Tourists In A Time Warp

Sunday, January 26th
Leaving Cayo Santa Maria across the causeway:

we drive thru flat tobacco and sugar cane fields, a few head of cattle grazing in small fields - Wally points out each cow has its own egret. Impossible to photograph from the bus.  

Cuba is mostly flat - a few mountains in the east (where the revolution started) a few west of Havana.  

The government gives everyone a house, there are no homeless.  It used to be if you lived in your house for twenty years, and you paid ten percent of your salary per year for that house, you would own it.  But you couldn't sell it.  But at least they couldn't kick you out...oh wait, yes they could.  Remember the revolution?  

Things have changed in the last 2 years - you can buy and sell houses now, and private enterprise is being encouraged.  

After 50 years of a planned economy that must be a difficult switch. Remember, after the revolution the government took over ownership of everything, kicked all the rich people out, and spread the wealth to the remaining poor.  And if you weren't poor before the revolution, you were after.  

Hector tells us most tobacco farms are now private, and although foreigners can't own land, they can get a 99 year land lease.  They're hoping that will spur development of resorts and hotels.   But if a company does business with Cuba it can't also do business with the US.  If a ship visits Cuba it can't visit the US for 6 months.  So no cruise ships, and trade is mostly with countries like Venezuela and North Korea who don't have the best relationship with the US to begin with.  And given that choice, guess who most companies choose?

Melía, a Spanish company, had a few rundown hotels in Florida - they walked away from them and built the resort we're staying in - and lots more.  But most Cubans can't afford to stay here (even if they were allowed, a murky subject) and as most don't have cars, or cab fare, getting to work across that 48 k causeway is a problem. We see crowded rusty busses - not as crowded as India but still...bearing phalanxes of workers.

We see a kid on a bicycle hitching a ride on the bumper of a bus. 

A motorcycle cop passes going the other way, looks in his mirror, and makes a fast u-turn - the kid and bicycle disappear down a narrow street before the cop gets near.

There are buildings in the city with bushes growing out of them.

There are tiny houses with small truck gardens.  If you grow vegetables you can now sell them privately and we see a few roadside stands.  They grow fruits and vegetables for the resorts too - Cuba has a food crisis.  Your government ration are enough for about 15 days, then you're on your own.  When the Soviet economy collapsed and subsidies were cut, instead of an Arab Spring style revolution, it was "If we starve, we'll all starve together."   

Bright colors amidst the crumbling, some restoration.  And the interiors are just as bright:

One rainy night we see into homes with the doors open for cooling, and so many are painted this bright green.  I don't think it's going to catch on in my neighborhood.

Friday, January 24th

Two Cubas

Ralphie (I’d shoot my parents if they gave me that name) is part of the one million Miami Cubans.  He talks about growing up in a Cuba frozen in time - the food, the language are all from the 50’s.  And there is great nostalgia for that life,  just ninety miles (and fifty years) away.

At dinner with out fellow travelers, we talk about the two Cubas, the remembered one of his parents, the one they always hoped to go back and reclaim, and the one that is just to the south.  I would add there is a third Cuba - the ideal socialist state, the one that hasn’t quite happened yet.  The one they're still trying for on the island.  The one with old American cars and crumbling buildings and CDR offices in every neighborhood - that stands for the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution.  Not a happy place. That's the Cuba we are going to tomorrow.

Ralphie walks us thru the Department of Treasury paperwork - when was the last time the DOT cared where you went?  and reminds us there are 220 laws - American laws - forbidding interaction with Cuba. Unless you're on a People To People trip - more about that later.

And there is a couple on our trip with their American-born daughter who both left Cuba as children 48 and 52 years ago.  This is their first trip back, and it's very emotional.  We are so privileged to be sharing this experience with them.

Off to bed, we have an early flight, and I swear the airport Hilton has skid marks on the roof from the low-flying planes.  Just as you start to drop off to sleep another plane screams overhead.  I think it must be similar to sleeping in a war zone.  Rough night.

Cuba!  Saturday, January 25th

At the Santa Clara airport we go thru security as we get off the plane.  Instead of plastic bins they have tiny beat-up wicker baskets that snag your scarf and sweater.  And dogs sniffing bags. There are lots of Cubans returning from Miami bringing soccer balls, microwaves, clutching teddy bears and dolls, toting flat screen TVs.  Like being in the Walmart parking lot at Christmas - minus the cars.

And that's one of the first thing you notice - there are almost no cars.  

A few old Yank Tanks, as they call the American cars from the 50’s.  

A few Soviet Ladas.  But the horse-drawn carts and bicycle taxis outnumber the cars.

At the local cultural center we meet the children:

one flirting, one reserved.  One beaming, one guarded.  The faces of Cuba.

They put on a production of Romeo and Juliet performed by four to eleven year olds - with bad lighting and worse acoustics.  And fabulous acting and dancing, and great enthusiasm.  

It’s a modified Cuban version, complete with baseball-capped homies and rifle-toting hombres, and of course a paper maiche pig roast.  The kids are adorable, and after the performance (and the obligatory audience-participation dancing) tell us what they want to be when they grow up.  Actors, singers, one stewardess.  

I say "What do they want to know about us?" and they ask us questions.  A five year old girl says wistfully, "You are from America - it must be very beautiful, and you have everything you need."  It breaks my heart.

Hector, our fantastic Cuban guide,

fills us in on the history and day-to-day reality of life in Cuba.  When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1990 the Cuban economy collapsed too.  No more subsidies, no more largest trading partner.   

Remember, after the Triumph Of The Revolution everything was nationalized -  houses, factories, schools, utilities -and the government 'gave' you a house (a house that they still owned) and food (heavily subsidized, bought at a deep discount with ration cards and long lines).  In exchange the government did everything for the people - free education, free health care, those food subsidies, even guaranteed jobs.  But when the USSR went away the Government couldn't afford all the things it had been doing - turns out the successful socialist state was heavily dependent on Russian subsidies.  Oops. 

If you don't own your house, and the government could take it at anytime, why would you maintain it?  So nothing has been maintained:

since the Triumph Of The Revolution.  Not just the revolution, every time a Cuban mentions it, it's TTOTR.  

This building in Caibarien is fenced off because it's about to fall down.  So is the church.  

This was Abelardo's home town, his old school is just behind the church, though both were closed after the revolution, and both are crumbling too.  Happy to see Caibarien again, sad at the state of affairs.  He and his family walk into his old school, surprised that the American Theatre across the street hasn't had a name change. But the church is closed, it's in danger of collapsing any minute.  

Cuba is trying to find a system of socialism that works, a hybrid with some free enterprise so the half a million people who've lost their government jobs can start businesses and make a living, so that the government can continue to subsidize food and education and health care - and probably a thousand other things we don't know about yet.  And it's confusing, for until the last few years private enterprise was illegal, private ownership was unheard of. It's hard to make that big a u-turn quickly.

But they're still working on it, and they’re still committed to it.  If you're not committed to it you're either in Miami or in jail.

We cross a 48 kilometer causeway (heavily guarded) to Cayo Santa Maria (Saint Mary Key) and the hotel Melia Buena Vista. Warm breezes, a flamenco show by the pool, mojitos...we drift off to sleep. 

To The Lighthouse

Looked at the hop-on hop-off bus tour - not for us.  But there were great road bikes for rent at Miami Beach Bicycle Center, two blocks from our hotel. Had shorts, bought jerseys and jackets and we were off! Should have bought chamois cream - more about that later.

"We want to ride for a couple of hours" we said.

"Go to the tip of Key Biscayne" he said.  "It's about 30 miles round trip."  True - if you don't get lost, and don't get on the freeway. Our trip was a bit longer, and he forgot to tell us we'd be riding thru downtown Miami - at rush hour.  

The Venetian Causeway goes from South Beach over several small islands - San Marco Island, Di Lido Island (or as Wally called it, Dildo Island) thru sleepy neighborhoods of tropical flowers and 50's era bungalows.  

And then it dumps you in downtown Miami.  Think Mid-town Manhattan meets recess time at the old folks' home and you'll get the idea.  

I'm getting my courage up.

We had to stop to ask for directions - our map had few street names.  It was a map for people who knew where they were going. That was not us.

We had to negotiate several chicanes.  In heavy traffic.  Car traffic.  But eventually we made it.  The bridge to Key Biscayne is also known as Mount Miami - highest point around.  Here we are on the summit:

no oxygen masks required.  But the bridge bounces like a boat when the cars go by...something you don't notice when you're on your bike.  Couldn't wait to get back on my bike, the bouncing was creepy.

There is a beautiful harbor:

and a funky only-in-Florida restaurant.  Most people arrive by boat.  We took the waiter's suggestion and had whole fried snapper...

Good, but there is a perfume-y taste to the oil used in so many restaurants, and you smell it walking past the alleys, when it's not at its best.  I think I'm off fried for a while.  Yes, me.  Still we managed to do the fish justice...

On the way home we missed a turn and ended up on I 95.  Not recommended.  Took the first possible exit and ended up in gridlocked traffic on the way to Coconut Grove.  In the fast lane. Kept looking for a place to turn left...I learned from looking at the map later that there are no places to turn left.  Ever.  But Wally found a pedestrian bridge, and eventually we made it home.

We had left Key Biscayne early to miss rush hour.  What we didn't realize is that rush hour in Miami takes place between lunch time and nap time.  All those people rushing home to take a nap. 

And the high-rise apartments.  Parking garages for old people.

Got home as it was getting dusk.  Rode about 40 miles, on not the most comfortable bike seat.  Taking a shower was painful.  Peeing is out of the question.  But I should be able to sit down soon - say in a week?

Note to self: always pack chamois cream.  

South Beach

We took off before dawn

and were in South Beach as the sun set.  A cold late-in-the-day beach is a melancholy thing

even with cheerily painted lifeguard huts.

I think this is the South Beach equivalent of Fisherman's Wharf

with a little twist.  

Actually a big twist. 

He was gorgeous, and he could rock those heels!  Teenage girls wobbling along, take note.

It was a circus.  Don't eat there, but it's great for people watching...

We're staying right in the thick of things at the Lord Balfour (thank you Edward and Paula) in the words and wire hotel.  

Arthur Balfour was Prime Minister before WWII.  (Great Britain - this was before they lost the Empire.) Weak and ineffective as PM, he was a colleague of Clement Attlee who Winston Churchill famously called "A sheep in sheep's clothing."  Balfour gets more respect here.  His words are everywhere, on the ceiling, 

on the bathroom mirrors.  Art everywhere, everyone in the lobby on their ipads and computers.  Young.  Dressed in the Hip Techie uniform - all black.  It's fun.  I feel a hundred years old.  Off to find some old people - I know they're here!

What's Happening Now

Many years ago a woman asked me to walk thru her garden with her and consult.  I knew she was tightly wrapped, but I didn't know how bad it was until I saw her hellebores.  Every single one had been stripped of all its leaves, and the flowers looked naked and embarrassed.  I hate people who torture their plants.  And I wonder about people who are that tightly wrapped.

Reminded me of a Beverly Nichols piece on consulting on a garden.  After a very rushed cup of tea the wife walked him around, and shot down every suggestion for improvement (and trust me, there was a lot of room for improvement) with  "Oh no, Mr Gardener (or what ever the hell his name was) would never stand for that.  He is quite attached to his (fill in the blank - fishpond, hideous rock pile, or what ever ugliness was under discussion at the moment).  

As Mr Nichols was leaving, the husband made an appearance and asked about their progress.  

"I gather you have some strong opinions about what is to be done in the garden..." Beverly Nichols said to the husband.

"Who, me?  No, I don't care if she bulldozes or floods the whole damn thing.  What ever makes her happy!"

Truth will out.

The hellebores are saving my garden.  The freeze made straw of the grasses and the geraniums, the forget-me-nots and the Icelandic poppies - thankfully the forget-me-nots and the poppies have recovered.  Mostly.  And the daffodils are starting (and the paperwhites of course) but they are a bit simple.  I have been cutting them for the table - I have resolved to have flowers from the garden on the breakfast table every day we are home.  Check with me in August, but so far so good.

But it is the hellebores that make me smile.

I don't understand them as cut flowers.  Some stems last forever, some wilt immediately.  In the same vase.  From the same plant. At the same stage of growth.  But in the garden, they have won my heart.

They bloom when the weather is bleak (except for this year, when we could use a little bleak weather and none is coming).  They have volunteered in the gravel, where hellebores are not supposed to grow.  Pink and white together.

The whites light up the shade.

The dark pinks charm, shyly nodding their heads.

Their cups are beautiful, pink and green with shaggy stamens.  

Each plant is a mass of flowers, the leaves nearly obscured.

Some hybridizer must be working on getting them to hold their heads up - just like the guy who bred the Stargazer lily, the first lily to face up not down.  But for now, they all nod.

Did you know that before the Stargazer all lilies hung their heads? There is a myth about why lilies do this, something about Christ and being ashamed.  But gardening is full of myths (remember the guy who puts salt on his iceplant?  It's in my book) - and few of them are founded in fact.  

There is a new hellebore this winter, a seedling.  It has appeared in two places, and I hope it will be happy and stay.  It's called picotee when the edges are a different color.  I call it cheerful and am happy it's in my garden.  All by itself.  

What's blooming in your garden?  

 

How do you chose your hotel?

David Brooks of the NY Times wrote a great blog post recently about hotels.  How we used to want hotels that reflected the character of the locale - the grandeur of Vienna, the stiff upper lip and class distinctions of London...

The order and precision of Berlin.  The opulence and attitude of Paris...

The decadence of Venice.  

Then for a while we wanted uniformity - Hyatt was Hyatt no matter where.  Ditto Sheraton, Marriott...The comfort of the familiar (remember Up In The Air? With George Clooney?)  And now we want something different.  Something special, or at least something that makes us feel special...so we have the boutique-ing of chain hotels.  More accurately, the chain-ing of boutique hotels. 

His post is called The Edamame Economy (you can tell he's a waaaaaay better headline writer than I am - but he does work for the NY Times).   And it made me think. 

He says boutique hotels "hold up a flattering mirror" and "offer edginess, art, emotion and a dollop of pretension."  Maybe more than a dollop.  Gotta love those people who are into the pretension thing.

I am derided by a family member for my hotel choices.  Actually by more than one, and for different reasons.  Not hip enough, not green enough, too old, too elite.  Too expensive.  Not expensive enough.  And the worst - Not Cool Enough.  

Bearing in mind that at my age I'd probably reduce the cool factor of the edgiest hotel just by staying there, I have never chosen a hotel for its coolness factor.  I'm not choosing a hotel for bragging rights either.  I want other things.  Like a great location and a view, maybe historic architecture.  A decent reading light next to the bed, fabulous silky sheets and down pillows, a dab of opulence - I'll take opulence over cool any day of the week.  We used to joke we wouldn't want to stay in a hotel that wasn't as nice as our house. Then we built a house - our house - and developed a passion for traveling in the third world.  So that's over.  But still...

At Christmas we stayed at an Ian Schrager hotel in SF.  Totally cool. But you needed a seeing eye dog to find the front desk, and a treasure map to find a cocktail.  GPS was not up to the task.  And the chairs - or lack of.  You would slide into a blob of plastic masquerading as a chair and find yourself at an angle that made working on the computer impossible, and standing up problematic. 

There was of course the large metal octopus seat, or the huge lucite chair - much photographed, never sat in.  But comfort?  Not in evidence. Apparently comfort is not cool.  

The noise level in the public spaces guarantees that the young hipsters will soon be as hard of hearing as people my age.  Except I didn't see any young hipsters.  Mostly I saw harried hurried middle-aged people trying to be cool (and if you're 41 you're smack dab in middle age, based on the current life expectancy of 81 for women.  If you're a guy you're old.  76 for you - middle age was 38).  

Our room was a collision of opulence and orange plastic.  Not a happy collision.  But interesting, and at least we could read in bed.

David Brooks also made the point that if the major chains are doing boutique - Hyatt has Andare,  Starwood has W, and Marriott has Edition - it's no longer cool.  Critics, are you listening?

So where do we stay next?  

"What's blooming in your garden?" my friend from the frozen east asked me, a note of despair in her voice.  

"I'm afraid I'll find out in the spring that my entire garden is dead - deep freeze frozen.  And I'm stuck in the house for days - the garden is under a mountain of snow."

I forget that most of the country doesn't have paper whites for Halloween, hellebores for Christmas, roses by May Day.  So I took my tea and my camera and went out.  

There were hellebores, from dark pink... 

...to fresh green and white.  

If they would only hold their heads up they'd be the perfect flower. 

I paid a fortune a few years ago for an almost black hellebore. While it would give me bragging rights (if I cared), as a flower it's a bust.  Not very vigorous, the flowers are so dark you can't see them in the garden.  Or in the house.  Unless you have your nose in them.  And a flashlight. They hang down in the garden, they disappear in the dark of the house. But Sloat Nursery has some fabulous double hellebores in all shades of white and pink, and one  white one that holds its head up...I may need to go shopping.

I finally found the right quince - the one I wrote about in Postcards From The Hedge.  the one from my childhood.

The bush is still tiny, and of course the flowers are all on the bottoms of the branches.  I don't want to cut even one piece.  I'm going to feed it like crazy this year and hope I can cut a few twigs next year.  And a whole big bouquet sometime in my lifetime.

Pansies spill over pots planted with daffodils planted cheek-by-jowl (but not yet not yet awake).

When the daffodils bloom they will come up thru the pansies, it's a party in a pot.  And when I put them in the garden the pansies will warn me not to dig there.  No more smashed bulbs.  

Paperwhites have been blooming since before Halloween.  I love the smell; my mom thinks they smell awful.  My sister tells me it's genetic.  Apparently my mom is more evolved.  No surprise there.

Under the orange tree are the true violets, their flowers nestled beneath the leaves.  

You have to hunt for them, but they're worth it.  Bring some in and they will perfume a room.  And speaking of perfume...

...the daphne is about to pop.  A sprig of this deserves a place on your bedside table.  I love waking up to its sweet lemony smell.  It reminds me winter will be over someday.  Hopefully not until we've had some rain.  

Summer snowflakes bobble on thin stalks.  Obviously someone is confused about the season - it's not summer - but I am happy to have their cheery green-tipped flowers.  And happy they are seeding about the garden.  Not dead-heading has its advantages.  I wouldn't try it with roses, but it's a huge success with Leucojum.  And hellebores.  I have a forest of seedlings.  Bring your trowel.

And of course there are daffodils.  Hooray for the daffodils!

I went back later with pruning shears and made little bouquets all over the house.  In the bathroom.  Beside my bed.  Next to the kitchen sink.  By the chair where I read.

Beverly Nichols said the best garden is one where there is something in bloom every month.  He gardened in England and just managed it - iris reticulata was his saving grace in winter.  I garden in California and there is something in bloom every day. I can't take credit for that; we have better weather.  

He was a far better gardener, and a fabulous writer.  If you haven't read him, you're in for a treat.  Especially if you live somewhere that's currently frozen.  If you can get to the bookstore, these are books better held in the hand.  Wonderful line drawings, lovely quotes, beautifully typeset.  But if you have to Kindle them, go ahead.  You can buy the real thing later - and you will want to buy them.  And gift them.  And read them - again and again.