Cuban Travelogue, Part I

Thirteen of us headed to Cuba for eight days with our Adventure Holidays International guide Amit, a U.S. resident and Tel-Aviv native, former Israeli Defense Forces officer, and tour operations/management director. The thirteen of us had responded to a brochure from Brown University describing the trip. Among us were Ted Widmer, Brown U. professor and author of Brown: The History of an Idea, as well as a former banking colleague of Charley's and her husband (a delightful coincidence!). Ten of us were New Englanders; three were from New York. The Red Sox-Yankee rivalry rekindled each morning, following a report of the previous night's game.

Our group at the U. Havana, minus our guide Amit 

The tour would meet U.S. requirements for "people-to-people" travel to Cuba, based on our scheduled events. Traveling with tour operators who have the necessary Treasury Department license makes visiting the island legal for citizens of the U.S. Cruises also dock at Cuba's ports, with limited time and/or access to mainland tours. From the southeastern coast through central Cuba to Havana and west, our days would be filled with museums, lectures, concerts, dance recitals, tours of elderly and maternity homes, educational facilities, artists' studios, a sugar cane plantation, a former coffee plantation, a cigar factory, Hemingway's home, an ecologically sustainable community, and, of course, the mandatory ride in classic cars of the '50's. We would eat in family-run paladars, state-owned restaurants, and at barbecues where pigs stretched on spits.

Amit informed us we would be flying into Santa Clara rather than Cienfuegos, because the latter had not been rebuilt after Hurricane Irma ravaged it in 2017 as a category 5 storm.

Upon arrival we were interviewed and photographed individually. A doctor and a nurse collected our health forms. Our Visa forms had been stamped in Miami and would be collected when we departed Havana. We met our Cuban guide, whose name I will not include. He traveled with us the entire week. In perfect English, he explained that due to regulations, Professor Ted and Amit would not be allowed to give us lectures. "I was a teacher of English as a foreign language," he told us, "before I became a tour guide. I earned the equivalent of $23/month in Cuban pesos as a teacher. Now I earn the equivalent of $20/month. We have to become creative." We assumed the change in professions was due to the tips he now kept. Our guide supported his wife and two children, as well as his mother and father. We appreciated his honesty and during the week asked any questions that popped into our heads. "I will try to answer you honestly," he said, "but I may not have an answer or you may not like the answer."

View from our window toward Bay of Cienfuegos on Cuba's south coast 

   
Cuba is almost 800 miles long, the largest island in the Caribbean. We drove two hours south to the coast and checked into the Hotel Jagua on the Bahia (Bay) of Cienfuegos. Our room cost around $150/night in the high season. By U.S. standards it would have been a three-star hotel. The door to our room had no bolt (however, there is never a safety issue, even at night on the streets - no guns are sold on the island and crime is nonexistent); public toilets in the lobby had backed up without a sign; SIMS cards for Wi-Fi were not available, "but maybe tomorrow."

Mansion confiscated by Fidel's revolution on the grounds of our hotel.

 
The following day we drove east along the coast to the town of Trinidad, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Foothills of mountains rose to our left and the Caribbean teased to our right. It was the land where Fidel had gathered his revolutionaries, hiding in caves. His portrait was universal, along with Che's. Despite reports of stark-white, deserted beaches, we didn't have time to savor them.

Art gallery, Trinidad

Local transportation, Trinidad

 Ration cards in a government redemption grocery

Local transportation and hat seller, Trinidad

We visited a government redemption grocery in Trinidad. Its shelves were almost bare, with the exception of a hefty supply of rum. "Our ration cards must be used in national redemption groceries, which have supplies and prices determined by the state," our guide said. "After age seven, no child receives milk on his ration card. The cards do not provide food for the entire month, maybe ten or twelve days." On a blackboard were the standardized amounts a half-pound of black beans or one cup of sugar cost in rations per person for the month. Twenty-five government pesos (used by Cubans) equaled approximately $1 or 1 Cuban convertible peso ("Cuc," used by tourists). Our dollars added a 10% tax to any item we purchased. Euros were more convenient, without any tax attached.

While in the redemption grocery, I tried to get a photo. I bent down to lean on the counter, where a scale rested for purchases. The counter was black with flies, feasting on the gritty sugar.

    

Flea market, Trinidad

Main square, Trinidad

Street scene, Trinidad

The birdman of Trinidad (with dozens of filled cages), selling hats from his three-room house.

Statue mimes, Trinidad

To be continued...

   

Grandma's Thanksgiving Invitation

Adapted from something that came across the internet. Don't know the author...

Dear Family,                                                                             

I know some of you probably think I left this earth, because you haven’t heard from me in a while. Maybe if you’d picked up the phone, you’d have discovered I’m still around.

Thanksgiving is important to me. If being in my Last Will and Testament is important to you, you’ll probably want to be here to celebrate that I’m still above ground.

Dinner is at 2:00. Not 2:30. Not 3:00. The only thing reheating in the oven after we sit down will be the pies.

Last year, Marshall heard from his neighbor that frying a turkey in one of those contraptions made the best turkey anyone ever tasted. He almost burned the deck off my house. This year, the only peanut oil used in the meal will be the secret scoop of peanut butter I add to the carrot soup.

Jonathan, don’t arrive at someone’s house on Thanksgiving with a new wife we haven’t met who has to run to the bathroom to put on her makeup before she’s even introduced. Honest to God, I thought you’d learned after two wives – date them longer and save us all the agony of another divorce.

There will be paper plates and red Solo cups this year. They might be bad for the environment, but most of your kids have never eaten off good china, except at my house, and things always get broken.

The television stays off during the meal. I don’t care whose alma mater is playing in a bowl game!

There will be no soda cans for the kids. We will use 2-liter bottles because your children open a third can before finishing the first two. Parents, fill your children’s cups when they are empty. The cups will have names on them so there’s no excuse for anyone drinking from someone else’s cup.

Cloe, last year I looked the other way when your marshmallow fluff salad showed up. This year, if that salad comes in the front door it will go out the back door with the garbage. Save yourself some time, honey. You’ve never been a good cook and you shouldn’t bring something that wiggles more than you. Buy something from the bakery.

Grandmothers give grandchildren cookies and candy. That is a fact of life. Your children can eat healthy at your house. At mine, they can eat whatever they like as long as they clean their plates.

I cook with bacon and bacon grease. Your being a vegan doesn’t change the fact that stuffing without bacon is like egg salad without eggs. Even the green bean casserole has a little bacon grease in it. That’s why you like it. As far as being healthy – I’ve lived longer than all of you and I have bacon every mornin’!

Green salad at Thanksgiving is a waste of space on your plate.

Cell phones must be left in the car. No-one’s going to try to reach you from work because no-one will be at work. The important people in your life won’t be trying to reach you, either. They’ll be sitting right next to you.

Being a parent means you’ve got to pay attention to your kids! I won’t hide my stuff because toddlers are coming over. Mary, teach Gregory not to touch anything that isn’t his.

Rhonda, a cat that requires a shot twice a day is a cat that’s lived too many lives. I think staying home to care for the cat is your way of letting me know that I’ve lived too many lives. Will your cat be naming you in its will?

Words mean things. Consider the consequences of your words before you speak. I don’t want any yelling at the table or grudge matches after the holiday.

If I tell you I really don’t need anything, it means you really don’t need to bring anything. If you are bringing something, please listen when I tell you the quantity. Really, this doesn’t have to be difficult.

Dominos and cards are better than anything that requires a battery or an off/on switch. That was true when I grew up and it’s why my generation had so many geniuses.

Showing up for Thanksgiving guarantees a gift at Christmas. Not showing up guarantees a card that may or may not be signed.

Discussion of election results anywhere in the U.S. or anything that has to do with politics is forbidden.

In memory of your grandfather, the back fridge will be filled with beer. You’re welcome to indulge, but one from each family will be responsible for driving without drinking.

And that’s about it for ground-rules. Don’t forget what you’re thankful for – I’ll be askin’!

I hope everyone has a great turkey day.

Love, Grandma

Cooking the Turkey

     Growing up, I didn't help my mother cook.  There was a good reason  - my mother hated cooking and the dinners she served consisted of things like frozen fish sticks warmed in the oven or creamed eggs on toast. These were not things I enjoyed eating, let alone cooking!

     For holidays,  we usually went to my father's side of the family in New Jersey.  There, my mother didn't have to cook anything.  My grandfather, Lucius  (can you believe that name?), and his wife (whom we called "Aunt Marion," since he was a widower and she was his third wife but we adored her!) hired a cook and her son and daughter-in-law to run everything in the kitchen.  We had both sets of grandparents there, and sometimes my two aunts with their families.  When Mary sent word came from the kitchen that the turkey was ready for carving, we all gathered in the dining room at a large mahogany table with wall paneling to match. My grandfather disappeared into the kitchen and re-emerged to "Ooh"-ing and "Ahh"-ing with a platter boasting the gigantic turkey, browned and crisp that Mary had put in the oven at 5 a.m.. Lucius placed the platter on a sideboard and flourished his weapons (carving knife and fork), telling us to watch his time-honored method.  As he sliced deep next to the breastbone, white juices followed the sluice. Our mouths salivated.  After each slice, he raised the shimmering knife and fork head-high and brought them down again into the tender breast. When the slices and dressing covered a serving platter, Mary's son appeared to hold the platter so each of us could help himself.  My grandfather stepped on a button in the floor and the side dishes began to appear, Mary's daughter-in-law rotating through the swinging kitchen door with her husband.

     So when I got married, Charley knew he'd be my guinea pig.  He married me anyway.  I tried simple meals first, like baked boneless chicken breast with a slice of orange on top (I called it "chicken a l'orange") or omelettes, usually burned on the bottom but runny in the center.  Somehow, Charley forgave me and kept eating whatever was put before him.

     On our first Thanksgiving we were stationed at Dover Air Force Base, Delaware. One of Charley's four brothers came down for a visit.  I attempted my first turkey - a boneless roast.  I didn't dare attempt cooking the entire bird.  I took the roast out of the freezer Thanksgiving morning, put it in the oven in the early afternoon, and proceeded to make the apple pie, mashed potatoes, and beans.

     When I put the browned roast on a platter for carving, Charley's flourish of weapons didn't exactly resemble my grandfather's.  In fact, his knife got stuck in the center, where it was still frozen solid.  I put the boneless breast back in the oven and we continued drinking.

     After the meal, I asked Charley's brother how he liked the apple pie.  He said, "Well, the apples were good" (meaning the crust was a soggy pile of dough). That taught me never to ask a guest's opinion of my cooking!

Someone else's apple pie without soggy crust

     After that, I bought Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking.  It taught me a lot about sauces and what wines to serve with what, but didn't teach me how to cook a turkey.  This was in the dark ages, before I could Google "How do I cook a turkey?"

     After a couple of more years in the Air Force, we lived in New England.  We went to Charley's parents' house for Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve. All I had to do was buy some pies.

     Then we had kids.  I'd already graduated to chicken parmesan, rib roasts, and lasagna, so I brazenly bought my first whole turkey to cook on Christmas.  I made the stuffing and put it in a casserole dish because one of my girlfriends had told me it was unsafe (bacteria-wise) to put it in the cavity of the turkey.  I weaved together the legs and tail with metal skewers and dutifully basted the bird every hour. Charley brandished his weapons to carve, reading from instructions on a sheet I'd picked up at the grocery store.  It was a repeat of Delaware.  The center inside was still frozen, where the bag of unthawed giblets hid.

     It was The Joy of Cooking that finally gave me specific instructions, but to this day my kids claim they suffered with my cooking.  I blame it on my mom, who can't answer.

This year's side dishes

The Joy of Flying

The temperature was forty degrees.  The boarding passes we'd printed at our son's read "Terminal A."  We stood at the back of the line on the curb at the Philadelphia Airport the Monday after Christmas.  All our gifts were in two suitcases for $50.

The gray-haired American Airlines employee at the curb had to be sixty.  With care he checked the couple's i.d.'s at the front of the line, punched in their baggage tags, stood waiting for them to print, received their tip with a double "Thank you," and with a groan shoved their bags to the top of the mound on the luggage cart. With the wind picking up, Charley sent me to investigate the line inside the terminal while he stayed with our bags.  The line inside still snaked around eight stanchions.

The American attendant repeated his ritual ten times.  We had moved up to second.  That's when he said, "Be right back."  He began to press his weight against the pyramid on the cart.  The cart inched forward a foot.  The man waiting at the head of the line jumped to help.  The cart began to roll through the automatic doors into the terminal.

After ten minutes the attendant returned to continue his tagging and after another five minutes, our bags sat on the cart, ready for flight.  "I'm sorry, but you're at the wrong terminal," the attendant said, looking at our boarding passes.

"But they say 'Terminal A'," I said, pointing to the boarding passes.

"They do, but since the merger with U.S. Air, the Florida flights are going out of Terminal C.  All three terminals are American now."

"What's the fastest way over there?" Charley said.

"Wait right at that corner there for a bus."

Ten minutes later we got off the bus at Terminal C. My toes tingled from lack of circulation, since I hadn't expected to stand in a line in 40-degree temperatures for forty-five minutes and had packed my boots in the suitcase I'd just checked.

Upstairs in Terminal C we checked the "Departures" board.  At least we were in the right place. "Where's the TSA Pre-check line?" Charley asked an American employee at the end of the security line.

"Back in Terminal B," he said.

About five years ago we paid $100 each and been interviewed for Global Entry on our passports so we could go through a screening machine re-entering the country.  The first time we tried it, Charley's fingerprints didn't read because his fingers had no oil.  We were detained in a side room for almost an hour with drug dealers and illegal immigrants.  We no longer used the Global Entry machines.

We paid $85 each for TSA Pre-check and had more interviews so we wouldn't have to wait in a long security line or remove our shoes or belts or jackets or baggies with 3 ounces of liquid or computers from cases.  The little red check mark with "TSA" was printed on our boarding passes.

By the time we walked back to Terminal B for pre-check, we could have passed through the long security line in Terminal C and been relaxed at our gate with a book and a coffee.  We stayed where we were.

As did our suitcases, which followed us back to Florida twenty-four hours later. I guess the curb attendant hadn't gotten anyone to help him push his cart inside.

Happy Holidays to All!

May your blessings be many,

May your worries be few,

 Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas, 

And a bright New Year too!
Take strength from a smile, a hug, or some zest,
Return it and see why you'll feel at your best!

Thank you for reading my blog and my book,

This silly rhyme also,

With photos they took!

Wishing everyone a healthy 2015 with some laughs thrown in!            Fondly, Pam

The Holiday Dinner

This spoof posted on UTube has Sandy and Richard Riccardi performing in California.
Lyrics are by Sandy.  Parody is USCOPYRIGHT:FAIRUSE.
Click on this link to view Sandy singing and Richard on the piano:  http://www.youtube.com/embed/TX9EAavxrus

(To the tune of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer")                            
I made turkey and stuffing
And hot mashed potatoes,
Yams and ham
And fried green tomatoes.                                                                  
But I had forgot...
What family could have and have not!

Stanley could not have cheddar
'Cuz it clashes with his meds.
Lee's on a low-carb diet,
Couldn't sample any breads.
Anya could not have onions
'Cuz they fill her up with gas.
Elsie could not have eggnog
'Cuz it knocks her on her ass!

I made Martha Stewart's tart,
Sweet and high-falutin'
That six people couldn't eat
Because it con-tained gluten.

Sherman could not have shellfish,
Or he would asphyxiate.
There wasn't one damn item
That could stay on Linda's plate!

My souffle was a masterpiece,
So light and airy!
But my guests couldn't eat it
'Cuz no-one ate dairy.

I broke down and wept.
If you're vegan, then why'd you accept?

Penny got on her podium.  On
And on and on she went...
About the evils of sodium (plus
How she's lactose-intolerant).

Peter was prone to bloating,
Couldn't eat the broccoli.
Annie gets acid reflux,
Every time she looks at me!

When I put the turkey down,
Sarah had to say,
"Ever since the world began,
I can't eat no tryptophan."

Everyone at the table, getting
Up in years, you see,
Skipped the meal all together,
Talked about their surgeries!

So I said, "Pass the Beano
And pour me some vino
And screw it, next year,
YOUR house, please!"