Here’s a new address for you to follow our touristic activities in Havana next week:
http://www.mmhavana.blogspot.com/
Dinner with friends at Susan and Bill’s home on Sunset Island, Miami Beach tonight was a happy-go-lucky affair. This was the last party for this decade, (and there was some argument around the table whether the new decade starts today or in 2011), but it is definitely the last party on this trip to Miami. Should I sound relieved?
Susan hasn’t changed one bit since we first met and worked together in New York in 1975. In fact, I took my mother Connie for afternoon tea on the front porch of her brownstone in Grammercy Park when she visited me from Brisbane all those years ago, and she was most disappointed that the ‘lovely Susan’ was already married. I’ll let the slideshow tell the stories of the other guests.
HAPPY NEW YEAR! (and best wishes for the start of the new decade, if you’re one of those who believe it is this year).
Edmundo hosted a wonderful dinner party last night to celebrate the arrival of Victor and Dr Patrick from Australia. Champagne flowed; hands were read (Victor was so “closed”, Todd had to read his eyes instead!); and José gave a rousing rendition of Handel”s “Creation March” for the guests – a little recital likes days of old – before repairing to the dining room for Regina”s delicious repast.
Edmundo”s surprise helicopter tour of the Beaches and Bays had to be abandoned at the last minute but the guests enjoyed the cruise past the homes and boats of the rich and famous on the islands just as much.
After three weeks of repeating after Edmundo”s Cuban trainer, Osmany, as I lift a weight or count the repititions of exercise routines, I still have difficulty in counting to ten in Spanish unaided. My “right brain” must be atrophied or something like that. I”ve now resorted to the children”s dictionary to give it one last attempt before the final training session prior to departure for Havana on Sunday.
uno (oo-no), dos (dose), tres (trace), cuatro (kwat-ro) . . .
Osmany”s stretching routines seem to work every muscle in my body and it leaves me with an amazing sense of “walking taller” after every workout. I know what”s on my agenda for 2010 back in Sydney, Lee.
Crab claws and Gulf shrimp with Peggy”s homemade mustard sauce with a whole 2oz can of Colman”s dry mustard! What a way to start the evening repast!
After a traditional exchange of gifts around Peggy”s Christmas tree, we sat down to a splendid home-cooked repast – starting with seafood in the Italian style. Unusual to me were the accompaniments for the roasted milk-fed veal – whipped sweet potato with banana; wild rice with pecans and dried cherries; and a five mushroom ragu.
Susan”s traditional home-made nut cake with frosting topped off the happy evening.
The wines were absolutely delicious and even after the many glasses of Billecart Salmon Brut Rosé Champagne during the exchange of gifts around the Christmas tree, I woke with a clear head.
And now to party!
Click here for the secret recipe that I finagled out of Edmundo”s caterer: http://stories.michaelmus.com/SANGRIARECIPE.doc
Like the kids at the Cuban Christmas Eve party last night when Santa Claus arrived with a sack of presents, I was taken by surprise this morning not exactly to find a gift under the tree in Edmundo”s living room, but to see what he had arranged through a little Artisan Shop in Mexico City. What a surprise to find photos from Our Remote Africa trip last year printed and captioned by hand in a leather bound Album.
I then raided the “frig and had some left-over cold roast pork (with prune stuffing) on a slice of toast with my breakfast cup of tea.
Happy Christmas!
Hosts Fausto and Alina entertained their extended “Cuban” family in the garden under five huge old oak trees on Christmas Eve.
The centre of the festivities was the “Lechon Cubano”, a 60 lb pig that had been marinating in sour orange, garlic and cumin since the night before, and then cooking in the “caja china”, a US invention to replicate the earth oven of old in Cuba. All the guest arrived in time to see the cooked pig being turned and the burning coals placed back on top for an hour to crisp the skin. The crackling was the best part of course!
While it”s Christmas Eve here in Florida and I”m enjoying the festivities amongst a very close-knit but extended Cuban family, for many of my own family it is already lunch time on Christmas Day in Australia.
My sister Anne is at my newly engaged nephew Danny”s on the Gold Coast of Queensland with all her family; and my brother Mark is at his daughter Lucy”s new home in Brisbane with his four children and their families (including son Tim who is visiting from Japan with his wife and new son).
My thoughts at this time are also with my older brother Tony, who hasn”t been well. He has his son Jonathan visiting with his wife, Birgitte from Copenhagen, while his youngest and seventh child, Jacqueline is on Long Island, New York in the snow with her Indian fiancee, Satye. Jeremy, one of Tony”s other sons is in Khartoum in the Sudan with his Sudanese/Jamaican partner, May.
Whereas the Cuban families here tonight seem to stay very close to home, mine is becoming very far-flung, and I pause to wonder what my late parents Connie and Les would make of it all!
The following group picture is taken at the Christmas lunch festivities with brother Mark and Jenny Musgrave”s families, in Brisbane, Australia.
The Christmas lunch that Edmundo hosted for relatives of three generations was a very happy family affair but was also tinged with a touch of sadness for times past and still more relatives passing away. It has been fifty years since Edmundo left Cuba as a 13 year-old but memories ring so loud. I am only now coming to grips with the suffering they’ve all experienced, and learned so much during the afternoon.
The family attended an Anniversary Mass for their Aunt Rosa before the lunch. Her daughter Rose (Tita) who is now wheelchair bound was at the Mass. Tita is the mother of Edmundo’s cousins, Fausto and Sylvia by two husbands. Both pilots for the CIA and both shot down over the Congo. The brother of Tita, Bernard Barker, one of the ‘Group of 5’ (also CIA) led the Watergate break-in to the Democratic Party HQ. A very liberal Democrat, McGovern was running against Nixon and Cuban allegiances were with the Republican party.
In the midst of all this, 87 year-old Nena told me that she flew to the US from Venezuela on the actual day of the ‘Bay of Pigs’ invasion – she couldn’t fly over Cuban airspace and had to detour to reach Miami. How much untold history is in the room! I needed a ‘refresher’ on the ‘Bay of Pigs’.
The ‘Bay of Pigs’ invasion was carried out by nearly 3,000 crème de la crème of Cuban exile young men, who had undergone training in Central America with the help of the US military and CIA. The mission failed. Kennedy got cold feet and withdrew air and naval support that was promised. Castro captured the invaders and executed many. He jailed others and took about 1,500 prisoners (including Sergio with whom we had dinner last Sunday evening).
The following year, at the request of the Kennedys, who felt guilty for the fiasco, the Archbishop of Boston led negotiations with Castro and raised money to meet his demands to buy farm machinery in return for the captured boys – tractors for boys!
The reasons are manifold. JFK was receiving contradictory advice from his Cabinet and advisers. He feared the possible reaction from the Russians, and also did not want to be responsible for triggering a war. It is believed that he had given permission for the CIA to conduct a covert operation to “take out” Fidel Castro, and prevent the Soviets from establishing a serious sphere of influence or military base so close to America.
JFK and Jackie came to a huge rally of Cuban Americans at the Orange Bowl in Florida to regain the confidence of Cuban exiles, and with resounding rhetoric he asked for a Cuban flag, promising “I want to return this flag to you in a free Cuba”. All the time knowing that he had negotiated with Nikita Khrushchev to dismantle Russian missile bases from Cuban soil, in return for the US promise never to invade, or facilitate an invasion of Cuba.
This is the reason why Cubans to this day, with some exceptions like Edmundo’s cousin Fausto, do not trust the Democrats.
As Edmundo adds sadly, “All the thousands of people who have lost their lives in Cuba under Castro, and the hundreds of thousands of lives of families disrupted . . . . . “ the trauma of these Cuban families here in Florida is truly starting to dawn on me.
On the morning of the third Christmas party planned for the outdoors, Edmundo wakes to threatening skies and wild winds across the terrace. He really is starting to wonder who’s behind the disruption of all his careful planning.
But as we sit down to lunch I hear his sisters, Tere and Elizabeth and so many other relatives rejoicing in how wonderful the weather is – so cool for a change for Miami!
The menu today is very Cuban but I’m surprised to see that the youngest generation don’t really appreciate what great uncle Edmundo has turned on for them. My favourite treat is the empanadas maybe it’s my Aussie ‘meat pie’ heritage.
I thought there’d be extras, and some roast pork loin and prunes to savour over the Christmas holiday when Regina was enjoying days off, but, alas, Edmundo gave all the food left-overs away! On learning this, I had no compunction in asking him to phone back to the house and ask Regina to retrieve a slice of pork and put it in the refrigerator for me.
The smell of beeswax and incense wafting out to the front steps of St Jude”s is somehow welcoming. And I have a sense of anticipation for the “unknown” in a Maronite Mass that I find quite exciting. I”m not to be disappointed.
The old Egyptian priest enters the sanctuary in pale blue vestments and a high bejewelled crown. The cantor in gold vestments chants prayers of praise as he encircles icons of the Blessed Virgin and other saints swinging a thurible jangling with bells and belching sweet perfumed incense. A single voice chants in very Arabic fashion with but a subtle hint of organ accompaniment.
Throughout the Mass, we were blessed many times by the priest in Arabic and English, and I was drawn to the small hand cross that he always used, similar to the ones we saw in Lalibela in Ethiopia last year.
The Gospel this Sunday in the Church of Rome tells of the Visitation. Here in the Orthodox tradition, it was the reading of so many unpronounceable names of the Ancestors of Christ through the generations from Adam to Abraham, to King David and down to Joseph and Jesus, which I”ve never heard read before. In the Orthodox tradition (and I presume the Maronite), the Old Testament doesn’t function as a history book. It is believed to be a book that exists to point to Christ, to give understanding about who Christ was and what he achieved through his life-giving death.
The music had a very distinct Middle Eastern touch. The Sanctus was sung in very Arabic style, a cross between a chant and a wail but hauntingly beautiful – nothing like the exuberance of the Roman Song of Praise.
I was witness to and moved firstly by the devotion of the congregation, young and old. The overt symbolism of candles, incense, processions, frequent bowing and blessings from ornately vestmented priests and servers lends some credence to Edmundo”s argument for the Roman Church to re-incorporate more symbolism in order to add more reverence to the Mass.
I”m more used to Father Steve at St Canice”s and our “gathering” as one family to “share at the table”. This is the second time in recent months that I”ve had to ponder the question. In East Timor, Father Bong paid much attention to symbolic practices to help the local people in the mountain parishes outside Dili undertand “reverence” better.
I wonder who is right?
Last night I went out with the “first Hispanic President of the United States”.
Edmundo”s 11 year-old grand-nephew Erik (in blue shirt) has already decided that he will go to Harvard or Stanford to study Politics and that he will be the first Hispanic President. Can you imagine spending an evening with such a child and his equally interesting 12 year-old brother, Kristian at a performance of Handel”s Messiah at the new Arts Centre in Miami?
The questions came like volleys of bullets from an AK47 and Uncle Michael was left to answer all of them while Edmundo sat in the second row of our box and chatted to others. What lovely bright kids!
But I don”t joke when I say I was exhausted after the performance. We stopped by the Patrons Room to introduce the boys to the equally talented but exhausting, and slightly older 32 year-old Musical Director of Seraphic Fire, Patrick Quigley. Finally dinner (and more questions!) Both boys fell asleep on the hour-long drive home to South Miami.
Enough children for this weekend and I have suggested to Edmundo that we skip the painful and discordant children”s mass at St Agnes here in Key Biscayne and go to a Maronite Mass with better music at St Jude”s in downtown Miami.
I would like to share nephew Kristian”s written thoughts on the “Seraphic Fire” experience. (Click on red link above to read.)
Earlier in the week Edmundo and I went to a special Christmas performance of “Seraphic Fire” in a gallery of the Frost Museum at the Forida International University. I am attempting to include a music track from that performance here. The only way I can see as a possibility to do so at this time is through Windows MovieMaker.
BUT – I haven”t learned to “edit” it. Open this link and move the cursor to 5mins 20 secs to hear a wonderful rendition of “Adeste Fideles”
BUT BUT – I can”t even upload it!!!
We did have a late breakfast together, after Edmundo got over the shock of Regina not being here, and reprimanding himself for having listened to my suggestion that the older lady could also do with a day off to recuperate from long days of party preparation.
“We have no food, we have to eat out” was the plaintive cry as I opened the frig door to see leftovers including half a turkey and, lobster medallions; and cut melon that Regina had left for us.
Some people genuinely don”t know how to boil water. I”m staying with one who chooses never to learn. You should see both of us going through ten drawers to find the sugar, and then ten drawers to find the tea . . . and . . and . . . Even getting the stove to work to boil the water was a challenge. Edmundo is certainly not master of the kitchen.
Jose, a friend of Edmundo invited me to attend a Meditation session at the famous Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables. The lady guiding the Meditation was so good with her comforting chants and mantras, I passed right out and Jose had to make noises to wake me up. How relaxing was that!
I felt more than a little guilty in these grand surroundings walking into the Golf Club and ordering only a hamburger and an Australian Coopers Ale. Time doesn”t seem to move very quickly in these surroundings. Immaculately got-up young caddies return to the club house carrying the golf bag while the older golfers in timelessly conservative “American” gear look like they”ve just stepped out of a silent movie.
The Biltmore is the heart of Coral Gables and was built in 1926 at the same time as the imposing Hotel Nacional de Cuba located on the Malecón in Havana, which we will be visiting next month.
Al Capone had a suite in the Biltmore that he turned into a gambling parlour. It was used as a Veterans” rehabilitation centre during the Second World War and refurbished to its “Grand Dame” status by the City of Coral Gables in the Eighties. It is also the venue for most meetings of US Presidents and their South American counter-parts. And here am I eating a hamburger!
I am a control freak. I create my own anxiety. How many people have told me that everything I do in life does not require a successful ‘outcome’ for me to be happpy? And so I’ve taken to Meditation. I haven’t had much success getting through to Edmundo that something similar might help him be happier without the 110% perfection that he requires of himself, and I continue to nag.
He may not have felt such a failure at not being able to control the weather that washed away his grand plans of entertaining guests outdoors on two nights this week if he had listened to me! (I know all of course.)
However, with rain pelting down, (and swearing as he removed the buried crossed silver knives that were meant to keep the rain away), with agility Edmundo switched from Plan A to Plan B, to Plan C, and finally to Plan D. He orchestrated the whole thing to be moved inside – with the guests still thinking how spectacularly presented everything was! And we all had a wonderful time.
Such a beehive of activity with Edmundo orchestrating preparations for two Christmas parties to be held outdoors over two consecutive nights. Setting of tables; placing glass columns for floating candles; clipping topiaries and sinking bamboo stakes in the garden under trees to hold the Christmas wreaths. At this point, Todd, the decorations man holds up two shining silver knives that he’d found buried in the garden soil . . . . . .
Ah ha! Edmundo had listened to a Venezuelan friend Antonio, who at lunch yesterday told him of the Venezuelan custom to bury two crossed knives in the ground to fend off any chance of rain. And he buried silver ones! And, as we were to find out, he perhaps would have been better off had he said a rosary, the practice of which he is more familiar. Come evening, the rain pelted down and so much of a day’s work of so many people was fruitless.
Not only the terrace, but the whole home looked terrific.
In the middle of this mêlée, I was banished to meet a friend for lunch at the Mandarin Hotel. What a setting, and how wonderful the new high-rises of Miami looked through sheets of rain pelting down. Poor Edmundo, unbeknowns to me, he had re-buried the crossed silver knives in the belief that there would be no rain for the evening party.
I get the sense that I will be experiencing things ‘Cuban’ to a larger extent during my stay, and not just on our trip to Havana after New Years. I’m very happy about that.
We started on our first night in town with a meal at a rustic seafood restaurant on the river, Garcia’s, owned by Cuban fishermen – now wealthy men! The crab claws that I always associate with Miami were delicious. I was also introduced to a hot ‘media noche’ Cuban sandwich of ham, roast pork, cheese, pickle and mustard on sweet bread at Sergio’s. This Cuban American restaurant started as a place for truck drivers but works now with a different immigration group of people mainly from Central America.
Of course, my trip here would not be complete without a visit to the famous Versailles Restaurant in Little Havana, the venue for all Presidents at some stage of the campaign trail – traditional chicken and rice with fried bananas and black beans was the fare of the day. And then there was Joey’s in the most dangerous part of Miami where we got lost and I insisted we lock the doors of the car . . . . Apparently, Edmundo does not frequent five star restaurants, or perhaps he is showing me ‘life in the city’.
I joined him this morning for my first training session with his Cuban émigré trainer, Osmani, down in the gym of the building. This guy tried twice to row to the US from Cuba and was caught and beaten, before eventually ending up in the US via Venzuela about three years ago. When we go to Cuba, his best friend there will be our guide. How much easier it is to train when the trainer hands you the weights and takes them away at the end of each routine. I think Lee used to do this when B Firm was in its infancy and I didn’t appreciate it.
I think I might be in strife with Edmundo for upsetting the ‘hierarchy’ of the household! This morning, Anna the trusty Guatemalan maid of 20 years brought some Cuban croqueta de jamon and invited me to share with her and Regina with a cup of café con leche in the kitchen. These warmed ham croquettes in crusty Cuban bread were so delicious. Edmundo is concerned that my engaging the women in conversation is stopping them from doing their housekeeping duties!
On Christmas Eve we are going to Edmundo’s cousin’s house here for a typical Cuban Christmas dinner celebration. The cousin has written several cook books and she is doing one on Cuban ‘cuisine’ of old. They’ll be cooking a pig in the ground with all the trimmings.
So many friends stayed with me in Hong Kong in the Eighties and got to know and love my Filipina maid Norma.
So, I feel a little more than déjà vu settling into Edmundo”s home here in Miami for three weeks with memories of Norma rushing back. Regina, Edmundo’s Brazilian housekeeper dances attendance on Edmundo but also loves to look after the very affable Michael from Australia.
“Being busy” here is not part of any plan. Our day seems to include many “naps” but Edmundo likes me to pull up the bed when I get out of it because “only whores and sailors get into unmade beds”.
I’m settling (somewhat guiltily) into other of Edmundo’s routines like breakfast on the table at 8, come rain or shine. But then going back to bed for an hour (as he”s done since childhood). Clothes disappear magically in the morning and hang immaculately ironed by afternoon. I caused a major kerfuffle when I wanted the bed spreads and extra pillows put away for the duration of my stay but Regina cried “no composé” or some such in Spanish, meaning that we can”t mess up the prescribed daytime “finished look”.
I think I know who is boss but Edmundo would have you think he is the “captain of his ship”.
After seeing Edmundo”s Christmas tree decorated with 2,200 lights, I start to wonder if the simple Australian gumnut Christmas wreath that I carried and declared to US Quarantine will ever get a showing. I”ve asked Todd, a friend of his, to see if perhaps he can shoosh-up the wreath with some lights and ribbon.
Arriving in Los Angeles
No queue for Immigration at LAX!
Bags on carousel immediately.
Into a taxi within thirty minutes of touch down.
Wow! This is not the America I remember.
A welcome spot of ‘déjà vu’
Hopping into the back seat of a cab already waiting at the kerbside, old memories of coming in and out of the U.S. for 19 years, stir.
Cocooned in the back seat and separated from the driver by a dividing wall, I settle back, remember and reminisce as the ‘easy listening’ tunes from my era here are played by a smooth announcer with that homogenised kind of silky voice.
Sleepily, with winter sun streaming over me, I read the billboards interspersed with tall palms and straggly eucalypts lining the freeway; I read signs to destinations I know of so well like Santa Monica and Venice Beach but have never visited; I enjoy the cut and thrust of negotiating speeding traffic, escaping on flyovers like tangled spaghetti into the low-rise suburban sprawl. Closer to Beverly Hills there is that wonderful focus on landscaping – along the streets, outside office blocks and in front gardens. I need to spend more time here on my next visit.
Arriving at the Sofitel Hotel on Beverly Boulevard, not only are the doormen and valet parking attendants in black, but so is the lobby – in black marble and glass – dimly-lit with slippery, polished floors and walls all reflecting thousands of twinkling white fairy lights that throw no light, but are still dazzling and blinding. Where are the seeing-eye dogs for the likes of people my age?
A new, changed America
I enjoy a meal with an old friend, Mike Abraham, at the new Pali House in Hollywood – predictably in this part of the world, our waiter turns out to be an aspiring young actor, but Paul is an aspiring Australian actor, originally from Wagga Wagga. After a friendly chat, he unwittingly became a momentary face of the global financial crisis and how it has impacted so many Americans. He was tired – said he has been working hard and was looking forward to flying back home to mum in Canberra for Christmas.
Mike tells me so many Americans he comes across in business circles and socially these days are feeling tired, and bruised, after a very, very difficult year. Perhaps the lack of customers tonight in this smart watering hole in the weeks before Christmas could also be due to this malaise?
A changed American Airlines
Next day I experience a malaise that has gone beyond the global financial crisis, and that is American Airlines. (And my host Edmundo says: “we have the Unions and the Democrats to blame!”) The once proud flag carrier from my heyday of frequent business travel in the U.S. is no more than a third world airline today. (And Edmundo says: “the U.S. government does not make things easier for the American airline carriers; they can’t subsidize them and they will not because of philosophical issues, and because the American government is fighting wars at the cost of more than 10 billion dollars per day, so we have had to put the niceties away. Let the rest of the world imitate the Pan Ams of the past; we are on another page!”)
I am using frequent flyer points to fly from LAX to MIA. Even with no passengers in the line at the First Class check-in counter, I am barked at by a surly older male person behind the counter telling me to go back behind the line until I am called – and then he walks away never to return. Welcome to American Airlines! (And Edmundo says: “this serves this Australian right for stepping forward before being called.”) A ‘gracious’ start to the American Airlines experience.
The American Airlines’ Admirals Club at LAX Terminal 4 is a wonderful space overlooking the concourse with the latest flying machines from all corners of the world coming and going – but it has absolutely no soul. Jugs of tinned juice, urns of coffee, a plate of ordinary biscuits and some apples is the First Class offering. Cheap signs point you to a bar for drinks and for cheeseburgers and sandwiches. Classy? But not First Class. And to think that the prestigious Qantas Club joint branding is also emblazoned at the front door!
It is threatening rain and is very dark at 1:00 p.m. with insufficient lighting to read my own newspaper. Come on, somebody! Is anyone in charge? Or does anyone care? Not just someone on the spot to see the lights need to be turned on, but someone in AA to see and rectify an embarrassing product and non-existent customer service ethic. Immigration and Customs officers can welcome me to America and process me efficiently, but AA just makes me wish I were somewhere else.
Whilst the inflight service was not special in any way, we touched down in Miami twenty five minutes ahead of schedule and I didn’t mind waiting for another plane to finish loading bags and leave our assigned gate. But waiting nearly 90 minutes for baggage delivery close to midnight was too much! Four baggage carousels had broken down and were being worked on by a maintenance crew while passengers from following flights backed up, milling and shuffling anxiously. Pity the flight from New York with notably more feisty passengers hadn’t arrived ahead of ours. Why couldn’t the bags have been moved in an alternative way? Again, does anyone in AA care?
To make the indeterminable wait worse, I felt queasy in the stomach and didn’t fancy the thought of hugging a toilet bowl in a public convenience should the simmering urge to throw up come over me. But it did, and on one knee on a surprisingly clean floor, I hugged the surprisingly clean bowl, hurled, and then felt much better. And I walked back outside to the baggage claim area to see lights flashing and the carousel starting to move.
Ahh! There’s my bag. We can go home at last.
(Edmundo suggests I to write to the Chairman . . .
“Sir,
I am an Australian, who worked for an American company for 25 years, and was a resident of your wonderful country for seven years. I continue to travel the world very often and I see the many virtues of my adopted country but what you are doing is a blot on American business and to the image of America in the world. . . . “)