And So...

When Lis and I were talking on the phone the other day she told me that when people ask her what her favorite part of the trip was, she answers, "The art museum."
It wasn't my favorite but it sure was interesting. A new, modern building with sparkling bathrooms (but you had to pay an attendant to get toilet paper) and some of the areas even felt air conditioned. Though not all.
The picture above, Ruben told us, is known as the Cuban Mona Lisa. I took a few shots of pictures with my iPhone before the guard (a woman in a government issued uniform shirt with a short skirt and the black lace panty hose, of course) told us we could not do that. Which was fine. I couldn't believe they were going to let us anyway.
There was the pre-revolutionary art spaces and then the spaces dedicated to the time after Castro rousted Batista from the country.

Pre- . Of course.

And then the post-.

The artwork got darker and darker and odder and odder and so, you can see why when I came to the place in the museum where that picture by Thomas Sanchez was, I cried.

Such peace. Such promise. Somehow. 

Cuba for me was, as I keep saying, one mystery wrapped inside another. I went with very few preconceived notions. The images which have come from that country for so many years have been few and not vastly informative. And now I realize why- how can you sum up a country like Cuba in a picture or a portrait? How can the truth of such a place even begin to be represented, even in art, which does a better job than anything else I know?

One of the very few ideas I had was that after fifty or so years of revolution for the people, ALL people, that the inhabitants of Cuba would have settled into a sort of mocha color as to skin. I have no idea why I believed this. Do I not know more about humans than this? 

Although I saw many couples of varying skin tones together, there still seems to be a great divide as to the very dark and the very light. The descendants of the Spanish, of African slaves, of the indigenous people (and there were indigenous people and if I start to research that, I'll never finish but here's one link) and Asians. I just read on another site that 50% of Cubans are classified as "mulatto" (a word which has gone completely out of favor here in the US but a word which I think is beautiful in a way and I apologize if that offends anyone) so I was not entirely off-base in my assumption. There are many, many people of mixed race in Cuba BUT, there are also many, many people who seem not to be of mixed race but hey- what do I know and this is a touchy subject and one I was a bit shy to ask about. 

Here's what I did see though- absolutely beautiful faces everywhere we went. 

We spent a lot of time in the FAC. The club where our musicians played. The place would become packed with young people every night and their clothes, their hairstyles, their sense of personal style just knocked me out. I desperately wanted to take pictures of the faces of some of the people I saw, but again I was shy. So shy. The second night at the club, I did work up the courage to ask this man if I could take a picture because he was so obviously proud of his tattoo. And rightfully so.

Finally, on the last night, I had an experience which emboldened me. One of our party, Tim, insisted that I finally had to go upstairs to see the photography exhibit and so he and another woman named Toni, and our bus-driver and all-around-favorite-Cuban-in-the-world, Sobe, and I climbed the stairs. 

A photographer named Entique Rottenberg had an exhibit up and this is one of the first things we saw:

I did not take this picture myself. It came from this website. 

It's a huge long thing, all of those women in nothing but panties, a long line of women. Stunning. Beautiful. Very, very real. 

Anyway, the photographer himself was there and had a backdrop set up, his camera, an assistant. He came over to our little group and asked me if I would pose for him. My immediate reaction was "Oh, no. No, no, no."

"You can keep on your clothes," he said. 

And then I thought, Hell. Why not?

And so I did. His instructions for the pose were this: To cross my arms in front of me and look bored, straight into the camera. 

I did my best. He studied me, adjusted me, studied me, shot. 

This happened several times and then, he was done. 

"May I take your photo now?" I asked him. 

"If you will be with me," he said.

And so there we are. 

Here are my compatriots in this event.

I made them pose in front of another art work, a long, long length of iron chain with the word "deseos" formed into it. That word means yearning, a wish. 

I wish I knew more about it. Being at the club was such an all-sensory experience. The heat was unimaginable, there was music, art, film, people, people, people. And mojitos. So many mojitos. There must be more acreage planted in mint than in sugar in Cuba. I swear. 

But anyway, after that, I grew less shy and began to ask people in the club if I could take their pictures. And to a person- EVERY ONE OF THEM thought I was asking if they would take a picture of me. 

Ay-yi-yi!

And when I made clear that no, I wanted a picture of them, they were curious as to why.

"For memory," I told them. "Because you are beautiful."

Here are some shots I got. Not nearly enough but what I have. And the lighting in most of them is horrible but I got what I got. 

I so wish I had not been so reticent on the nights before. This was a Sunday night and the crowd was sparser, less dressed-up. Oh! The people I saw! The images I will keep in my mind forever. One night a couple was sitting in front of me in the space where Lis was playing. He was light skinned as could be and she was of a much darker hue, wearing a simple dress that hugged her every beautiful womanly curve, her hair twisted up so that her neck, a slender stalk of human glory, was bare. He had his hand on her back, down near her ass, and she sat as straight as a column. I could have taken a picture without anyone knowing but somehow, that would have been disrespectful and I could not do it. 

Still, it is in my mind and I can see it whenever I want.

There. I think I am ended. Maybe. 

A week ago we sat in the Havana airport for hours, waiting for our plane to leave. It was delayed because of a sudden storm which cracked the building with thunder and we watched rain falling down on the tarmac. A week ago. 

A week ago.

And I realized, when we got to Miami, finally and at last, that I had changed in some way. I was a fiercer woman. I felt stronger. I felt as if in some ways, I am done taking shit off anyone. 

Do you know that I suffered hardly any anxiety or depression in Cuba? A little. Not much, though. And since I've been back, hardly any either. This has given me a great deal to ponder on a very personal and perhaps narcissistic level. I did something I never even imagined I would do. 

I went to Cuba. I did that. Oh, sure, I might as well have been wrapped in cotton batting, protected and sheltered as I was by Soledad and Yosi and Sobe, too. By Lis and others in our group. But I said "yes" to so many things that normally, I would say "no" to and in some cases, I hardly had the chance to say no. But I said yes, over and over again and I am changed. 

I would wish with all of my heart that this feeling of fierceness does not fade away completely over time. That I can remember that I am stronger than I thought I was. That new experiences, that new adventures are good things. That they can pique my curiosity which leads me to want to know more and more and more. That I can be aware that I want to learn new things. That I can laugh freely and cry freely and get lost and get found. That I can meet new people and fall in love with them. That I can fall even more strongly in love with people I already love. 

And that all of us, no matter where we are from or what the color of our skin is or what our experiences are, are connected, related. 

The title of that painting I love so much is "Relacion" and the translation into English of that word can mean relation, connection, relationship. 

My gut was hit with that over and over again. 

Perfect. 

Will I go back to Cuba? 

I cannot foresee that. If I did, I would want to go someplace like Baracoa, I think, in the country, away from the huge city of Havana. The place that Sole and Jim Quine love so much and return to over and over again. 

I don't know. 

And isn't that the point? Not knowing? 

This I do know- the smell and taste of mint, of guava, of mango, of certain spices will forever and always shoot me right back to Cuba. I also know (and this sounds ridiculous but it's the truth) that the fact that President Obama and his family and the Rolling Stones visited that island right before the opportunity arose for me to go made it somehow easier. 

And, to be honest, more special. 

I feel humbled and beyond grateful that I had that opportunity and I never, ever would have gone without having Lis by my side. I just wouldn't have. 

It's another hot day in Lloyd. Mick is dancing around Nicey, trying to get a little action. She seems completely uninterested. Mr. Moon is back out, doing something with that fence. The crickets are singing of heat and air and life. My red passionflower is starting to bloom. My garden calls me. My dishwasher (I have a dishwasher!) needs unloading. I have leftovers of the very best venison I ever cooked from last night. I am about to be sixty-two years old. I have so many reasons to stay alive- not just children and grandchildren and husband but also the prospect that there can be more adventures, that there is so much more for me to learn. 

To learn. 

All right. Time to stop talking about it, although I am incredibly loathe to end this chapter. This post. And I'm sure I'll speak of it again. 

But for now, time to get on with where I am now. 

Happy Independence Day. I feel that more deeply this year than I ever have, perhaps. Not in the sense that oh, I went to Cuba and now I'm so much more grateful for our freedoms here in America.

Fuck that. 

Freedom has to start in our hearts and I feel freer now than I did two weeks ago by far. 

I'll celebrate that. 

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for coming along with me on this journey. We'll now return to our regular programming. 

Sort of. 

I believe I shall go eat a mango.

All love...Ms. Moon

Necessary Tourist Photos, Plus Musings

It is so hot today. I've hung out two loads of laundry on the line and although the garden is screaming for me to get in there and get things done, I believe it would be suicide-by-heat (to continue our theme here today) to do so.
So I'm going to try and get closer to the end of this Cuba trip today, sitting on my back porch with the fan on me, Maurice snoozing away on the other end of the table. Mr. Moon is working outside, bless his heart. He has suddenly decided that the fence must be pressure washed and I have no idea why. But, once he gets a goal, he must achieve it no matter what or how. I take him water and tell him I love him. I try not to cringe when I see everything he has trimmed around the fence, some of it needed, some of it a little heartbreaking to the woman who planted it all.

This post will be mostly tourist photos. You know- the photos that all tourists are required to take. The photos that thousands of people go home with and look at later and not remember one bit of the significance of. Now someone like Steve Reed can make those photos into art but as the immortal Bob Dylan said, "It ain't me babe. No, no, no, it ain't me babe. It ain't me you're thinking of, babe."
Etc.

Our first full day in Cuba, our darling guide and historian, Ruben, took us on a walking tour of old Havana. We visited several plazas and damn if I can remember the names of any of them. A lot of restoration is going on right now which the Cubans are justifiably proud of. It seems that after the fall of the Soviet Union, support from that resource was cut to Cuba and things went bad. Real bad.
Now see? I could spend about eight hours looking up this very topic on the internet and barely graze the surface. Also, I could identify and give a brief history of every freaking picture I'm about to share.
Ain't gonna do it. Not that I'm not interested, it's just that this is not exactly what my blog is about.
I'm going to pare the photos in this genre I have down to a reasonable number. Okay?
Okay.

I love this statue. Look at it closely if you want. Very naked, very womanly woman wearing high heels on a rooster with a giant fork. Now you know me and my theory that chickens have done more for humanity than Jesus did and by god, that is how I am interpreting this art work which is by a famous Cuban artist and I don't know his name.
ALL RIGHT! I JUST LOOKED IT UP! HERE'S AN ARTICLE IF YOU WANT TO READ IT! With a much better picture. The artist's name is Roberto Fabelo. I'm sticking with my interpretation.

Interior of a beautiful old hotel. Courtyard.

Picture on wall of same hotel. I think. I just love that picture. Again- no idea of the artist or the significance. Also? This is the hotel where I believe we lost Jim whom we found again later. 

Mercury. I think.

All right. This is cool. Those are wooden bricks and Ruben told us that the reason this particular plaza has wooden bricks is that when the building facing this part of the plaza was a palatial private home, the senora of the casa liked to sleep in late and the sound of the horses and wagons crossing in front of her house on the regular bricks was too ringing, too loud and all of that noise disturbed her sleep. To please her, her husband had them replaced with wood.
I hope this is true because it's awesome.

This may be the cathedral where the Pope held a mass when he was in Cuba. Don't put any money on that bet, though.

The lobby of the famous Hotel Nacional which is very famous and was not actually on the tour that day and I'm not sure why it's in this group of photos except for the fact that it is definitely a tourist photo. The hotel is very grand, very beautiful, built on a hill overlooking the water. You can have drinks on the lawn and watch the peacocks as they strut by. 

I think it was built by the mafia. 

Oh dear Lord. I just had to look up the Nacional. I am going down one rabbit hole after another but this is fascinating stuff, y'all! Johnny Weismuller stayed there! So did a lot of other famous people but...Johnny Weismuller! My first boyfriend!

This is a mail slot. Good place to post bills and hate mail, I'd say.

Uh. Something. On top of a building. In a plaza. Yep. That's right.

Lion statue taken from the bus. Lis and I always got the front seats because we could. Until the last day when another woman sat her own ass down in our seats! We were astounded! How dare she? 
Because Lis and I are ladies, we let it pass.
We will not forget, however.

No. We did not go here. Very touristy, I hear, but I still would have enjoyed it. It was recently renovated after many years of being closed. As Ruben told us, one of the things that made modern (relative term) Havana was prohibition in the US. When the sale of alcohol became illegal, Americans flocked to the nearby country of Cuba where they could party their asses off in the bars and restaurants and nightclubs and casinos, imbibing as much of the demon rum as they wanted. Also? Rum runners dared take to the seas at night to bring liquor illegally into the US. 

Fortunes were made on both sides of the deal. 

Ruben also said something about how prostitution is what originally funded Havana but I forget the context. Pirates seeking sex, perhaps? I would not doubt it. 

Look! A restored part of a plaza! 

Seriously, there is some beautiful restoration work going on in Havana. And it's important work. Some of these buildings date back to the 16th century. I should not make light of any of this. There are arguably no more beautiful buildings in the world than those to be found in Havana. Another small article here, if you are interested. 

But here's the crazy thing- the Cuban thing- the sad, sad thing: Get two streets off these plazas where money and effort are being poured into these projects, these absolutely and genuinely critical attempts to salvage and save these irreplaceable structures, and you see things like this:

So many examples of time and sun and rain and mold taking down such graceful, lovely places. Lis and I walked past one place where you could see into a dank, dark courtyard where it appeared that many, many people lived in the apartments surrounding it. It looked like a level of hell I can't imagine even visiting, much less living in. I know that after the revolution, all Cubans were guaranteed housing, food, and medical care but who gets to tell whom where they can live? Who gets a nice, breezy place on a lovely street and who gets an airless, crumbling cell? 

I have no answers to these questions. I hear that many of these old buildings simply and suddenly crumble and collapse or lose great pieces of themselves to gravity. Balconies drop with no warning. And people die when these things happen. 

Some will say that there are always two sides to the story. Two sides to the coin, as well. 

But after having visited Havana, I am more of the opinion that we should not be discussing sides at all but onions with their layers and layers and layers of information, history, politics, art, economics, and on and on and on. 

Yosi said that these days there are people who, after four days in Cuba come home and start giving paid lectures about the place. That made me laugh so hard. What could ANYONE know after four days in this city which has been touched and shaped by so many cultures, countries, and governments? All I know after my four days is that I don't know enough to know what questions to ask and I had the incredibly fortunate resource of traveling with people who have been coming to Cuba for over a decade and also Ruben, who has studied Cuban history his entire life and who has lived there his entire life. 

Here's one thing I do know- the people of Cuba are gorgeous. 

My next (perhaps last) post will be about them. 

Off to the garden. Hope I don't die. 

Love...Ms. Moon

More Hemingway. I Lightly Touch The Shadow Cast By His Life

Good morning!
So. While I have the gourmet egg thing with vegetables and polenta (aka, leftover grits) cooking in the oven for our brunch, I will begin again on Hemingway's house.

More pictures.

The bedroom. I love the reading lamp over the bed.

View from the writing tower.

The pool. They could make a fortune if they filled it and charged entry.

I think this is the saddest and most awkward photo I've ever seen.  Bless that little boy's heart. It must have been hell to have been one of Hemingway's sons. Another thing I'd love to read about.

The Pilar. Hemingway's beloved fishing boat. Restored to shiny glory. 

With American flag. 

One of the more interesting trees on the grounds.

Ernest Hemingway's bathroom! I just had to cringe at the thought of Hemingway looking down from heaven to see tourists from every country in the world, hanging in the windows of his bathroom, taking pictures of his toilet. I myself did not take pictures of his toilet but I did take this photo which shows two jars of preserved somethings in them. One is probably a lizard of some sort. The other? Albino bat? What do you see? Why? Why did Hemingway have jars of preserved creatures in his bathroom? The many, many heads of dead animals he shot wasn't enough? 

Oh, Papa. Such a man you were. 

Okay. Now I've just gone and read a lot more about Hemingway, his life, his years in Cuba, his writing, his illnesses, his death. Here's an incredible article written in the August, 1965 issue of The Atlantic by Robert Manning, who had visited Hemingway at Finca Vigia (the Havana home) in 1954, the year I was born. The picture from that article.

It appears that Hemingway and Castro were good friends until Castro decided to nationalize property owned by Americans in Cuba. That picture was taken in 1960, the year I moved to Florida. 

And the rest, as they say, is history and Hemingway moved to Idaho where his health deteriorated drastically, both physically and mentally. He received many ECT treatments and ended up shooting himself with his favorite shotgun. His father, brother, and sister all also committed suicide. 

The other day I read a quote and damn if I can remember where it came from. But the quote was, "Life, I forgive you," and I cried when I read it. Reading about Hemingway brings that sentence to mind and I could weep again.

And to tie all of this together in a completely inappropriate way, I give you this picture.

Remember the coach? After we'd toured the house and the grounds of Finca Vigia and visited the gift shop (I bought two postcards), we all found our way to the little covered patio where musicians were playing and you could buy sodas or drinks. And that's where the coach and one of our party met up and began to dance together, beers in hand.
There is nothing in this world that makes me happier than seeing two men dancing together whom you would never in this world think would dance with other men. There is just a pure, honest joy in the music and the moment which transcends all.

I never quite got the story on the coach, but I think he may have been a well-known ball-player in his day and now, here he is, coaching the Cuban equivalent of Little League, enjoying a beer on a hot summer day, meeting and dancing with sudden, newly made friends. 

This is what I loved about my trip. Not just the amazing history, the politics, the food, the new experiences, but the chance encounters, the exchanges made between human beings of so many different races and colors and talents and abilities. The connections made despite the language gap. 

Here's another quote I just read and it comes from a review of a new book by a Tallahassee writer whom I have long admired, Bob Shacochis. Kingdoms in the Air. Dispatches From The Far Away.

Travel is the road to perspective; only your dog should recognize you upon your return. Travel lightly, for nothing “can be exchanged honestly, or permanently, except memories and goodwill.”

Yes. Like that. 

Love...Ms. Moon

P.S. Just found this: The Hemingways and Suicide.

It was fifty-five years ago yesterday that Ernest ended his life. 

Cars And Papa, Mostly

It's a hot, steamy day in Lloyd, almost one o'clock already and I have done nothing but little dribs and drabs of this and that. A quick sweep-up here, a tiny bit of laundry there, a walk to the post office where I had to stop on both the way there and back to admire my neighbor's crepe myrtle.

And this, people, is why you should not cut back your crepe myrtle. 

I just finished my breakfast/lunch of watermelon and leftover zipper cream peas and rice. Perfection. As I ate, I read a review of a restaurant in the New Yorker, it's description of a side-dish of sweet potato puree with lemongrass and I had no longing to taste that particular pairing. The complete satisfaction of the simple peas with rice suits me absolutely and I could wish for nothing finer in this world. I want to get out into my garden today to weed and tidy and spray the fucking aphids on the peas. Last night Mr. Moon said that he thought them so delicious that he wants to tear out the entire garden and plant nothing but those peas. I understood. 

I got to talk to Lis this morning. Her life has not slowed down one iota since we got back. I don't know how many gigs she's had since Wednesday or how many people have recorded at their studio which requires her to not only sit-in as a musician but to also provide the meals. When I say that I am a badass, I can't even begin to compare myself to that woman. 

Here she is with a lady who was selling peanuts, singing in the most gorgeous deep voice you ever heard. Lis joined her for a moment, harmonizing and it was instant love between them. We bought the peanuts and never did get around to eating them all although they were delicious. We were just never hungry enough, nor did we have enough time! I'm not kidding you. 

Okay. Cars. Isn't that the image everyone has now of Cuba? The vintage cars. I know I posted this before, but doesn't it sort of sum up what we think Cuba might look like?

The Revolutionary billboard and a vintage American car? 

Here are some more of those old beauties. 

I could have taken a whole lot more and here's what I learned- most of the most beautiful and lovingly restored old autos are taxis now. If you've ever had any idea of going down to Cuba and buying a '55 Chevy for cheap, forget about it. One of our group talked to the owner of one of the taxis and he paid $30,000 for his several years ago and said he could probably get twice that now. 

How, you may ask, can a Cuban taxi driver afford such a vehicle? 

Well, according to Ruben, again this is mostly possible with the backing of an American relative. With one of these taxis a Cuban can make far more money than say a doctor or a lawyer and I believe they get to keep their tips. So don't be looking at those beauties as something you could ever buy. They represent an entire business and income to the owners. 

If we'd had a little more downtime, I would have loved to have hired a driver to take us around for a little tour in one as one of our group did. He said it was an amazing experience. 

I feel as if we got to see such a very, very small part of Havana which is, in itself, such a very, very small part of Cuba. The only drive out of the city we took was to go visit Hemingway's Cuban home and I loved that trip despite the fact that I almost died from heat stroke. 

So. Time to talk about that part of the trip I suppose, since I've found my way there. I have so many pictures. Please be patient with me but in Hemingway's home I found another of my own personal dream houses and couldn't stop snapping. The Cuban government maintains this house and the grounds as a museum and it is gorgeous. They obviously are very proud of Hemingway's residence in their country, his love for it. And say what you will about Ernest Hemingway, Papa, his style, his lifestyle, his drinking, his overtly macho behavior, his hunting, his wives...

Doesn't matter. He was and remains a very important American author and for good reason. The man led a life. And he did indeed have a way with stringing words together to tell a story which was unique and all his own.

And now that I've been to this place I want desperately to know more about his time there. As with this entire journey, one road leads down another and I could spend the rest of my life learning more about it, trying to answer just a few of the many, many questions I have. 

The entrance to his estate. I guess it's an estate. Whatever. As we pulled in, we noticed that a game of baseball was being played off to our left by little boys. You see that guy on the left in the white pants? He's the coach. Don't forget him. He comes into play (so to speak) a little later on in this story. 

You are not allowed into the house. You can, however, lean into open doors and windows and take all the pictures you want. You sometimes have to stand there in line to do so, the hot sun beating down on you as people from all over the world take their own photos with phones, with cameras, both fancy and simple. Here are some of mine. 

Dining room, I suppose.

His desk in his writing tower.

The entrance room. Do you see those magazines?

A living room, I presume. 

I'm going to have to start part two of this particular adventure on another post because I can't figure out how to get any more pictures into this one. 

And it's two-thirty now and I have a few things I need to do around here. 

Here? There? Where the fuck am I?

Can I tell you that I don't think I've enjoyed anything so much in forever as sitting here, writing and sharing photos about this trip? I read a quote once about how writers get to live everything twice. The living of it, then the sharing of it. I believe this to be true but I would add that sometimes we get to live everything over and over and over and over again. 

Sometimes this is horrible. Sometimes, it is wonderful. 

This story, this re-experiencing, is wonderful. For me. 

To be continued...