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.