What tied me most
firmly to my life was writing: anything I experienced would become images for
me. At times they would surround me so
completely that I felt I was in a different world, and my stay there filled me
with happiness or at least a sense of relief.
Years ago I convinced myself that I would be able to communicate these
images to someone, that there were even people about who were waiting for them
in order to share my joys and sorrows. I
did all I could to meet their supposed expectations: I was doing this not from
pride or any sense of superiority but because I wanted someone to share my
world with me. – Ivan Klima, Love and
Garbage
I stumbled upon this paragraph, sitting on a hammock,
overlooking a pool, deep in the woods in Vieques, one
of my favorite places in the world.
We’ve been staying here for a week now, as we’ve done for several years
now. Klima’s words resonate as a way to
describe a way of living historically, writing reflectively, and simply being. Maybe they explain why I blog or just try to
position my life as a living narrative, hopefully leading somewhere. I read about Klima in one of the guidebooks
in for Prague a few weeks ago during my journey there. Since then, I came back to New York, finished
my semester, turned in my grades for my students (no grade appeals thank
goodness), finished a few manuscripts, rode around the city, and journeyed out
to Montauk and then here. Hopefully, I
can write and live in the same way, connecting my own life with a moment in
time, which is both pregnant with contradictions, love and garbage, pain and connection,
social movements and hope, efforts at creating change and disappointment. I remind myself that that Prague Springs and
related movements arise and are crushed and rise again. Living in between requires a fair degree of
perseverance and faith. It also reminds
me that its ok just to walk. Some call
us flaneurs, those of us who walk and walk, meandering through the streets of
cities, town, aimlessly looking. Doing
so, I commune with my heros, Mario Vargos Llosa who used to get lost in Lima,
Guy Debord, whose method for strolling through Paris after drink, sex, and
experience became the subject of a new methodology – a psychogeography – of
street ethnography. Most every day, I
wander on my trip here.
When I stay here, I love reading novels and non-fiction,
while staying away from the news of the world.
Glimpsing at the papers on Wednesday, I saw that the US Supreme Court gutting
the Johnson era Voting Rights Act, a cornerstone of the Great Society and Civil
Rights years. I groan. So five men,
appointed by Republicans can repudiate the culmination of generations of Civil
Rights struggle, born of the street, civil disobedience, assassinated
presidents, murdered school children, exiled leaders, heros and villains, who
helped create the climate for President Johnson to sign the landmark
legislation and give the pen he used to sign it to Martin Luther King. Other notices suggest, the supremes may save
face by honoring marriage and annulling the Defense of Marriage Act, which I
abhor. Such are the dialectics of
progress- steps up and back. Legislation
passed and nullified, movements advanced, neutralized, and corralled into
digestible bits.
As friend Andy Humm aptly puts it:
My theory on why the Supreme Court ruled for gay marriage (and even then not going all the way to a national right) while issuing reactionary decisions on Voting Rights and affirmative action and weakening anti-discrimination laws and the Fourth Amendment: On the gay case, there were five Justices who just could not face their gay friends if they voted against them. But not enough of the men of the court (the women are fine) are connected enough with the poor and disenfranchised people of color who will be devastated by their other rulings. We need a court more representative of the American people. Please remember how important it is to vote in the midterm elections in 2014--and every chance to you have to vote.
As friend Andy Humm aptly puts it:
My theory on why the Supreme Court ruled for gay marriage (and even then not going all the way to a national right) while issuing reactionary decisions on Voting Rights and affirmative action and weakening anti-discrimination laws and the Fourth Amendment: On the gay case, there were five Justices who just could not face their gay friends if they voted against them. But not enough of the men of the court (the women are fine) are connected enough with the poor and disenfranchised people of color who will be devastated by their other rulings. We need a court more representative of the American people. Please remember how important it is to vote in the midterm elections in 2014--and every chance to you have to vote.
My immediate reaction, was its better to hit the pool
or go snorkeling at the Mosquito Pier, where there are so many more fish living
without worrying about such matters, rather than get consumed in the muck. In the era of the Roberts Court, I am not
very optimistic about democracy.
“It’s the United States of Corporate America,” explained
another traveler staying here. Looking
at the Citizen’s United ruling, it is hard to disagree.
As I write now, its my last few hours here. The night crickets and frogs, the symphony of
sounds which fill the evenings in the forest are subsiding. But I can hear a few birds in the
distance. The white stray cat who has
been making his rounds, pokes his head in.
Birds chirp in the trees here at the eco lodge where we are
staying.
We had a great journey out from New York to San Juan,
arriving in Isla Verde just after nightfall, in time for a walk to the beach.
Meandering through the night, we played on the beach, said
hello to a favorite tree, and dipped into a bar for a Pina Colada and some
dinner. Game seven of the NBA finals was
on, as it seems to be every year I’m here.
Strange enough, half the pub cheers during the national anthem – a
strange thing for a place many still consider a colonial out post. Why else is Puerto Rico a part of the US
“commonwealth” without voting rights or statehood or its own independence? Some suggest the island is roughly split in
three electoral blocks – those who want things to stay as they are, those who
want to be a state, and those who want independence.
The next morning, we meet for breakfast, enjoying a swim in
the hotel pool, where the kids would rather stay than journey out to an
isolated Island. I run off for a lovely
swim deep in the warm waters before wandering home to catch the taxi across the
island to catch the 1 PM ferry to Vieques from Fajardo. The taxi warns us ferries are running late
and I can see this in the long line waiting for a ticket. A half hour later, the line is still not
moving. No one is moving.
There is a veteran from the Iraq war in line with me. “Three
years ago I could not have stood in a line like this, out in the open,” he
explained, referring to the residual memories so many veterans experience, the
trauma. “But now I’m fine.” He pointed out a scarred, burned arm with a
US Army tattoo. When we miss our 1 PM
ferry, he leaves, wondering why no one has given us any information. But he seems fine with it all. Word through the crowd is that there is a
4:30 ferry and we will have to wait for tickets to go on sale.
Ferries are all full.
It’s the most busy weekend of the year, a full super moon in Vieques
this weekend so everyone is traveling there. I’m always the last to know?
I talk with the ticket guy who seems oblivious, and
certainly can’t sell me tickets for the 2:30 cargo ferry. Caroline and the girls go get lunch, while I
wait, starting to take notes for this blog.
“Everyone is feeling good,” I scribbled on my pad. “Waiting for the 4 PM ferry. You can’t control travel, right?”
Peter and I text back and forth. I talk with my brother who is off to Italy to
hang with our mom, now teaching in Venice.
And Caroline texts me. “I have a
beer and a Cuban sandwich for you.” By 2:15
the man selling tickets takes pity on those of us in line, selling us tickets
for the next ferry.
I join the girls for lunch, enjoying where the trip was
taking me. If the ferry had left on
time I never would have enjoyed this
lovely sandwich and beer into this bar seemingly lost in time.
The girls go back to the ferry. I walk through the streets of Fajardo, looking
at the trees, the piers, the fisherman and the Caribbean streets, men in bars,
hanging out…
No one is swimming in the brownish water so I don’t.
Finally, around five we make the cargo ferry. Apparently, the commuter ferries have broken
down.
It takes another hour before the boat takes off, with water
splashing us as we look at the boat ebb up, lunch down, crushing into the sea
only to rise again.
Arriving in Vieques, the streets of Isabelle’s its busiest
hub, they feel like the South Bronx, bustling with energy. Sunset making way for a rising full
moon.
We drive to isolated the ego lodge where we stay, enjoying a
drive through single lane streets up and down through the hills, into the
woods, crickets chirping. The one way
streets take us up so we can’t see who is coming. And we honk, hoping someone in the distance
will hear us, just as we have done driving through pre automotive streets
Greece and Southern Italy.
Arriving we all swim in the pool, enjoying the pulsing
stars, cleansing ourselves from our long journey.
Scenes from the lodge. Pepe the Lizzard was a constant visitor. |
Over the next few days, we hit the pool in the mornings, enjoying café bustelo. We drive through the island, admiring the wild horses, drivers are obliged to make way for.
We all go to sea glass beach… our favorite beach…
And later meander out to our favorite fisherman’s bar, an
international pub by the ferry. An iguana eats flowers in the distance next
door, below a sign declaring “Vieques is not for Sale!”
My traveling companion is nine years old….Paul Simon’s words
from Graceland reverberate through my mind, looking at my ten year old
traveling companion, who I asked to look out for the horses and dogs, which
habit the streets.
Reorienting ourselves to the Island, we get lost few times,
figuring where to go from the house.
Wick up supplies at Morales Supermercato and stroll through Isabelle to
the sea market, Pescaderia Angelyz.
Saturday they only have grouper. Which we’ll make later that night, wrapping them in leaves from banana trees, so they do not burn on the grill, where we cook potatoes, drink wing, late night looking at the super full moon. .. a symphony of sounds…
Saturday they only have grouper. Which we’ll make later that night, wrapping them in leaves from banana trees, so they do not burn on the grill, where we cook potatoes, drink wing, late night looking at the super full moon. .. a symphony of sounds…
The next morning, we jouney to a new farm, enjoying a view
of a field where horses wonder. And get
a burrito at Sol Food. “La Lucca
Continua” declares graffiti, commemorating the ten year anniversary of the end
of the US bombing here. “David Sanes April 19, 1999"
“Who is David?” I ask, referring to the graffiti.
It rains every day. But only for a few minutes with each
shower, after which the sun usually follows.
And when it does rain, it is usually warm, as I learned years ago here,
watching the surfers undeterred at the beach.
Scarlett and I enjoyed romping through the beach at Plata Paya, despite
the beach storm. With cascades of water
pouring down, Scarlet swimming away into
the ocean… we co create stories of where we are going, where we have been,
finding each other, losing each other, Simon says… romping through the water…
telling stories… lies… etc… The open water opens our minds, soothing us in ways
we can dream of places we’ve been in other lives, older worlds.
When we are not out and it rains, we just sit on the
hammocks looking out into the woods, reading,
and daydreaming. This is what the trip is for. We can do this at home, we all promise
ourselves, hoping we will.
A few nights, we eat, rice and beans.
Monday, Pescaderia Angelyz has five pound lobsters, we cook,
sitting enjoying our nook in the woods.
With travel, we never quite leave our lives, just giving us
time to think and be in time with what
these lives are. Some nights I dream,
wondering about friends, house makes, the house in Brooklyn, contested spaces
and ideas in our lives, in Times UP! among our comrades.
Tuesday, Scarlett loses a tooth leaving a note for the tooth
fairy.
Raining, we read Huck Finn, enjoying being alive… on our
journey down our own river.
In the day, on Tuesday, we take a horse ride, on wild
Caribbean horses.
“You can ride Sorro.
He likes to lead most of the tours.
Just do not try to pull him too much or he’ll buck you,” our guides
explain.
I have not ridden for over 15 years. And that we on our family farm, not on
streets, winding hills and beaches.
Sorro takes off, taking a faster and faster pace. “Suave Sorro!” I plead, forgetting to post,
my back feels every step. So I ride,
knowing it will be more dangerous to try to stop this guy. He takes me to the beach, into the waters,
jumping rocks. We all enjoy the ride.
We visit the mosquito pier for snorkeling, looking out at
the life below the see and tree meandering out of the ground, their roots
holding the most precarious of leaning beauties.
Later in the day, I notice a copy of Rebecca’s Solnit’s The art of getting lost in the library,
book exchange. Looking at the first page, I feel like I did not need a copy. I
am quite adept at the practice.
Last night, we go Belly buttons for paella night, reflecting
on childhood vacations, where we went to the farm, fought, hung with the cows,
got stuck in the mud and rarely went to the beach… the kids may appreciate it
when they are older… but for now, its been a great time… full of daily
travails, stories and enjoyments.
A storm is brewing for our last day, so Caroline arranges a puddle
jumper out. Four of us are the only ones
flying, this lovely little plane, which gets us from Vieques to the big island
in less than ten minutes.
The captain invites the girls into the cockpit for a pic.
Arriving in old San Juan, we stopped for a great café latte
and fresh croissants with guava butter in an art deco café.
Finishing the coffee, we started through the cobble stone
streets in the direction of the children’s museum, where we usually end up for
lunch. The houses along the way remind
me of New Orleans. But instead of walking straight, we walk around this former
Spanish town and its fort from 1521, the streets lined with trees. I notice a sign on a wall for” John Melendes,
artista.” A door is slightly ajar, it is
not a school, but a private residence.
Looking inside, I notice a painting.
Walking away, where a young man invites us into the studio, where artist
John Melendez, an elderly
gentleman, is sitting below a painting by Miguel Luciano.
“Come on in and look around,” explains Melendez.
“This is his studio…” his friend explains.
“What is going on in this painting?” I ask gesturing to the
painting by Miguel Luciano. A pop
culture bunny seems to be popping out of a hat with the Puerto Rican flag
below. Other, more indigenous bunnies
seem to be hopping around it.
“We are caught up between worlds,” he explains. “The world
of pop and our world clashing.”
Certainly, one feels this in this town, long ruled by the Spanish, until
the US took over its own form of colonial rule after the Spanish American War
in 1898.
Melendez showed us his paintings of saints, offering his
over imprint on motifs of devotional art, honed, and reinvented by generation
after generation of artists. Today, it
feels like outsider art, while long ago, this work felt like the center. This is the art my mother teaches in
Venice. But I detest the dichotomy
between insider and outsider. Art is
art. Scarlett said she wanted a picture of St Jorge and conquering the
dragon. Caroline admired the painting of
St Germain, with his golden halo.
Melendez told us he loved visitors. I asked if I could take his picture. And he obliged, noting only if Scarlett posed
with him. He noted the children often
come visit, seeming to enjoy his work.
Thanking the artist and feeling very charmed we left, taking
a stroll up to the old fort. A old wall
is built around a tree branch protruding through, as the city overlaps and co
mingles with the natural world.
“These are what the streets of Spain look like,” explains
Caroline, who has long been trying to disabuse me of the idea of touring
Spain. While I have spent years in and
out of Italy, France, Germany up and around Mexico, and Puerto Rico, I have not
made it into Spanish, where my little brother walks the Camino every year. A stroll in the morning, followed by lunch,
Sangria, siesta, and more walking – that sounds like a vacation to me.
But for now, old San Juan where the Spanish left their
imprint – it will have to do. I love
seeing the descendants – and their mix of Taino people, former slaves, and
Europeans.
Its all my favorite colors in one street, I note pointing an
alley of pink, green, blue and red.
Looking at the wall along the fort, we stare into the
water. You can see a house with potted
plants, a pub, a crumbling building, and the sea in the distance.
Over the next hour, we wondered through a labyrinth of trees, vines, crumbling
buildings, into Casa Blanca, a castle on the edge of the city, below the fort
overlooking the water’s edge, lined with towering rubber trees from a time
outside of time, into silence, where nothing seems to have changed for ages,
the echoes of whatever happened still seem to reverberate…. Dark corners,
alleys leading to nowhere, wondering what became of people below who may have Comino
de Santiago conflict with the general in his labyrinth…
Making our way through another tree lined street towering
with vines we stopped
an old Spanish restaurant, a cavernous space in a five
hundred year old building where we drink sangria and enjoy a moment in time,
looking forward to where our next trips will take us over the next decade, from
Ireland to Africa, the girls hope. I
hope we can make to Spain and Caroline wants us to go to Sicily – if we go
anywhere at all.
Flying out, I read Rebel Cities: From the right to the city
to the urban revolution. Its hard to
disagree with much here. Yet, we know we
are lost in flight and fight, between
storms. Not sure, we can make it to
LaGuardia, we stop in Ft Lauderdale, wandering through the airports… sleeping
at Caroline’s brother in Ft Lauderdale… an 11 Pm swim, early flight out, and a 7:30
Am flight, 26 hours between leaving Vieques and driving out to the puddle
jumper, we make out way out of a flight in LaGuardia.
My ears pop as we descend into New York, on time for hanging
out, blogging and the evening’s drag march. But for now, I'm glad I got to swim
and meander for the last week. I am also glad to be making my way back to New York for more adventures in our ever changing city.
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