A paradoxical land of brilliant greens and dusty browns

We’ve been married twenty three months, and Steven and I are in Florida where I sleep soundly and sense a kinship with my surroundings. We make a day trip to St. Augustine, the oldest port in the U.S. and the oldest occupied established European city, a step back into time. It feels natural to me, being on a peninsula and a colonial city where aspects of culture live on in captivating stately buildings founded by Spaniards. Late at night, we arrive back at my brother’s and sister-in law’s home where I dream of my grandmother.

We have come to the annual fundraiser for Temple Beth Shalom, the synagogue of Steven’s brother Sam where both brothers will be performing in a classical concert held in a fine art museum.

Steven’s humor goes beyond telling jokes. On stage, he does quite a bit of mugging, an actor’s way of playing up the fun and comedy of a show. He takes the liberty of improvising and embellishing Yiddish songs. As a consummate reactor, his large expressive blue eyes roll as he flips from one character to another. Sometimes, with a nervous mannerism, he reminds me of actor Gene Wilder, delivering a mad spark that explodes into manic hilarity. But it's his Yiddish that hurls me onto the floor, although I don't understand a word, it sounds like he’s either coughing or spitting in your face, and the audience cackles from his animation.

When he performs Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess, he is praised for his versatility, and with his wide range—from tenor to baritone—his voice projects a strong resonance and a clear, ringing tone. It is clear to me why he is admired for his stage presence, musicality, and the impressive numbers that he masters, and I am proud to watch him on stage. His voice deep, triumphant from his standing ovation, drives people to tears, when the formal concert comes to an end, the audience crowds around the stage, demanding more. He pleases them with an encore from Porgy and Bess.
“…Your daddy’s rich
and your mamma’s good lookin,
so hush little baby don’t you cry…”

Steven’s liquid voice captures the hearts of everyone present. He is the highlight of the concert—his voice has no equal. However, as a practical man he chose long ago to not make Broadway his vocation because of the extensive travel required. He doesn’t look back with regret, but has found joy in traveling with me because he understands geographical variety stimulates and nourishes my soul.

Before we go home, I yearn for a sunkissed shoreline. We will be celebrating our second wedding anniversary in a few days, and, wanting old and cosmopolitan, we fly to Puerto Rico. There is a slower pace of life here, where nature lovers like Steven and I can soak up centuries of cultural legacies.

Besides the magnificent Spanish Colonial architecture and picturesque plazas,it’s blessed with a tropical rainforest, El Yunque. The sounds of El Yunque comes from an occasional wild parrot. Here it is quiet, serene, cool, with a variety of plants and trees that have managed to grow along a pristine hiking trail. A mist of fog surrounds its highest point with a pleasurable waterfall cascading at the bottom. Its beauty is overwhelming.

The next day we go to El Morro, a fortress with a the dramatic Castle of San Cristobal perched at its summit. I am looking out at the Caribbean, taking photos, and reading historical facts in my guide, all of which triggers a snippet of my memory.

Back in the city, one of my favorite pastimes is photographing the tropical fruit-colored facades, wrought iron balconies, European archways, and cobblestone streets.

We sit in a neighborhood restaurant after ordering tapas. Through the window, I can see the lights hitting the Mexican palm trees and the pale orange facade of Old San Juan. This is the ideal restaurant for a tourist, surrounded by clusters of high-rise buildings and the people going about their lives. I am prompted to remember my Hispanic heritage, my ancestors, their history, their accomplishments, and how imperative it is I continue the propagation of who they were to understand who I am.

I recall last night's dream of my paternal grandmother. My father was her change-of-life baby. Once when I was drawing her portrait I asked her, “Cuantos anos tienes, Grandmamma”? How old are you, Grandmamma? She replied, “Eso es un secreto de mujer, que no se pregunta,” that’s a woman’s secret and a question not to be asked. “Pero como eres nina te dire que soy major que tu.” But since you’re a child, I’ll tell you—I’m older than you. When I showed her my artwork, I captivate her age in my likeness of her by drawing laugh wrinkles. She found it humorous.

In her day, she had been a fiery redhead who, no doubt, had been the center of attention with her green eyes. She had a high forehead, high cheekbones thick eyebrows and a generous nose. A very slender woman, there was nothing frail about her—she had an air of aristocracy, and her finest attribute was her perfect posture. Whether sitting, walking, or dozing, she stood straight at all times—offset by a thin, elongated neck. Her long slender hands that once had been lovely were crooked from acute arthritis, but she never complained.

I recall my parents purchasing new bedroom furniture for me—French Provincial. The set included two twin beds because my grandmother and I would be sharing my room. Seeing the room for the first time, she stood at the door and looked around. “Tu tienes un spirito ordenado. Mientras el sitio de tu hermano es una masa de libros abiertos, ropas reveladas y una cama sin hacer, la tuya es una capilla a orden.” You have an orderly spirit. Where your brother’s room is a mass of unclosed books, unfolded clothes and an unmade bed, yours is a shrine to order, she remarks. My straight-backed dolls are neatly corralled and my dressing table with miniatures suggested an even space where one could assume they are awaiting orders. Feeling offended that I hadn’t anything to offer other than organization, “Tengo algunas cosas que sean las mías,solamente mias.” I have some things that are mine, only mine, I pointed out defensively, referring to the secrets in my lockable diary that I had stashed in a tin box under my bed.

A few days later, my father came home with a large gift basket given to him by a client. In it were cheeses, olives, salami, and a large jar of pickles. I love the sour pickle juice. It seems that every time my hand is in the jar, my grandmother was watching me. The late afternoon snack spoiled my appetite for dinner.

My father had given me a lesson in addressing her with the formal pronoun ‘usted’ versus the familiar ‘tu.’ “Grandmamma, porqué usted tienes nariz tan largo?” Grandmamma, why do you have such a long nose? “Yo también comi muchas salmueras cuando era una muchacha.” I ate too many pickles when I was a girl, she says with a straight face. Gullible, I stopped eating pickles, altogether.

Smetteneh is sour cream in Yiddish, but Prague is far from sour.

After attending the Frankfurt book fair, I settle in to begin a new chapter of my life in Berlin. Taking my photos to be developed, I meet a new friend, Karen, I already know two Karen's and often meet people with the same name in threes.

Unlike the other Karen's who are German, this Karen is American, originally from Washington, D.C. who has come to Berlin with her husband, a French Canadian cinematographer.

That same afternoon we go for coffee and she spontaneously invites me to her home that weekend.

On Saturday I arrive with apple strudel and my favorite vanilla ice cream, by Movenpik.

There is an easy flow between us, by the end of the night her question puzzles me, “You know a lot of Jews don’t you?”
Remembering Mrs. Rubin, my friend Beverly's mother from adolescence. “They have been instrumental in my life.”
“I thought so, there is something about you that is very soulful, I see it in your eyes, a hurt or depth of some kind. Next week is Yom Kippur, my husband will be out of town, he’s gone for stretches of time. I’d like to go to a synagogue in the East, will you join me for services?”
“I've only been to a Passover Seder. What do I need to do?”
“You don’t have to do a thing. It begins with Kol Nidre, the night before Yom Kippur, it ushers in the holiest day of the year, traditionally a fast day. There will be music. We begin with dinner. Be here by 4:30, we’ll eat and go to services they start at 6.

Karen serves boiled chicken and makes a blessing over the wine. We enter a cavernous red brick synagogue on Rykestrasse in a courtyard and I’m amazed that the Temple is still in tact with what seems to be much of the original interior. I look around-only a handful of humble worshipers. How could they stay and why after having survived hunger, treachery and disease. Were they left behind, forgotten? Since Jews are known as people with long memories surely these people are not vindictive.

“How was this synagogue not destroyed?”
“It survived Kristallnacht through an act of fate and fortune-it’s surrounded by housing.”

The ark and bimah are tremendous, ornate affairs of marble and columns and balustrades. A deep balcony, swathed in stone and supported by low Romanesque pedestals, runs along the flanks of the building. There’s also a choir loft and an organ. I lean into her, “This Temple resembles a church.”

Karen looks at me and says “Jews had to identify with the dominant culture, it’s the only way to survive.”
“So what’s the significance of this day?”
“All vows, obligations and oaths are deemed forgiven, absolved and void.”
“Between who?”
“Individuals and God.”

If it's Jewish to make a deal with God, I’ve been doing that kind of bargaining my whole life. That night I go home and journal the experience feeling as if I have lifted and mended a piece of my heart.

Two months later vacationing with Werner in Prague it’s the eve of the New Year. We walk through the cobblestone streets of the historic Old Town Square and head for the famous Charles Bridge. The charming streets are lined with quaint old buildings straight out of a Grimm's fairy tale. Most would believe that Paris is the most beautiful city in Europe but I can't agree after having seen Prague. Both cities share great architecture, character, layers of history and a river that divides the city. At night Prague is illuminated in golden hues that give the Art Nouveau buildings a splendor that make me feel I'm walking on a stage set. I also don't see a speck of trash or graffiti. Even the pavements are decorated with colored mosaics. After a long morning of walking and almost hobbling from the bumpy cobblestone streets, we go to lunch and encounter crowds of Italian tourists. The waiter comes over to greet us and after a few minutes of placing our order, he comes back to tell us that the trout we ordered is no longer available.

“Fine, do you have any soup” I ask.
“Certainly, Madam” he says in very clear English.
“I’ll take a cabbage soup, but please make sure it has plenty of vegetables,”I add.
Ten minutes later, he appears again. I begin to think what now?
“My regrets, we are out of cabbage soup.”
“In that case, I’ll take chicken noodle.”
“We haven’t chicken today,” he says.

Knowing the Czechs may be have the same fatty rich diet as the Germans do which lacks vegetables I order what believe may be stocked in their pantries.

“What about potato soup?”
“We are out of potatoes.”

In my mind, this is beginning to sound like the I Love Lucy episode where she, Ricky and the Mertzes on their road trip to California have a hard time finding accommodations. They locate an Inn only to find one selection on the menu.

“What do you have” I ask.
“We have cheese, ham and bread” he says.

Werner sensing my frustration says, “A cheese sandwich for the lady and a ham sandwich for me.”

After lunch, we find a shop with records, books, and postcards. The man behind the counter is dressed in a sport jacket with suede patch elbows like a Professor taking notes behind the counter. Werner speaks to him in English and the man shakes his head, indicating he doesn’t understand. He tries German; still no luck. I speak to the shopkeeper in my broken German and we have a conversation, albeit a brief one but we understand each other perfectly!

“What did he say” asks Werner.
“He said we could look around if we wish, the books and maps are in the back of the store.” The shopkeeper disappears into the stacks.When he is gone, I look through a couple of CD’s in a box on the counter. I choose two; one by Smetana the other Dvorak. The shopkeeper returns and unfolds a map before me of Prague, he begins to circle areas, “You find interesting” he says in broken English.

I hand the shopkeeper my credit card for the CD’s.
“And please add the cost of the map”.
“It’s yours.”

Werner and I leave and locate a cozy bench to study our map. We hear music being spilled out from a nearby open window, a piano is being tuned. Prague is a city in which classical music is the core of all life, like the air one breathes, it’s to be inhaled, and it is– either in chamber music by way of the city’s churches or street musicians or simply by what we’re listening to now, untangling the emotions, someone tuning and then playing a piano.

We head pass Josefov Street, the Jewish Quarter, a neighborhood of the past, to visit the sixteenth century Pinkas Synagogue but our timing is off, a man with a lined face and shriveled body meets us at the gate “Geschlossen.”

“The names of the Bohemians killed in the camps are painted on the walls” I tell Werner. Inquisitive, he replies “We should try to see it, we’ll come again.”

That night we go to see a cabaret, it promises food and wine and a glass of champagne to ring in the new year. We are served an open face sandwich as an entrée. I look down at my plate- biggest difference between Paris and Prague– in Paris you dine, in Prague you don't. No doubt, I will live on stale sandwiches during my stay.