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.
No comments:
Post a Comment