....y poder ver el bien ganarle la batalla al mal?...Y poder disfrutar más las cosas lindas...los momentos especiales...y poder compartir más con familiares y buenos amigos esas experiencias maravillosas.

Mi papá vivió 83 años. Mi mamá 93. Largas vidas sin duda, pero les aseguro que para ellos no fue suficiente...Y pienso que si existe de verdad esa 'vida eterna' --¡lo mejor que puede ofrecernos el ser buenas personas! -- deben estar encantados de estar juntos de nuevo...y acompañados de todos los que ellos querían y se habían ido antes. ¡Qué placer debe ser esa reunión con los muertos! ¡El máximo placer!

¿La vida eterna? Por primera vez realmente reflexiono sobre lo que significan esas frases que se repiten casi rutinariamente cuando rezamos. Y ello me hace pensar que Jesús nos dejó una promesa genial y un misterio tan profundo que nada ha podido descifrar: el premio 'justo' a los que llevamos una vida decente, sin hacer daño a los demás y con compasión hacia el prójimo. Pero...¿puede esto hacerme sentir mejor y aceptar la inevitabilidad de la vida? Ojalá.

Es que ahora que se acerca la fecha simbólica que celebra las madres...¡cuánto quisiera que mis padres no se me hubieran ido! Mami hace apenas 4 meses- y aquellas palabras de papi aquella tarde saltan a mis labios con la misma rebeldía e inconformidad de aquel momento!

Monday, May 5, 2008

Dreams Crossing Over to Havana


























While we lived in Mexico -waiting for the Resident US Visa to enter the United States, after we left the island for good- Cuba was on my mind all the time.

It was vital for me to maintain the connection alive, like I had never left --or pretending I would be returning soon. Images of Havana would come into my dreams and specially those of my favorite places constantly haunted me.

One of them was the Palacio de Bellas Artes, Havana’s charming Art Museum.

A three- story structure built around 1954, it blended surprisingly well with the baroque architecture of its neighbor - Cuba's ornate Presidential Palace- and the many XVIII and XIX century buildings of the adjacent streets. It was definitely a 'people- friendly' museum, a square and airy building, with huge glass windows and soft lines. Its central patio overflowed with exuberant plants and José Mijares's modern murals covered the walls of its superb amphitheater. Since very few people even knew of its existence, and hardly anyone visited it, one of its most attractive features was its emptiness, which made easy for its scanty visitors to enjoy the most marvelous solitude among rooms and rooms filled with Rubens's, El Greco's, Lawrence's, Gainsborough, Della Robbia and the works of Cuban artists like Amelia Peláez, Victor Manuel, Abela, Portocarrero, Cundo Bermúdez and Wilfredo Lam.

I loved it and spent many hours there, always delighted with its small but valuable collection. Every time I arrived at the museum- usually with my mother, who had introduced me to every one of its paintings and sculptures- I felt exhilarated and lighthearted, fortunate to love Art so much ---and it was always a special thrill to enter its galleries after being welcomed by the stunning white marble sculpture of a beautiful veiled woman with a aristocratic profile hidden under the thin marble veil.

The enchanting sculpture stood all alone at the end of a hall, almost forgotten in this small tropical museum where hardly anyone called on her---very far away from its arcane origins in ancient Rome, so different from the olive skinned, round-faced museum guards, who frequently yawned, indifferent to her beauty, as they kept her company, all day long.

I remember taking my friends to the museum, (of which I felt curiously proud, like it was my personal property) and explaining the distinctions among the different artists, pointing out "Lawrence's very pink cheeks which are characteristic of his style and very different from the work of other English portrait painters of the times".

After visiting the museum ‘mami’ and I would take a walk through the old streets of Havana Vieja and during the winter months it was specially pleasing to do so. I remember vividly the joy I felt one breezy and cool December afternoon; the streets overflowing with people dressed in wool suits and winter jackets. Although mild, Cuban winters were ideal for wearing elegant clothes and as soon as November came around --even if the thermometer hit 70 degrees--out came the 'winter wardrobe', and a different and more subdued spirit was very noticeable in people and things.

All the inhabitants of the city of Havana -from birth, it seems- learned how to anticipate the city's changing moods and enjoy the subtleties of its many unique moments. They learned to feel and revere its looming presence. Very much like a contented seasoned courtesan - old and wise, but still powerful and extraordinarily sensual- Havana made its presence well known to all who lived within her boundaries --and to all those who visited her, it was easy to understand how the city's seductiveness affected its people. An almost magical and always puzzling love affair entrapped every 'habanero'. A thunderous 'coup de foudre' captured its citizens in its net-- even before they were able to recognize its spell.

"Let's walk down to the 'Miami Restaurant' and have something to eat...Maybe a 'guanabana' ice cream?"- mami always suggested, as we walked down the old Prado promenade, protected from the sun by the shadow of its many trees- "But before let's stop at the "Guerlain" store. I want to buy you something!"

"La Casa Guerlain" was a magnificent old fashioned "parfumerie" -all polished woods, crystal chandeliers and ornately framed gold mirrors- and one of the first 'boutiques' the French perfume house established in the Americas. A symbol of exquisite elegance. Also a indication of the best possible taste. The place where prosperous Cuban men bought their delicious Cologne Imperiale and very particular women picked their cherished and beautifully designed bottles of L'Heure Bleue, Mitsouko and Shalimar. And it was this most alluring fragrance what mami picked for me.

"Try it ..It is so much like you"

I immediately loved the seductive Oriental scent which seemed to melt into my skin. The 'soignée' older saleswoman was happy to ring the sale.

"Shalimar means Garden of Eden. It is a symbol of love"- she explained.

The memories of these enchanting outings with my mother left a indelible impression in my mind and my heart. It is the kind of thing that sneaks into our ‘psyques’ forever and creates who we are. As I write about them- every detail comes back, powerful as a thousand hurricanes, ripping through my quiet day and interfering with any possible sense of sanity.