There Are No Twinkies On Grove

I have many friends from many walks of life.  I like that. 

Still, I don’t mind being alone, actually sometimes I embrace it. I could go for days without talking to folks and live happily in my own world. Perhaps, that’s why when some friends come to visit, it triggers spontaneous combustions in my head.

Take last Thursday.  A friend, let’s name him Bill, came to visit. He had been announcing the upcoming visitation for close to three weeks . He was concerned about my recovering leg and wanted to check in on me. 

On Tuesday, Bill texts me to ask whether Wednesday instead of Thursday works for the visit.

 I text him back and tell him it’s ok, but, to come after 1PM.

Bill texts back saying “it’s perfect, I can go to the gym and come to your house for lunch.” This is apparently code for “Make me lunch.”

 On Wednesday, I take care of my Physical Therapy leg needs and afterwards hobble out to pick up some food for Bill for the appointed visit time.  Disabled as I am, I take longer than expected, shopping and making black bean soup, so I text Bill and tell him not to show up until 1:30PM.

Bill  texts back  “can we make it for tomorrow, I got busy with a project and I’m meeting with some people now”

Really?! Am thinking this is not so cool, but, I text back “No worries. Happy you’re working. I won’t be around tomorrow until mid afternoon.”

Bill texts: “cool that can work”.

Thursday comes around.  I go to Physical Therapy, come home and then Bill arrives.

I serve him day-old-black-bean soup.  Bill seems to enjoy it, except he can't help making comments about how long it needs to be reheated in the microwave. He adds 3 more minutes to the 2 minutes I had already selected.  Afterwards he sits down to eat his  microwave-reheated-black-bean soup and we talk. 

We talk about a lot of different things, including the recovery of my leg, however, the emphasis is on Bill’s project.

Bill’s project is what keeps coming up during most of the visit. Bill is on his IPhone C and my MacBook Pro wheeling/dealing with clients and vendors for the event he’s planning.

What can I say? I’m happy Bill is working and doing something he seems to like. But on my time?!

After an hour of visiting and talking on the phone and using my laptop, Bill announces that he’s hungry and needs a snack.  Being the health nut that I am, I have no “snacks” on hand. So, I ask what he’s craving for and he says “Twinkies”.  Off we go onto Grove Street, in search of junk food.

There are no Twinkies on Grove.  We walk on either side of the street, into the Korean’s, the several Pakistani newssie/delis and… no Twinkies.  However, as we approach Columbus Avenue he sees the Dunkin Donuts…Dope!!!   This will satisfy the jones.  A gigantic bucket sized Iced tea and 2 donuts later we’re on our way home.

When we stop at a corner waiting for a light to change I press the button. Bill goes into a rant about how that’s totally uncool. “The light will change, you wait for it, don’t be pressing the button.”  I can’t decide if he’s right or just annoying.

We head back to my apartment,  to what seems like a long night ahead.  A Super-IceTea-Gulper and two donuts provide plenty of energy for Bill to continue on the computer, phone and now the TV.  We’re inching close to “Jeopardy” and he wants to watch.

I’m a Jeopardy neophyte but the first round of “Jeopardy” questions are about the Argentine pampas and I seem to know all the answers. Bill is shaken by my initial Jeopardy supremacy but  bounces back later on with the underdog contestant who finally gets a head start and unexpectedly wins.

I rarely watch TV anymore, especially a game show, so the novelty starts to fade when “Jeopardy” segues easily into “Wheel of Fortune” and a request for more food from Bill.

Sitting on my couch, Bill announces that he’s hungry and inquires if I have any menus laying around. I tell him no, I don’t have menus because I don’t order food in.  Undeterred, he gets on his IPhone and searches for local food.  He finds “More Café”. He orders spicy chicken wings, avocado roll and a spicy tuna roll for me. Expected delivery time: half an hour.

Now, we’re into a comedy, that is a comedy movie that is playing on my TV.  The TV that Bill points out is really the size of a computer screen and I should really own something larger. Then, he makes a comment about my walls being bare. 

The night continues. Sometime around 10:30PM or 11:00PM, I tell Bill that he really must leave, that I’m tired. Bill acknowledges, shrugs, says goodbye, and leaves.

Friday night around 7PM I receive a text from Bill.  He writes “I did better on Jeopardy tonight”. 

Sunday afternoon in Harlem

I don't get around much.

I force myself to navigate city sidewalks with the same old vigorous spring in my step. Endurance is an issue. So are steps.  Up works. Down is real work. A sense of dreadful paranoia has been quelled, but, resides somewhere in my conscious memory, especially where trains of the subterranean kind are involved.  

I have a destination in mind on Sunday afternoon. The MIST center in Harlem.  A Cuban documentary "Detras del Muro", reception and dance piece, "Retazos"  is being sponsored by the Copperbridge Foundation.  Haven't been to Harlem in like forever. Like most of us, I stick to my own neighborhood and don't venture out to do local tourism. However, my friend, Maria, invites me and says, "mi vida, you should come, you'll have a good time."  "Mi vida", loosely translates as "my life" and after listening to those words; I am irrevocably tied to a sense of being Cuban, I am compelled, I must attend, I must go.

Off I go on the PATH train from Jersey City to lower Manhattan.  I switch to a 3 train that runs local from the WTC to Times Square.  It's the milkman run, as they would say in Cuba. After that, it picks up speed, and away we go all the way to 116th Street.  I get offf, walk all the way down the platform and up the steps. It takes just a minute to figure out which way to walk. I find a beautiful black woman with a turban, high heels and dressed to the nines. I ask which way I should walk. She tells me to cross Lenox and walk just past the market. 

The market I come upon first is a fish market. I am so sorry I didn't take pictures.  There in full splendor were whole fish of all kinds resting in beautiful ice beds. Freshness reflected back from their eyes. A separate counter selling cooked fish and lobster made me very hungry. 

Next door from the fishmonger is another market: an outdoor African market. The common wares are cloth, masks, nick nacks. I don't take the time to inspect all. I suspect that there is much more than meets the eye.  I realize this is the case when I turn a corner and find about eight African vendors, kneeling and postured on cardboard, facing Mecca and praying. This is another priceless moment. A picture would have been great, but, the experience was much better.

Finally, there is the MIST center. It is impressive. A spacious lobby, bar and lounge area greet the visitor. Upon first impression, MIST feels serene, the fast pace of the city displaced by its walls.  Inside, my friend greets me and ushers me into the bar.  I order a glass of wine while I wait for the notoriously tardy Cubans to get their act together to begin the show.  A very nice barman overpours my glass. I sit and watch as folks start to stream in for the performance. My friend introduces a very nice couple.  Miriam, the woman, coincidentally had knee surgery and we share scars and trade accident stories.

As folks start to head towards the auditorium, I take my wine glass and slowly make my way to a seat, straying all the time from the herds of humanity.  Almost towards the beginning of the performance, an acquaintance, takes a seat right in the row behind me. This proves strategically beneficial when it comes time to go down the steps to the reception.

"Detras del Muro" proves to be an interesting piece about an artful event in the Havana Biennale. Next to the Havana Malecon, the notorious Muro in the title, anywhere between 10 to 15 works were displayed.  These pieces reflected the Cubans' obsession with their lives today and how the Malecon affected their daily lives. Unlike some very dramatic pieces coming out of Cuba these days, this documentary had at its core a sense of hope and lightness. A brief Q&A followed the documentary, since everyone was thirsty and hungry for wine, empanadas, tamales and mingling.

I didn't meet the stars of the documentary. Instead, I met up with old acquaintances and friends and heard some very funny and bawdy stories about Cuba.  Right around this time, I decided to slip out unnoticed.  I walked towards the train. As I was about to get on the train, I heard my name in Spanish out loud. There was no doubt, someone was calling my name. A coworker whom I had not seen in ages. Serendipitous. 

A beautiful night in Harlem.  My phone was out of batteries. I was ready to go home and sleep.

Dem bones

I can't believe it's been almost over a month since I last published!

I have no excuses since I know bloggers just blog. Haven't been traveling. Haven't been working. Have been disabled and recovering from getting hit by a car back in March. Thought it would have been all fixed by now, but, that's not the way it works with bones. It takes a while for them to get fixed and healed. Then it takes even longer to get them to work the way they used to work before.

This is all new to me. I used to be a snob. An ignorant snob, really. I had no idea of pain. I couldn't fathom, less comprehend what my life would be like after such trauma. I had fantasies (even if they were legally drug induced) that I would get up from my bed and walk and be back to my old active self.

I would like to think that I have learned compassion and if not that (I'm not Mother Theresa by any means) at least an understanding of the healing process.

Here I am:

I understand that a day with high humidity or falling barometric pressure will cause my left distal femur injury to throb.
I understand that the word patient is related to patience.
I understand that a doctor is someone who just prescribes.
I understand that you always should have a 2nd opinion.
I understand that I need to be in charge of my body. I'm the only one who feels my pain.
I know that a good physical therapist will keep you from having to go under the knife a 2nd time.

I know that I'm very fortunate:
My sister Lourdes and cousin Liz's feral support are awesome.
My friends: Marta, Pepper, Volney, Rosa, Yvette, Rebecca, Marga, Denise, Mercedes,  Jesus, Judy, Bea and Petra are there for me. * Even if all Petra wants to do is look @her reflection in my glass windows'.
(Petra is a dog and this was a new experience for her.)
My yoga friends: Melissa (her new hubby, Jorge) Julie and John are gently goading me towards healing.
I get to blog about this. My brain, bar some dead brain cells from too much anesthesia and painkillers, is still functioning at capacity.
I've also made some new friends whose importance in my life is still to be lastingly felt.

For now...I'm embracing a new aesthetic: it's called asymmetry. If my left leg doesn't quite match up to the same musculature of my right leg it's quite ok. All I want to do is breeze down the steps the way I used to. The way most people do, without thinking about it. I want it to not be important, the way it used to be.

Funny girls

My childhood friend, Sergio, is in town to babysit his mother Irma and his sister's mother-in-law Isabel while his sister takes a much needed vacation.

Irma is 86 and Isabel is also in her 80's, but, we don't get a confirmation from her, just a chuckle.

Irma + Isabel

Irma and Isabel both live with Sergio's sister Nieves, her husband Paco, and their son Frankie, in a comfortable home in New Jersey. Both Irma and Isabel suffer from senility. They're a hoot. Really.

Irma + Isabel

Irma and Isabel inhabit a sprawling, finished basement. Two shifts of caretakers attend to them until 5 or 6 when the family takes over the task of looking over these two funny girls. The funny girls have two yorkie sidekicks, Motica and Noey who bark because they're very small.

Motica

Noey

Both Irma and Isabel have a special predilection for cleaning up and putting things away in the most unlikely places. Here is where they differ: Irma LOVES mangoes. She will hide these from Isabel so only Irma can get at them when she remembers.  Isabel prefers to gather garbage in her drawers when she's cleaning.  She will only put the garbage back in the garbage when Paco, her son says it's ok to do so. They both love to make and drink Cuban coffee.  They watch Spanish TV, but, mainly just as background noise to their overactive imaginations.

Irma is quiet and subdued while Isabel is loud and assertive. Irma attends to every last button in her dress as well as Isabel's, whose skirt is a little askew.
Irma seems to vaguely remember me. Sergio is her prince, so if he says I'm his old friend, then she likes me too. Isabel asks if I'm married, I tell her I'm divorced, just to get her talking. That sets off a verbal explosion of sorts. During the time I go to the bathroom, Isabel tells Sergio that I'm not to be trusted. This may have something to do with me being a divorcee...maybe she's reacting to my limping? Oy vey.

The funny girls only speak Spanish. As Sergio and I comfortably switch off to English and to talk about our lives, they mainly speak amongst themselves. At times they seem to be watching us, although it's hard to say whether they're actually observing.  When they get bored, they get up and do some dusting or make Cuban coffee again. The funny girls interact in a funny way with each other. When Isabel is speaking about an old man who escaped from his house when she was a little girl in Cuba, Irma makes faces behind her back and signals that Isabel is looney. Isabel is oblivious to this and heartily enjoys recounting her Cuban past.

The funny girls have adapted to their living quarters and they don't like to venture beyond it.  They're also very funny and concerned about their bedtime. They would go to bed at 6PM, but, they're not allowed. They would get up at dawn and disrupt the household's sleeping patterns.

If the brain is a record player and life has a repetitive pattern to it, then my guess is that senility makes kind of its own sense. It's a different sense of reality. For us, so rooted in our reality, it's hard to discern where the funny girls'  cognitive functioning begins or ends. More importantly, I think is whether to engage in this alternate reality with the funny girls. Do you smoke the whole joint with them or do you do like our past president and not inhale? Like everything in life, it's a fine balance.

We call them "chancletas"

There used to be a time when clothing and culture were determined based on how close you were  to the equator.  It was ok to see a topless indigenous person on the cover of National Geographic, but, certainly not an American on the beach in carefree Provincetown.

It's interesting then, that for many years now the reverse has been taking place.  Memorial Day and Labor Day do not hold an exclusive to the use of white wear. No longer are we bound by professional and casual dress. Unless of course, you're working that finance beat.

A case in point, flip flops.  In Cuba, we call them chancletas.
Not sure what they call them in Brazil, however I would venture to say that flip flops may be one of their biggest exports. These humble shoes are made out of rubber. Before being skyrocketed to cult status, flip flops were found in solid colors. Usually accompanied by some sort of house dress and hair rollers, only the poorest of the tropics' poor would be caught out in these. Now, they are fashionable garb at ivy league graduations and hip, professional klatches.

As a newly arrived 9 year old to the States, I lived with my sister, mother and
father next door to my aunt, uncle and 2 younger cousins: (Eddie and Lizzie)  in side-by-side apartments. Lucky for us, during the long winter months we had an extended playground without having to go out in the cold. One day, my aunt's boss stopped by for a casual visit. She was a nice lady named Pat. I guess that Pat was invited over for some Cuban coffee and then she was introduced to the children. All of us girls were well-behaved and polite. And then, it came time to meet my little cousin Eddie. Eddie didn't get out much (he was probably 4 or so).  Eddie looked at Pat, proudly pointed to his furry-little-man flip flops and asked "do you like my new chancletas ?" When the poor lady failed to understand, Eddie did what any American boy his age would have done. He asked again, but, this time he Americanized the term, "do you like my  new chanclets?" and also pointed to his feet.  Mission accomplished.

If you wear chancletas you will probably engage in an activity known as chancletear; or that slip- slap sound that can be heard from miles away as you walk in them. If you do this often enough you can be called a chancletera. The meaning of chancletera goes beyond the noun form. It's vernacular that says that you're a very sassy, crude, street or vulgar person.  Of course, this kind of behavior is totally acceptable  in fashionable circles, making the chancleta synonymous with easy-breezy casual elegance.

And there you have it. No need to over think it. It's the dog days of July. It's hot. It's really hot. What will you wear?

CHANCLETAS!!!!

FULOP'S FIRST DAY

It's official. Jersey City has a new mayor. It happened last night @6PM in front of City Hall.


In preparation for this event, the streets around my neighborhood were closed to traffic as of 9:00AM yesterday morning. I had to walk over 2 blocks to wait for my ride by the main public library on Jersey.
Not complaining, just saying.

Here's a  view of the big party from my rooftop.

NOT YOUR COMPADRE'S TORTILLA

LA TORTILLA

This past Monday night, my very Spanish and very fabulous friend Marta came by to show me some love.  After working all day , she took the PATH train, chez moi. She hunted & gathered ingredients on Grove Street: potatoes, onions, lettuce, bread and chocolate @the Korean grocer & a nice bottle of Chilean Carmenere @the booze shop. Did I mention that she also picked up some beautiful coral tulips and artfully arranged them on my dining table?

For those of you not schooled in authentic Spanish cooking, la tortilla española, a very simple, humble dish is the piéce de resistance of most informal or formal Spanish gatherings and, of course, the tapas table.

Although la tortilla has endless variations, (where you're from in Spain or your Abuela's recipe), typically, it is comprised of potatoes & onions. This classic is what Marta cobbled together.

First, you peel the potatoes.  Then, you are extremely liberal in pouring a good quality olive oil into the pan.  When this is nice & warm (but not sizzling) you cook & barely brown the potatoes.

This is an important detail. Marta obsessed about the potatoes sticking to the pan. This will not do because the eggs will stick later & the structure of the tortilla will be compromised. Then you add the onions. As the onions start to cook, you will probably have had some wine while you munch on almonds.  The smell of the onions wafting is lovely, earthy, yummy...& the spiciness of the Carmenere grape heightens the experience.  The potatoes & onions need to structurally bind & then we're ready for the eggs. In this case, we needed to clean up the pan to get rid of any sticky pieces of potatoes.  (This was my contribution, on one leg) 

 Olé!!! Now the artistry of La mano de Marta comes into play. The eggs have to cook nicely (without burning of course) on one side & then it needs to flip onto a dish in one piece to cook the other side. This is easily done with tiny, skinny omelets, but, this is no ordinary tortilla. Marta deftly does the flip. She loses a corner of the tortilla, but, she is able to later recover it. Bravo!!!

We sit down to eat the omelet & drink the wine. We finish with a crisp salad of Bibb lettuce & vine tomatoes...refreshing.  There is dark chocolate with ginger for dessert. Qué bien!!!!

Well, "we sit down" is a figure of speech. I had been on my wheelchair watching Marta assemble & cook most of the night. Here is a cheesy, iphoto vignetty vantage from my sock clad perspective. On one leg, but, still hanging.

Footbridge progress

This weekend's weather was awesome....sunny, super clear, blue skies and a balmy 50 degrees. The birds were chirping and you could smell spring. I decided to venture into Liberty State Park, even if the footbridge was down.  Here's the first time I've seen the ravaging effects of Sandy on the little footbridge. Prior to this, 2 to 3 police cars guarded  the little bridge's view @the jersey avenue cul-de-sac.

Now, the comforting presence of huge trucks holding cement pilings point towards the rebuilding of the bridge. So, maybe my fantasy of a more solid footbridge might be realized. With spring in the air and hope for a new footbridge, I went the long way into the park.

The  long way is an abandoned road with abandoned structures that sits right under the Turnpike extension and makes room for the Lightrail lines. All this makes for a cool urban playground for skateboarders & those funny little bicycles they love to ride....

I guess all the hipster skateboarders were busy having a hipster Sunday brunch during my LSP tour.
Or maybe they haven't discovered this little piece of Jersey City yet.  

SNOW!

The massive storm that the weather people have been talking about for about a week, finally landed in Jersey City and the New York metropolitan area.  While most people stayed home, nice & toasty under the covers & sipping hot cocoa, I was braving the walk to the PATH to get to work.

Pretty goddamned beautiful to look @from behind windows & doors, but, hard to navigate without an umbrella; today's snow & rain will hopefully be short-lived as we're expecting 50 degrees tomorrow.
One can only hope that the warm weather will be accompanied by some sun, so we can wear our flip flops instead of our rain boots.

Some time back in February, Phil the groundhog said it was going to be an early spring.
On Saturday night, we have to spring the clock ahead by one hour, for now we're dealing with this crazy weather. Will this finally make converts of those folks that don't believe that we're experiencing unusual weather changes?

These are some of my pictures from my walk to the train. I would have taken more, except it was hard to snap & hold an umbrella. You'll notice they're from a low angle, it wasn't a deliberate artistic choice, that's where my eye line is  for the tree outside my house, Montgomery & Grove, and the Jersey City Hall. Some brave soul actually rode a bicycle today. ... Go figure.

I just googled my own blog & am aghast & horrified @the fact that someone else is actually using the same blog name as yours truly  & it's also a blogspot post!!! Don't they monitor these things for god's sake?
Who else wants to be onecrazycuban? Clearly another cuban, who probably wasn't even  born there...

What to do? Please feel free to comment, if you know...

Morning Power Walk

It's been a looooong fall into winter...with rivers surging, skies thundering, and transformers lighting up the sky.  The days short with dark nights made for hibernating and staying in.  Is that why the Oscars were so boring and felt like forever last Sunday night?

But, have you noticed that the sun is coming up earlier in the mornings and the sunsets are stretching past 5PM? Exciting stuff to be springing into spring soon.

I went for a power walk this morning, this is one of the things I saw.  A tug boat exiting the JC marina into the harbor with Liberty State Park on the right. LSP is a haven for nature lovers in the middle of urban Jersey City. It holds the old Central Railroad terminal, this is where the Europeans that were processed @Ellis Island took trains to their final destinations in America. Although closed to the general public, there is a bridge that connects with Ellis Island. Ferry service shuttles passengers from the park to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.  LSP also has the best view of Ms. Liberty's red thong. ;-)...and it's home to Liberty House Restaurant and Maritime Parc... The footbridge that links my neighborhood to the park has been down since Sandy. It was a rickety old thing, but functional. There was a lingering putrid odour from the low lying water which made me think they dumped bodies there.  The wood planks rattled when one rode, ran or walked over it. I fantasized that they would rebuild the footbridge more along the lines of the romantic Bow Bridge in Central Park.  But that may be out of character or perhaps unrealistic with today's economy.  If we get lucky we might have a new footbridge by the spring. Come to think of it, I rather miss that little footbridge now.

On after work cooking & good wine

It's hard to cook after work, especially if you're in advertising, work late & like to get in a workout.

A good solution is to plan, but, this might not be so easy if you like to cook local, fresh & are not near walkable grocers.

I was lucky tonight. Out by 6ish, which meant I could still local shop @my Korean grocer on Grove & pick up an interesting bottle of wine @my local wine shoppe: Jersey Wine & Spirits on Jersey Aveneue. For almost no $$$, I made a lovely vegetarian quinoa with garlic, onions, tomatoes, carrots, italian parsley, and lemon zest and lemons. A nice accent of coriander seed grounded the dish. No pix of this, although I did brown it in the broiler with some panko & looked beatiful. For my eyes only.

I do have a pix of this lovely Fiano wine.  Gosh, what can I say. It starts out so innocent..a little floral maybe...and then it goes into this minerally world and ends up nutty which reminded me of the hazelnuts I always ate during the Xmas season when I was a kid in Cuba. Am I exagerating...I don't think so...try it!