Stand and Deliver recognition

Today I read that Jaime Escalante, the High School mathematics teacher who inspired the film, Stand and Deliver, has died, he was 79. The article said, he virtually performed a miracle in a tough neighborhood. I disagree, he worked hard and persevered at his goal; inspiring students to succeed, against the odds. The only miracle was that he may have made it look easy.


The news took me back in time; to early summer 1988, at the Malibu home of Tom Musca, Producer of the film.


The occasion was the wrap party of Stand and Deliver. Because Jaime was Bolivian, the party included a number of distinguished guests from the Latinoamerican world. These were folks from various countries–drawing on Bolivia, Colombia, Spain, Mexico, and Venezuela–and who had, as a result, come to Hollywood for their own particular reasons.


It was a delightful evening. What was most striking to me was the ambiance, the energy that moved around the table, the balcony, in front of the fireplace. Put a collection of leading actors, writers, industry professionals, artists–practically anybody, really–together in the Malibu hills and what you frequently wind up with is a bunch of egos. The conversation will be subtly boastful, filled with witty put-downs and a kind of controlled or not-so-controlled narcissism that is so common in that we don't even notice it, sort of like the air we breathe. These Latinos, by contrast, were gracious, suave, and low-key. They joked a lot, reflected on art, film and literature, and obviously enjoyed each other's company. Their interactions were casual, but nevertheless poignant: inclusion of the outsider, recognition. I couldn't help thinking that whereas so much ritual interaction that Americans have include a tacit agenda or subtext of promoting oneself at the expense of others, the interaction among this group was about respecting each other, making everybody feel valued. It's a cliché, of course, but sometimes you can't see the given of your own culture until you are confronted with the otherness of another one. Dinner over, and with the party winding down, everyone shook hands and parted.


I walked out of the home and onto the narrow street. As some of the guests strolled by, I noticed their vulnerabilities. There was something very human about this; something real and then, a woman unexpectedly turned toward me and said, quite simply, "Buenas Noches."

May the road rise to meet you

I'm one of those people who has an aversion to cold weather-- and if I never see snow again in this lifetime I will be happy and grateful. It's why I didn't grab the opportunity to visit Russia, despite its fascinating history. After seeing the film Doctor Zhivago as a kid I still recall Omar Sharif struggling to retain himself from falling while shaking off his frozen eyelashes. But one place where I haven't been where the cold may not parallel Russia but is just as far north is Ireland, where I sense there is delight infused into the ordinary.


The first time I went to New York it was mid March. Approaching St. Patrick's Cathedral, it was early morning, I looked up, the towering church rawbone Gothic, with leaves blowing on its granite steps, I went inside where a mass was being held while the incense clouded the aisles and pricked my nose. The pew I sat in was next to a stained-glass window of a lamb. The priest who bowed and whirled and occasionally extended his arms in my direction announced the significance of the saints day, locally and back in the motherland. I had stumbled onto something fortuitously. Aye, the luck of the Irish! I heard whispers behind me about the parade, the oldest parade in the nation's history due to start an hour before noon that gave meaning to what may have been a shapeless day.


I love parades-- they are celebrations; with all the regalia and costume, marching bands and floats, and beautiful horses. I waited and stood behind the mark, arms crisscrossed to fight off the winter chilly morning, inches away from it all. So close was I, from the sound of the trotting horses and a booming mass of bagpipes. I was told on that day, everyone that partook in the parade, was Irish. This as I understood it, was rare that New Yorkers extend this air of grace, but I inhaled in the gesture.


Every single Irish society group and civic clan attended and there probably wasn't a bigger day for New Yorkers to party like the Irish and display the color green. As I watched the parade that was many hours long, I never did become Irish, but I did see some toss their jackets to the wind with their milk-skinned Irish arms, black hair mussed by the wind and faces reddening to the cheers and whose mouths split into smiles that was entertainment in itself.

Jah Man

In the summer of 1983, I found myself sorting through my music albums. Amid the stacks, I stumbled on some that I hadn't played for awhile but reached for a favorite; a double set packed in gold cardboard; it's artwork featured an unemployment benefit attendance card with a red stamp on it.


I was a loyal shopper of Aron's Records, a hip independent shop on La Brea Avenue in Los Angeles where I purchased the album with student loan monies the year prior. It was my first encounter with reggae music, the artist was an English band, UB40. Their “Signing Off” album was sooo cool- a loose groove, with a jazzy sax, a breezy instrumental, and was lyrically and politically charged with social consciousness. I began immersing myself in a Jamaican smorgasbord- a grip that had me frequent a dance club in Santa Monica with my then boyfriend and, influenced me to visit the country.


Back in those days, I went to Chatterton's bookstore on Vermont and thumbed through all the guidebooks taking meticulous notes. I read about Jamaica's unique character and inherent ‘African-ness’ of its population. Nowhere else in the Caribbean is the connection to Africa as keenly felt as in Jamaica. It promised a curious traveler, great aromatic coffee, world class reefs for diving, stretches of sugary sands of beaches, offbeat hiking tours, pristine waterfalls, wetlands harboring endangered crocodiles and unforgettable sunsets. In short, enough variety to comprise many utterly distinct vacations. Traveling alone and seeking an exotic beach scene. I'm happy- I was sold.


Hailing a cab from the airport, it didn't have air-conditioning and I couldn't roll down either window because they're broken. The exterior smell of urine mixed with ganja is a gagging stench, anyway. The driver, has one finger on the horn, the other firmly rooted up his nose. I'm optimistic- I'll look the other way.


Jamaica was a man's world. On the streets of Kingston, men were out on full force, strutting and swaggering, sneering with bravado. Encircling the cab, I was stared at by giggling idiots and silent stoned faces. It seemed many Jamaican men had urinary tract infections-- relieving themselves beside the road and up against buildings. I'm hopeful- it's plain as sight this will be one trip where I'll have to ignore quite a bit.


Alongside the road there were scrawny and sickly looking cows, who could pass for dalmatians, except they are humpbacked. I'm in denial- I guess I won't be drinking any milk.


Once out of the cab, I am embraced by the humidity, and Jamaica's slow pace lethargy is catching. I quickly get bite by mosquitoes walking in slow motion like a zombie with a blank eyed stare. I'm disgruntled- starting to sink.


I duck into the fly-infested hotel where I am ignored by humans. I ring the bell. I wait. I ring the bell again. And wait, and wait. I'm irritated- frustration begins to mount.


My throat dry as dust, I eyeball a bowl of passion fruit behind the counter, the hotel manager comes out with “Ma lady, du yuh need anyting?” Before I can respond he scratches his head and rubs his butt, and with the same hand passes me a fruit and says, “Welcome to Jamaica”.

One Bowl at a Time

What is it about favorite childhood foods? Somehow they live deep inside our minds and hearts. Foods we learn to eat as adults don't have the same kind of emotional hold on us, don't provide the same comfort. Perhaps this is because they are associated with that simpler time in our lives, those memories of being protected and taken care of, of diving headlong into life without worrying about consequences.

My mother was and still is glued to her kitchen. She spends most of her time in it, as if it's a safe haven. Maybe it's because she's a Taurus, the kitchen symbolizes home and hearth and is her focal point. Growing up I favored basic foods that she would transform into savory extraordinary meals; like her Sopa de Fideo (Mexican Noodle Soup). I would turn up my nose at anyone else's. To this day when I make it, it isn't as good as hers.

She would make it when the weather was chilly or overcast and I would be cuddled under a quilt curled with a book- the smell emanating from the steamy kitchen was irresistible. She served it as a starter in small bowls and as it cooled down the juices would give it a richer flavor. I wanted it as my main meal and would often ask for seconds and pass on the entree. I share it with you, as a cool weather treat.

1-7 oz package of La Moderna Fideo broken into pieces (optional)
2 tablespoons olive oil
1- 8 oz. can tomato sauce
1 sm- fresh grated tomato
2- 14 oz cartons of chicken broth
1 large onion, chopped

freshly ground black pepper
coarse sea salt

In a large skillet heat olive oil and add fideo noodles. Cook over medium low heat, stirring regularly, until all noodles are golden brown and toasty.

Combine tomato sauce and fresh tomato, chicken broth to the noodles. Add onion and season with pepper and salt. Bring to a boil then reduce to medium heat (gentle boil) until noodles are almost tender, about 8 minutes. Simmer another 2 minutes until noodles are done.

Leftover Fideo is even better-since the flavors blend more.

*Measurements are presumed.

Buen Provecho!

Scents rise from Childhood

There was a grove of tall green pines and magnolias that lined the streets of Savannah, the waft inside the sightseeing bus made me experience a form of time travel; the trees smelled like those I inhaled on the way to school that I attended from ages six to nine, and for a moment I was transported to Montebello, California sitting in a yellow school bus riding south on Concourse Avenue and then north onto Maple Street.


The trees brought back a lot of things I'd forgotten, among them the particular kind of musty warmth that radiated in spring in between the canopy of trees when the sun was shining and I was daydreaming. I thought about odors and the deep sensory links with certain smells going down to the core of memory; encountering them again can set off reverberations.


I closed my eyes and like a priestess in a trance images floated before my third eye. The most enduring and evocative smell from those years was the smell of the tempera paint that was used during Art. At Washington Elementary, in the first grade, egg tempera was the first paint I ever used, as an earth-smelling scent it generated a concentrated essence of sulfur. Along with its odor I recall school shoes, wooden desks, polished floors, and institutional gravity. The hallway outside my classroom had a powerful smell- and that smell was even stronger in other parts of the building, especially the auditorium.


During those years I brown-bagged my lunch and given the choice between eating inside or out on the benches, I favored the outdoors. The warm vapors from either my tuna-fish, bologna or peanut butter sandwich emitted something that made me convulse coming close to nausea. So in the trash it went! I survived on an apple and milk. To this day I prefer a hot lunch and dislike mayonnaise and sandwiches. When my mother discovered what I was doing, no doubt instigated by my brother's tongue, and in part by my ravenous appetite when I got home, I would start buying my lunch. Standing in the cafeteria line I could sniff fresh baked bread mixed with various cooking odors and happily ate my institutional lunch in its entirety.


In those days, almost everyone's house smelled like cigarettes, since everyone's parents smoked. Mine did not, but during parties at our house, a cloud like an inversion layer would fill the living room and the next morning when Alfred and I would pour ourselves bowls of cereal and wait for cartoons to come on, there would be overflowing ashtrays everywhere. Once while Alfred and I, in pajamas lurking in the hallway at one of our parents parties looked across our smoked filled living room and watched how adults changed once inebriated. Mixed drinks emanated a unique bitter sort of smell.


My best friend Susie, lived down the street on the corner. When we played at her house, either Dollhouses or Candyland, her mother would bake us snickerdoodles, the rich sugar-cinnamon cookies baking in the oven, smelled like heaven on earth.


When I was a youngster, kids walked, rode their bikes, rollerskated or skateboarded and went places on their own. I loved the independence. One favorite place to go was the Garmar, the local movie theater for a Saturday matinee. My brother and I would head out on bikes for the afternoon. The minute we rammed through the doors of the pastel lobby the scent of fresh popcorn permeated the air. Possessing a sweet tooth, I was so overcome by the buttery, salty scent, that I'd forgo milk duds or a fifty-fifty bar in lieu of a small popcorn coupled with a soda.


The summers meant a trip to the plunge, the public pool that offered a great aquatics program and when I was seven years old, my mother enrolled me in swim lessons. On the first day she stayed behind at home and instructed my brother to lead me. Inside a locker full of girls I didn't know, I changed into my swimsuit and remember the gray cement stools we sat on. At the poolside, I stared at expansiveness of the pool and the cinder-block wall in the distance. The morning sky was blue. The boys came out of their locker room and I couldn't fathom how one teacher, would be able to teach so many of us. As a warm-up we stepped into the pool and performed calisthenics, when I got out the dominant scent of chlorine lingered in my nostrils. Then it was time to jump, one at a time. Being one off the tallest, I was second. I panicked and called for my brother who was swimming on the other side of the divider, “I'm going straight to the bottom” I yelled out. “No you won't! You'll float, I'll catch you,” he protectively called back. Being eleven months older than I, and not much larger, his scrawny frame did not evoke much confidence. I ran straight to the locker room, gathered my things, and in my wet suit, jumped on my bike and pedaled as fast as I could. My maternal Grandmother who was visiting us at the time, took pity on me when she saw me burrow my misery into my pillow. Each time I came up I whiffed the chlorine all over again. My mother who was angry at my cowardice and her financial loss after awhile dropped the issue. It was twenty years before I learned how to swim.


A few years ago, around the Holidays I saw a bottle of Old Spice in a drugstore. I've always loved drugstores and the things you stumble on, they remind me of the wonderful five-and-ten cent stores of the past. The Ivory container had changed, and the sailboats were gone but it imparted a hum of remembrance of my Father. I opened it and sniffed- it was him all over again; the smell of him driving me to school, of him bending over to pick me up, of kissing me goodnight, and of him sitting in the den, in his easy chair hands outstretched as I handed him his after dinner coffee. If one had known that these scents would cease to be used, or exist, and with the accelerating passage of time, one could have stopped to have savored a little more, and contemplate these moments that make up a life. Or maybe such smells never die and conceivably someday, somewhere, they will come back as a passing breeze of childhood.

As Above, So Below

Everyday as I watch television, more and more Haitians are being found- under rubble and debris. Last week when I heard that Haiti was hit by a massive earthquake, I couldn’t believe one of the poorest countries that has undergone political upheaval, a health crisis, still fragile from last years quake would suffer another blow. Time and again when I observe how lives have been shattered all I can do is try to make sense of it all.

It's easy to search for answers when removed. But the affliction of humankind is everyone's concern. I ponder could this be karma – the cycle of birth and death that leads to perfection. But karma seems like a harsh judgment call- why would so many souls that choose to live in a poor country have to endure the hardship of a natural disaster? Or is this disaster the result of a group who committed a past sin and had to face consequences of cleansing together?

King Solomon says in The Book of Ecclesiastes, "there is a time for every purpose under Heaven". What he is saying - is to be prepared - humanity's actions will go in cycles. There will be times of goodness and prosperity, and times of selfishness and poverty. So, due to mankind's decisions, we can expect the best and the worst.

I think of my Kabalistic teachings where I learned God is not responsible for mans inhumanity to man. Humankind is solely responsible for determining its own destiny. There is no anthropomorphic God who looks down upon the earth and makes day-to-day decisions. We have been given the gift of wisdom, and it's up to us, if we choose to use it or not.

In the story of the Prophet Elijah there's a turning point concerning God's involvement with humanity. After Elijah establishes the one true God, he travels to Mt. Horeb seeking God's approval. But, God is not impressed by Elijah, and asks him why he has come. Then, God creates a whirlwind, an earthquake and a fire - but, God is not within any of these phenomenon. So, Elijah does not receive any accolades or favors from God as he expected. He is certainly not recognized as the leader he wanted to be. The only phenomenon Elijah does experience is "a still, small voice". In my opinion, this is telling us: don't look to God for approval or explanations - instead, listen to that still, pure voice within yourself. This is where you'll find your answers.

It's our mission to follow that inner voice- the one that speaks to us from our soul. By treating our fellow man as we would want to be treated; expressing love and compassion in all aspects of life we choose life over death and grow in our service to humanity.

Farewell to Decade Double Zero

"Faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens" JRR Tolkien

With the December madness behind me, in the second hour of the new year, after Steven and I return from a party in the upper middle class city of La Canada amid singers and artists, my head is reeling in impressions from 2009. So what did the year bring me? Or better yet what did I gain as a result from it? Being a heady type most of my fun revolves around learning. Being creative most of my stimulating moments involve the arts. Since my life mission has nurtured a soul of depth most of my memories include a spiritual insight. But I am also an austere worrier, you could even say I've perfected worry into a skill, something I inherited from my mother. To counterbalance this trait I've made myself think of my most pleasurable highlights of 2009.

In January, I learned the value of exercise claiming the Gym as my second home. Although I've always been a walker and lover of yoga, neither of them are rigorous enough for me and I rediscovered something in me that was dormant; running. Running on the treadmill heart pumped calms my nerves into a purr. Zumba dancing, drains me of toxins and frustrations and makes me laugh like a child. I also met Anil and Madhu- a loving Indian couple that welcome me into their home, all the while, I have a feeling Madhu will become an ally. They are in fact Delhi-bred Brahmins of the highest class, that even their dog is a vegetarian.

In February, in my quest to be a virtuoso storyteller, I headed for the San Francisco Writer's Conference, weaving an account of my own life story- material from what I have experienced. And while I learned that the commercial world of book publishing is shifting sands, not taking chances on the new and eclectic and sticking to the tried and true, I managed to meet people like me – a literary caste who seek to express and be creatively driven.

In May, like many other writers preoccupied with the peculiarities of the world, I began a blog. I have written about my travels, not only to places far away but also to those closer to home, if not, indeed, about my own home. In contrast to too many other travel writers, I have also focused upon what I knew very well, less because I researched it, as a journalist might, but because I experienced it, often for a considerable length of time.

In August, returning to California and driving from the north of Carmel to the south of San Diego, I developed an unusual love of my own hometown. Unusual, because I have seen the world, but now I find Los Angeles interesting and fascinating. My absences and departures have been good for me.

In September, I discovered that I could discuss books and stories in my sleep, but only with students who were interested, luckily I encountered the sincerity of those who applied themselves and were willing to learn.

In November, I reminded myself that people, even those who knew me the longest, are fallible, just as I am, and that I cannot always hold them to the high standard I hold for myself.

In December, I kept plugging away at my goals and felt strangely peaceful, finding beauty in small things. Although I don't verbally share many of my goals and accomplishments, I keep building on them, constantly giving myself challenges –they reside in me quietly with an inner joy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z3sXVxqDbFk

You can starve a body, but you can't starve a mind

As the year winds down I go through my book shelves and make two piles; books that I’ve bought, read and won’t read again that I will give away, and those to sell to a used bookstore. My intention is to make room for more books.

At one point in my life I'd walk through a bookstore and marvel at all the knowledge sitting there, feeling deflated as if I had wasted my life, I vowed to read two books per month. I kept this tradition alive until four years ago in the silence of the Desert, I subscribed to cable television and became a History channel junkie. Having been a listener of NPR for over two decades I now listen to NPR while I cook and clean my kitchen and schedule my tasks according to the BBC World Service and Terri Gross' Fresh Air.

Although I don't believe I'm a media enthusiast, my life has a mix of books, television, films, radio, and some selective news.

Until now- a month short of 2010.

Come the new year I plan to go back to my original goal.

Why? Because I'm convinced not enough people read and when a student admitted this to me, I felt a scream arising from the depth of my lungs. Disappointed, I ask, “Why not”. “Not enough time” he says. I sigh, with a stern expression and a tone that bids beware, “I will tell you one thing, you can't write unless you read. You must listen, take notes and you'll have to work very hard. You are in this class for a good reason. If you don't pick up a book you will dance with death. Books will make you come alive, as guides they will show you the way to your inner world and you will be reborn. Only then will you be able to write”.

He staggers back to his seat and I have a surging flash of panic- is the future of our country in the hands of illiterates?

As I hear myself mentally ranting I begin to hate myself for criticizing- for being so middle class, so comfortable and pampered that I am so shell-shocked. After fighting this war, I become resuscitated by understanding that I can do more by setting an example, books are buoyant with a love of life, like cascading diamonds that gleam waiting to introduce a reader to a hidden treasure.

I love the hunt for fabulous fiction and enjoy going to a bookstore without an agenda in a daze like Alice in Wonderland, I leave myself open and fuzzy to the thrill of discovery, almost shaking from excitement. As an independent shopper if a sales clerk wheels by to offer anything, I'm annoyed from the intrusion. This year my reading titles included:

1.Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman a collection of short stories by Haruki Murakami.
2.My Antonia by Willa Cather
3.Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky
4.Malinche by Laura Esquivel
5.Sister of my Heart by Chitra Divakaruni
6.Queen of my Dreams by Chitra Divakaruni
7.The Young Wan by Brendan O' Carroll
8.The Coldest winter: A stringer liberated in Europe by Paula Fox
9.El tren pasa primero by Elena Poniatwokski
10.Art by Laney Salibury and Aly Sujo
11.The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls
12.The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
13.Seize the Day by Saul Bellow
14.The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon.

I read more fiction than non-fiction, more written by women than men and from writers spanning the globe. This year only one was in Spanish.

Reading is a privilege and a solitary pursuit, a journey unknown. Books hold an uncertainty principle that applies to all areas of thought, life, longing, and faith. It all depends on how comfortable you are with uncertainty, how fond you are of mystery, how willing you are to take the quantum leap of faith that a book requires.

The Life and Times of Las Vegas

Writing about settings from where you are currently living is that you can narrate the experiences firsthand. It can make writing more authentic since the writer is in both a place and time warp, transposing experiences that make the audience understand because human experience is universal. I impart this theory to my students, and although they may want to delve into the surreal, I advocate for starters to write what they know. Teaching is something I enjoy greatly, but apart from that, I learn so much from the process of teaching, of grappling with so many writing issues every week.The biggest perk is the infectious quality that I see in my students that have the fever of the emerging artist, and the desire to succeed against the sobering odds of the publishing landscape.

Not everyone has glowing memories of growing up in the Desert. Although many may appreciate Las Vegas now, a few wanted out back when. People were embarrassed by their working class parents. Some had complicated childhoods. Many had been poor. Having the Strip as an immediate detail was not insignificant- it made for aggrandizement, where the values of Sin City made many uncomfortable. The fascination with money and what it could buy was particularly apparent to those who didn't have much. The loan sharks, the high rollers, the clubs with the naked girls, with all their plumes and sequined costumes was a reminder for those who couldn't get enough of homes, jewelry, furs, and cars.

Las Vegas then as now symbolized American consumerism and excess, a coarse ugliness of mainstream American culture. There was no nature just bulldozing. It usurped Reno's place as the nation's capital for marriage. But it also became a place where up and coming entertainers – comedians, singers, musicians, – were scouted.

Later, when the high local color was fading, flattening, as the number of hotel rooms ballooned and the competition for tourist dollars became more fierce, individual hotels swallowed up many of the service and entertainment functions that had made the city lively.

Walking pass City Center, I overhear one woman say about another to her companion, “Getta loada that bling”. She doesn't recognize diamonds from Cubic Zirconia's. Hotels are in trouble, unemployment is over 13% and the reckless overbuilding, and over-financing of the national economic crisis hit hard made by massive speculation. No city has a larger concentration of home foreclosures.

In most American cities, “new” means “improved” but in Las Vegas, “old” means last year's hotel and old people, preservation is a concept that seems like nothing but a liability.

The city has a history of espousing poor judgment, and there hasn't been sufficient attention to the fundamentals. Yet it remains a populuxe playground where tourists flock and neon enjoy a spectacular life. As the day fades into sunset, the Strip gleams in pink, lavender and azure blue. At a distance, the neon lights shining between the dark silhouettes of the palms soften into a romantic sway. Like many of its attributes, it is an artificial sunset, but still a gorgeous one.

Parting is such sweet sorrow

Of all the things I learned on my European pilgrimage, the lesson that makes the most amount of sense to me is that concerning the redeeming power of love. I didn’t know it at the time but I realize the importance of it now, finding love in Europe among the Germans. Before I set out on my adventure I read the poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke that talks of love and longing beautifully and metaphorically illustrated as a rose representing the awakening of the senses – it’s color, it’s scent and it’s fragility.


After posting my last blog, regarding the East- West conflict among brothers, I got an overwhelming response from my friends in Berlin, asking if I plan on returning which put me in a trance recalling the last few days prior to my departure.


When it was time to leave and let the tide of a million lives ebb and flow, Scotsman and fellow actor Paul who refused to call me by my birth name and instead called me Martina, gave me a sci-fi book inscribed it in were loving words to remember.


American opera singer, David originally from Pasadena, gave a sad moan when I told him the news but gave me a blank book to record my thoughts, which I quickly filled with pages of memories.


Elderly neighbor and native Berliner, Frau Bose gave me a cup bearing the city’s mascot- a Bear, as a keepsake of the city I once called home.


Linguist Karen from Washington D. C., cooked me dinner and tried to touch my face when I stopped her, she fell into my arms weeping.


Former German actress turned psychologist Renata came over, took photos, bite her bottom lip and said over and over, “I will miss you”.


Casting director, Benson, from West Hollywood, loyally stoic, helped me pack.


Bostonian Scott, a psychologist, stopped by and proudly announced that he was the architect of my open feelings, and although there was still a road ahead, he then held me close for five minutes while we both sobbed softly. I ran to the window to see him drive until he was a speck in the horizon.


Frenchmen and linguist Paul, gave me a tape of French melodies and made me promise to take better care of my health.


At the airport terminal, East Indian and visual artist Zari smiled when she handed me my gift- a lovely purple and white scarf that she silk screened, her face fell when I said my last goodbye.


Werner hide his distress and I could not talk, there were no words in me, “ I don’t know how to... or how can I …” is all I could utter and, I left a large wet patch of tears on his chest.


Over the last two years, I imagined bounding through the airport doors ecstatic and excited to escape the country, but my legs were heavy and reluctant. The stewardess shook my hand as I’m was about to board the plane, “Good-bye, will you be coming back to Germany?” I wobbled my head in a way to say: yes, no, maybe.


I took my seat, older, wiser, and more cosmopolitan than when I arrived. I felt my soul swell at the sight of leaving the land and the words of Rilke came to mind: “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will find them gradually, without noticing it, along some distant day into the answer”.

Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me

In a few days it will have been twenty years since the Berlin Wall's collapse. Who would have ever thought that it would go without a raucous, or a single shot being fired, paving the way to reunification, a quiet end to the Cold War.


In 1991, I stood at Checkpoint Charlie, one of the main arteries for crossing between the two halves of Berlin, the place where American and Soviet tanks had a stand off almost barrel to barrel.


Having seen the East six years prior, it was fascinating to watch the drastic change and activity- double decker buses loaded with tourists, bicyclists, Audi's and Trabbis whizzed by while merchants, many of them foreigners sold souvenirs of the German flag and remnants of the wall, splattered with graffiti, a symbol of the division that once was - the East and the West.


For me, I knew I was living through history with the sudden implosion of the Communist regime but despite the peace with the Exodus came social problems in lifestyle, wealth, political beliefs and other matters that caused a division between brothers. It seemed everywhere I turned the topic of conversation were tales of morose, pervaded by adult nostalgia, or freighted with spiritual disenchantment's.


The Westerners who extended their hand in a humanitarian gesture and valued freedom expected that reunification would come with a price- and they bickered, rightly so, they were already heavily taxed and even higher taxes were placed on them to compensate for additional subsidies. And it would be a while, perhaps even a generation before the Easterners could adapt to a new way of living.


Based on my personal experiences, I witnessed Easterners with a different work ethic. Striving for accolades and incentives were unknown, what they valued was equality. With competition they would retreat into a fantasy world where they yearned for the past- the life they once knew. Despite the fact that suicide rates were high, in the former German Democratic Republic (GDR), they knew what to expect, and there was a comfort zone.


The profound rift between the brothers made me think of Cain and Abel, born to the same parents yet split in their desires. After Cain kills Abel out of envy he is forever cursed with alienation. The distinctive note of his act is that alienation is largely a matter of cultural circumstance.


Author Günter Grass called the division of Germany a "punishment for Auschwitz" but I'd also add that no country ever had to live with so much dishonor. No country disappeared in such an orderly fashion as East Germany, but no divided country ever had such a hard time finding its identity. Lets' hope these feuding brothers find their way back to each other and form a family where wealth is there for everybody. But they will each have to work to earn it.

Monday, Monday

The story begins with a classic homespun adventure- I go to be with the person who gave me life on my birthday. Back home, we are in “Crown of the Valley” the language of the Chippewas, an Indian tribe that never set foot in the area, the land on which the city was built occupied originally by the Gabrielino Indians and then by the Spanish and the Mexicans who built adobes. As in most of Los Angeles County, the greatest amount of fine architecture is domestic, but the city of Pasadena is ahead of most of her neighbors in public architecture. Still it's where I was born in the Lower Arroyo Seco section favored by bicyclists, joggers and people who like to stroll because they have something to experience-lovely scenery and well-kept gardens. And there is the ostentatious simplicity of the Arts and Crafts movement. Craftsman style homes, bungalows that are brown and woodsy, many remain in pristine condition that were once and still are attractive to people of moderate means and often of intellectual and artistic pretension.

Inside a Mexican restaurant there are two strolling mariachis, one strumming his guitar the other shaking his maracas. The minstrels serenade listeners with buoyant Mexican folk songs. It is indeed another perfect autumn morning. The sun shining softly in a high blue sky dotted here and there with ragged wisps of cloud. The air clean and fresh, the birds are singing, and the hours spooled before us. We were poised at another stretch of time in which anything can happen. The musicians join us and sing “Las Mañanitas” the traditional Mexican birthday and Mother's Day song, often used to wake the guest of honor early in the morning as the lyrics are about waking up and celebrating the day you were born. My mother bursts into tears. I, unable to keep dry-eyed at another's tears and having shed tears of many varieties, follow.

I think about the lineage that brought us together, and about my Grandmother. How as a child, there seemed to be so much time, as she pointed out, that I wished my life away. In my heart, I knew there was more to a day than how many things I played with, but also, in my heart I didn't know what that something was.

Now that I am older, there never seems to be enough of it, provoked by a growing awareness of my own mortality. I remember her often, more so in October, two weeks before my birthday would have been hers, and the more things speed up, the more I try to track it. I suspect it comes from believing if only I control time, I will keep it. Ironically, the opposite is true.

Past, present, future. Yesterday, today, tomorrow. Paradoxically, the more I think about time, the less I can make sense of it. It eludes me. The same thing can be said about dreams, words, and love. All I know for certain is that the time my Grandmother was with me, I was living both inside and outside of time and beyond it. And this time that I have with my mother will be the same, she has always been and ever will be with me. As a daughter and as a woman, I am predisposed to eternity.

Home to America's Camelot

In 1773, the British Parliament, imposed a tea tax, on the young colony of America, partly as a way to exert control and in a contest of rebellion, in Boston, the indignant colonists disguised themselves as Native Americans and threw the tea into the harbor. The crisis escalated and initiated the American Revolution.

I was in the fourth grade and we were having social studies in suburban Los Angeles when I first became aware of Boston. Walking home from school, I chanted the mantra, “One if by land and two if by sea”. The timing coincided with my brother and I having started a hobby together; a coin collection, so my interest in the historical, financial and geographical realms of Americana was coming full spectrum.

A friend's Bostonian born mother still subscribed to the Boston Globe and at their house I'd pore over the “Lifestyle” section, which included gardening, as rapt as an archaeologist sitting in a cave. The details of what I read have been blurred but I do remember snippets of the images and the sensation I felt while I read; a combined anticipation and nostalgia so keen it bordered on longing. Although I had never been there, I was homesick for the land of the founding fathers.

Decades later, living in beguiling New York as a tonic to break free from the grime, and to end 1994, I forged a trip along with a friend to Boston to understand and appreciate the impulse that draws visitors there.

Disembarking the train, at South Station, we hailed a cab, once inside peering out the window I had a special moment, a thought of recognition, and of San Diego, and drew parallels from one small city to another, where a litany of urban social problems still exist- but would be manageable, and I as a curious cat I would find out what the fuss was all about.

Passing the first glimpse of a landmark, the Boston Public Library, I remember the grand Beaux Arts style of libraries in Europe, but the Boston Library with its massive exterior and pink granite indicated there was more to explore and I was smitten in an instant. In the haze of a late afternoon, I saw lofty skyscrapers and the John Hancock tower splendid in its arrogance and power.

Because my friend believed in excess; as a limousine crawled lazily to take us-- it's pampered passengers to a luxe destination, it rolled past a threadbare homeless person sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk seeking the warmth that steams from the city's underbelly. He caught my miss nothing stare, “It's a subway grate condominium” he called out. It was a ludicrous cartoon and a sobering documentary, combined.

The next morning while at Faneuil Hall, abustle with tourists, I couldn't help but think-- it's no wonder the Kennedy's' were drawn to politics! History is everywhere. A security guard stood in the corner. I recalled having been at the Metropolitan Opera at Lincoln Center, two months before, as a birthday present I splurged and went to a performance, Turandot by Puccini. Alone, I took in the magnificence of the chandeliers, the marble, the rich interiors. While at intermission, I went up to the gum-cracking guard “Excuse me, sir, this is my first time inside the Met, would you happen to know who designed it?” He sneered, his body stiff from city armor, “Who da hell wants to know? Why ax me? “ He turned to another guard and stated, “How bout them Yankees, Mac?” His stereotypical rudeness rerouted me back to my seat reminding me it's slippery to ask a New Yorker a question.

Having left the Hotel that morning without my guidebook, I start to pace the Hall looking for literature, a pamphlet, anything to get my hands on. The security guard breaks a smile and says in a pleasing voice, “May I help you with something?”. When I tell him what I'm searching for, he asks me where I'm from. “This is the Cradle of Liberty, Miss” and goes into the history of the building concluding with his recommendations on what to see in the city including directions and where to go for chowdah. All of which are precise.

At Trinity Church later that afternoon, there's a concert, with a high-level choir and Renaissance music complete with an education of string instruments, primarily from 16th century Italy. That entire week is devoted to the sounds of the Holidays at no cost, as part of the rich musical landscape of Boston.

Staying in Copley Square everything is arm's reach. A visit to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum includes three floors of galleries filled with paintings, sculpture, tapestries, furniture, and decorative arts from cultures spanning thirty centuries. But it's the garden courtyard that blooms with life in this cold season that takes my breath away, I can only gaze in wonder and recall my love of flowers from the days of my childhood. Now, I experience much the same thing.

After the museum we're off to Freedom Trail and a stop at Newbury Street to buy myself a new hat. I choose a black velvet toque commemorating the last day of the year. Then I hear of the birth of my first nephew, that I have long awaited. I swing my hat up into the air, impromptu and buoyant from the maddening thrill that is beyond parallel.

O' Divine One- Where art Thou?

There were a handful of reasons why I left Berlin in 1993 and returned to the States, each framed by earlier events that are explained in my memoir, Echo Between Us, but today I recall the whirlwind of my German memories in which I was immersed.

The best part of being in Europe was everyone I met. Bright young women and men, all artists, who measured their lives with the passion they expressed, buzzing and beating their wings around town- to me Berlin was a hive.

I've never met people in the usual traditional ways that people meet- I've made a habit of talking to strangers, and one of those strangers who became my friend, Benjamin Rawitz, I pay tribute to- an extraordinary man, who was born to play the piano, who was a regular at local concert stages but his influence went beyond that, a musician's musician with graceful nimble fingers and a kind gentle soul.

The first time I met Benjamin Rawitz, I was standing in a long line at KaDeWe, the largest department store in Europe. Expensive, luxurious, a shopping paradise and a legend, I also was a proud credit card holder. I inhaled the scent of leather, as I waited to buy myself a pair of mahogany kidskin gloves, a man watched me with quick curious eyes. “entschuldigen, ist dieses die Linie”? I asked in my wild broken German with a Spanish accent. Benny rattled on and I held up my hand. “Wait, do you speak English”, I asked, to which he smiled mastering charm. Detecting a french accent, I learned he was an Israeli living in Brussels.

How I remember that day, the encapsulation of everything I love most about this world: we walked out together passing the perfume counter discussing music, books, and the arts. It was drizzling slightly and down the street we went, I was laughing. It was fall, a season of my content.

Benny and I became quick friends and we had a friendship that was pure and simple; we recognized our tribal markings and discussed spirituality and the after life while sitting in sidewalk cafes together. We added all the things we aspired to do. When he left the city we developed a stronger tie slowly over time on a lost art- letter writing.

As time marched on we learned of each others artistic triumphs and disasters but none was so unfortunate that it stopped either of us from dreaming and living our each respective passions.

As any writer is aware, writing requires one to spend great lengths of time in monastic solitude. I enjoy this period when my mind spins more plots than my fingers could ever type, a ritual of silence. During one of these periods Benny's last card came to me that read- “A little bit of luck never hurt anybody.... I'm waiting to hear that something positive happens to you”!

Then I got the news, it was late August of 2006, Benny was dead. The tender man who would not swat a fly, murdered, his battered body in the basement of his apartment building; his nose had been broken and the frontal bone of his face smashed.

For three days in my own private war, I would talk to God, wail and twitch, begging for peace for Benny's soul. As a current passed through my body, feeling the voltage of violence that I abhor, every one of my muscles tensed. I battled with my mind even more, not wanting to see the ugliness of a brutal, barbaric murder, and yet seeing it every time I closed my eyes. Both my body and my mind writhed in unison, reaching a final end. I prayed that in his life he would remember a soft human touch; a simple handshake, and the flesh of another person without the psychological physical torture in the confines of his final hours from two perverse misfits who didn't have an ounce of respect for life.

Benny's killers were brought to trial and incarcerated. Today one of them, a minor escaped after having killed his baby daughter and her grandmother. This tragedy indicates that the laws in Belgium are too permissive and law enforcement officials have to do everything in their power to find him immediately; since his disturbed dark side is a threat to everyone he comes across.

Thumbing through Benny's photos of India, I miss you Benny. These words come to mind, from the revered Hindu text and philosophical classic, the Bhagavad Gita, “He who sees everyone in himself, and himself in everyone, thus seeing the same God living in all, he, the sage, no more kills the Self by self.”




Listen to Benjamin Rawitz-Castel playing Schumann
http://www.fototime.com/ftweb/bin/ft.dll/detailfs?userid={0B199B1B-2F0E-4CAA-A55A-0F96A12EBFCF}&ndx=1&slideshow=0&A

Swampland Beckons where Voodoo and Magic charm a Spell

Whenever people ask me where I live, I say “Las Vegas,” and pause a beat, and add “Not near the strip”. As if defending myself that I am not a gambler, nor a drinker or a smoker. It elicits opposing reactions; a blank stare, a sneer or downright hostility. Pity maybe, but never, ever envy.

Las Vegas once the wild west was intended for cowboys, and if you have ever been to a city social event, the chaos and lack of organization still musters a dog and pony show. Then came the Mob and the casinos and nightclub scene gave rise to a little city with dirt roads. Those who lived here at the time reminisce about those good old days- how the Mobsters generously provided locals with free food and drinks and there was one schoolhouse where everyone rubbed elbows. I call it Provincial. Decades later, with the arrival of Howard Hughes came the corporations and federal money outlaying master-planned communities otherwise known as suburban bland.

Personally, I don't go to the shows, all the has-been that come to town listed in the newspaper make me turn the pages faster than a flash of animation. But the worse thing about being in the desert is not the heat, I can live with temperatures rising but I can't live in a intellectual and cultural void where the days have such a sameness to them, a hypnotic placidity, like a pool where nothing ever falls, not a leaf, not a particle of dust. I float on this pool. The quiet rhythms of existence would have driven me to desperation a few years ago but my restlessness hides under the surface and the only way to combat the missing and necessary stimulation for my survival is to break away to places where culture, beauty and nature thrives.

Having been asked to go to New Orleans over a decade ago, I declined but two years ago when Steven and I planned a business trip to Biloxi, my mental fantasies conjured images about steamboats going down the Mississippi carrying Mark Twain and Scarlet and Rhett on their honeymoon. After Katrina the French Quarter was still in tact and despite all the rhetoric about danger, which has never stopped me from going anywhere I vocalized my idea to my husband and a week later-presto!

New Orleans, is nothing but festive. Just as I had been told, it is like Paris in the 19th century, because the French Quarter or, the “Vieux Carre," is in both the geographical and the chronological sense a different place within the larger entity of New Orleans, which is not really part of America. The architecture isn't French either, it's Spanish, on the model of Cadiz, like a mini-Havana.

But like everything about New Orleans, is a layering of clashing histories like a Napoleon (still served fresh at the "Croissant d'Or" cafe on Ursulines Street). And I find two new cliches rush to complicate its jelling reputation: vampires and writers. Anne Rice bought mansions in New Orleans from the riches the Vampire Lestat brought her, and her presence drew the Vampire wing of the Goth-tide to her Halloween Balls and to a revived Mardi Gras season. Mardi Gras itself, a proven revel that outranks Venice and draws level with Rio de Janeiro, colored deep red with vampire blood.

Every time I walk out my door I am blocked by mobs of tourists on vampire-tours led by awful unlicensed tour guides who sometimes come to blows with each other when their rival crowds intersect.

Writers drawn to the mystique of other writers who had lived on the ill-lit streets of the Vieux Carre, flock to New Orleans; the annual William Faulkner and Tennessee Williams festivals swell phenomenally year after year. And poetry venues like the Gold Mine Saloon are premier stages for young dreamers. Now I am in my element.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is being filmed on the streets during our visit.

The two steady charms of New Orleans are music and food. From the jazz to the latest indie combination bands of R&B and nouvelle retro explode with energy; Jazz Fest packs more great music than any other city in the world. We stroll into an intimate club, Snug Harbor where we listen to a blues band then head over to the Spotted Cat, a rustic club, the place is packed with memorabilia and upbeat people. So we make our way in and finagle some ringside seats, a rattan settee near the front front window while I people watch. Musicians jam while my husband, also a musician is intent on watching, eyes are fixed. At the end of a number the bass player, a robust guy with gray slicked back hair, dressed in black pants and a black turtleneck, moves between the parting crowd with supreme confidence walks up to Steven shakes his hand and says, “I love you man”.

The bartender slung a towel over his shoulder, and calls out.
"Hey Joey, where ya been?"
"Oh hey good ta see ya Max. Me and Sheri jess got back from Arizona. We wuz at dis place northa Phoenix. Some place called Zedona. It's got dem rocks an shit. And got lottsa dem new age types runnin around all in dem vortexes."
"No kiddin'. So ya hadda good time?"
"Yeah, was allright. Played some golf, drove around some and bought some stuff. So listen, gimme a Johnny Walker Black onna rocks, ana Chardonnays fur my frenz, will ya"? He pulled out a fold of bills and dealt Max a twenty.
"Sure ting, boss."

We thank Max and later when we leave walking down the street a woman standing along the curbside gently pulls me into a club placing a washboard over my head handing me a pair of thimbles. A Zydeco band behind me plays Cajun music but to my ears its a mixture of two steps, reggae and rock n roll while I jam with them. Laissez les bon temps rouler. Let the good times roll!

Our next and final stop, is the rustic and candle-lite Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, an atmospheric piano bar, it's crumbling plaster makes it appealing and kitsch, and it's the oldest bar in the U.S.

The powers that be in New Orleans are full time and are in business- a city known for jazz and voodoo, and the fading glory of Mark Twain, Walt Whitman, Tennessee Williams, William Faulkner, and F. Scott Fitzgerald, and of bohemian pleasure done Southern style.

The next morning after a visit to Cafe du Monde to savor the world famous beignets, a fried doughnut sprinkled with powered sugar we pack a few things for a day-trip in our rented car that we did not need in the French Quarter. We take sight of the huge engineering failure known as Katrina that let in the waters of Lake Pontchartrain and drowned a myth, bringing to the surface instead the rank poverty and misery of a huge city that tourists never knew, a city ten times the size of the mythical burg carefully crafted out of travel guides. The sobering glimpse of the formidable challenges the city faces with debris, destruction, boarded up houses, potholes, malfunctioning street signals, is a visit to a third world country, right smack in the United States.

Another twenty miles and a drive through the suburbs where all is quiet with private schools and SUV's and zoning patterns clearly laid out by the signs of stillness. Spanish moss stands on either side of the Destrehan plantation done in a simple West Indies style built in 1787 by a free man of color. This discovery coincides with the book I'm reading, The Known World by Edward P. Jones that takes an unflinching look at slavery with all its moral complexities. A costumed guide leads us through the tour where we discover tea was kept under lock and key.

By evening, we find young chefs make hip new restaurants by re- and de-constructing Creole cooking, and ever-roving gourmands in search of new tastes descend rapaciously on New Orleans. A gastronomical lover of seafood, I sample etouffee, a spicy Cajun stew of vegetables and seafood, it's served room temperature. The tastes of most foods would read like a scroll, the ethnic diversity makes me glad I came hungry. It could make a food lover adopt the city as a new home.

As we leave the city we pass old cemeteries, and I reflect that I'd like to be buried here. I love the fancy dress and my eyes like a four year-old light-up to the sparkle. Sensory expression is everywhere. The city is alluring, funky and artsy. Not a typical southern city, it honors its European heritage. Then I'm reminded of a song that plays in my head used in funeral marches. The joie de vivre is so contagious where a spirit lives on.

California Dreamin' on a Summer's day

Even before we arrived at Ocean Avenue, Steven and I heard the pulsing sound of waves crashing coming from Carmel Bay.


At the entrance to the narrow pedestrian street – Mission Street, the street where Europeans, celebrities and the dollar unchallenged frequent when in the mood for quaint, cozy and rustic beauty. We stood watching two dogs, who lead their owners as they walked heads held high sniffing in the breeze. Then Steven and I began our slow rudderless walk down San Carlos Street, a street where I can't resist the flowers – where past and present collide at every turn.


Past haunting pines, past mom-and pop bakeries we walked inhaling the fragrant scent of strong espresso coffee and poppy seed strudel. Past breathtaking Spanish colonial buildings and fairytale cottages and colorful yellow stucco shops that cater to tourists. Past sidewalk cafes where visitors from around the globe speak in foreign languages while they sip their drinks. Past Art galleries and jewelry stores and shops selling high end handbags. Past tourists searching for beauty and Americans trying to improvise a life. Past all this Steven and I walked.


Steven, as it turned out, doesn't enjoy the aimless lingering and looking as much as I do but does like the leafy and private streets that are considered the most stylish best places to live in Carmel.


The interiors of the hotel is not posh, but a startling mix of antiques and marble. Tall flame of the woods and trees form interlocking canopies over the table of our balcony. I am in my element- in nature, left in it's original state, graceful, a show untold.


At the beach that day, we soaked up a gentle sun, and curled our toes in the white sand. The sound of the waves crashing and the suction of sand in to the ocean, a melodic rhythm soothing to my nerves. My ears pricked up when I heard an unusual bark. Having been in Monterey a few days prior, where on a bike-ride along the boardwalk we saw sea lions frolicking in the sun, I say, “Sounds like the sea lion song.” Steven puts his book down, “It's the guy next to us. He's flapping his arms, he's got man boobs”. I harness one hand over his mouth and another on mine to stifle our laughter.


After ten minutes the man walks in our direction. “Now you've done it” I say to Steven. On the spot, I blurt out, “What do elephants wear on the beach?” Before Steven can respond, I say, “Their trunks”! Our giddiness is evident even when it turned out our neighbor wanted the time.


That evening we dined at Forge in the Forest, in the outdoor patio of lush gardens and redwood tables in the comfort of the open-air and fresh California cuisine.


The next morning Steven and I decided to hang out on Ocean Avenue, it seemed relatively peaceful but was swarming with car aficionados of all ages and from several continents. Concours on the Avenue, included seriously dressed men in dark blue suits as judges wearing Gucci loafers jostled with blond beauties in mini-dresses and large brimmed hats. Important looking men stood on the side lines drinking coffee and smoking cigars. Bored looking photographers wearing sleeveless vests open to the waist wandered around listlessly taking shots of strutting looky -loos. The whole scene without edits could have been inserted into a parody of an Italian film.


Having formerly owned a Red 1967 Jaguar 340 Mark II, it was a beautiful, well-built luxury car. I would drive it with the windows rolled down inhaling the leather upholstery admiring the wood dash as I listened to Vivaldi's Four Seasons. I absolutely love, no revere just about anything that was made yesteryear.


My untrained but keen eye marvels at the workmanship and attention to detail of these classics. But whether I'm assessing a classic car, an old house architectural style, a piece of estate jewelry, antiques, an old appliance, or a vintage article of clothing- the design, style and construction is a visual delight because it espouses high-minded idealism and pure aesthetic. But given today's public needs, objects reflect fickleness and pluralistic tastes. And it's become apparent that our environment is determined by economics and technology. The more we gravitate into mass produced, the more I appreciate the Art that once was.


After a few official speeches there was a musical interlude featuring a baritone who sang The Star Spangled Banner. We snapped photos of the cars we each liked. Steven was mildly interested in a 1950's Ford Good Humor Ice Cream truck and the sports-cars. I, on the other hand wrinkled up my nose at a number written in bold across the side of a car. “Yuck, ugly ” I protested. He rolled his eyes. Opting for unique, I stopped my stride when I spotted a gorgeous chocolate brown 1975 Mercedes Benz 450 SL Convertible Roadster. It's plush looking camel seats and great body style was clean, simple and elegant.


“I stopped into a church, I passed along the way” runs through my head as we visit the Mission Basilica. It surprised me to find that California's first library is Father Serra's personal Bible.


Yet, as we walk back through the narrow streets of uneven pavement, alive with the scent of roses and children running, dogs barking, the screech of the seagulls and courtyards of music pouring out of open windows and voices calling down from balconies, and easels set up on every corner. Now this is the real Carmel, I thought with the unearned insight of the casual tourist.

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.