See no Evil, Hear no Evil

I look at myself in the mirror in the morning as I brush my teeth and I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.  I guess I look like any person who’s just woken up but the image does not provoke any rejection from me.  A few minutes later I look at the same reflection with my glasses on and yikes!  “Who is that old lady in the mirror?” I wonder. Ignorance was bliss.  Now I’m looking at myself as I am now.  Earlier I was looking at myself with the image that is imprinted in my brain.  I looked pretty good there for a little while.

“Speak louder…I can’t hear you” I tell my daughter on the phone wondering if we have a bad connection.  That same evening a friend who is watching TV with me tells me to turn the volume a little higher because she can’t hear.  I wonder what her problem is; I can certainly hear my TV, which is a few feet away from us.  Then I realize that it may be that we are both starting to have hearing difficulties, which manifests in the everyday things such as a phone conversation or watching television.  I can hear the commercials because the volume seems to increase for those, but then when it returns to the program and the voices dim a little is when it becomes difficult as if someone is playing tricks with me.

A friend phones and we chatter along only interrupted by lapses in memory, accompanied by profuse giggling.  She’s telling me about a movie she just saw last night. “What WAS her name?”  She ponders about the main character.  “Oh give me a minute and I’ll remember!” She says as she frantically searches for the name on Google during our long distance call. Whatever would the over 60s do without Google! “It’s Michelle Pfeiffer” she triumphantly announces. We carry on and talk about something else until the next memory hurdle comes along.  I can’t remember the name of a book I read a couple of weeks ago.  She can’t remember the name of the little town that she visited in Italy only last month. Sometimes, its words that I can’t seem to retrieve from my mental computer.  My sister reminds me that she has an extraordinary vocabulary and yet can’t seem to recall a specific word that she needs to describe something. She can complete the most difficult crossword puzzles and yet, when we’re chatting, her memory fails her.

And then it hits me.  These are pretty normal signs of aging unless one has an elephant’s memory and will deteriorate in every other function except remembering apparently trivial details of things past or try to be erudite and use a word that we’ve stored in some safe place and can’t find. Happily for most of these things, we have our trusty computers.

And you know what?  It is a good thing.  I don’t need to see every little thing clearly.  Without glasses, my image in the mirror is photo shopped!  Yes, that’s right.  I can see the outline of the curly hair which once was dark and now is totally white and still full and way healthier.  I cannot see any blemish or wrinkle on my face and my lips still look plump and sexy specially when I apply lipstick which I’ve done without a mirror for years.  If I need make up I can always put my glasses on for a little.

In terms of hearing I believe that the loss is to soften words and emotions.  Don’t scream at me,  only I can decide what I want to hear.  And as for remembering every little thing…well, that’s not beneficial to my mental health.  I remember every single joy and I can put to rest the stuff that I don’t need to relive. I remember every detail of my babies’ births.  I remember my husband’s face, his touch, his voice, his wisdom and his love.  Those are the things that age cannot erase.  I can’t wait to get older and totally forget the things that gave me pain and sadness in the past. 

Don’t feel sorry for me.  I am meant to live a more introspective life and this way I can enjoy the things that really matter, that  I am meant to remember. Things that I do like to see, hear and enjoy. So stop shouting!

The Summer of 2014

I had my first child in the Summer of 1974 and since then, the season has always been focused on spending time with my children. We've travelled extensively together and made castles, found crabs and creatures in the water to enjoy with other beach goers before releasing them to the ocean in many places around the world. In 1985 we were transferred to Miami where we lived in an enchanted house in Coconut Grove. It was the most impractical of places but also the most seductive. When we actually bought it and my husband and I were in our hotel room congratulating each other on the amazing choice, I briefly thought that the layout was totally inconvenient and asked myself "does it have a kitchen?," that's how unusual it was and how much I didn't really care about practical things like kitchens. As it turns out, it did have a kitchen and it was a lovely one at that. We lived in that house for only a year before we had to relocate back to New York and then Tokyo. Funny, we had always thought of Miami as a place to visit and had discovered that living there with young children was wonderful.

That summer was a festival of Daddy coming home at 4PM and having barbecues and swimming all afternoon till dark, often with family and friends, often skinny dipping en masse. He had summer hours and was able to do what he liked best which was to spend time with his family. Returning to New York after such a short stay made us all sad and leaving that wondrous house still stings me and I will always consider our time there of upmost importance in our lives as a family. We spent a brief time in New York and again we were off to Tokyo, a place we all loved and where three of my four children were born. Now we would get a chance to live there with our four children (Alex being the only American born in the group)and continue to develop our relationship with our beloved Japan.

We made our pilgrimage to New York and spent part of the summer in Miami, this time living in a house in Pinecrest that we bought initially as an investment and a place to hang out during the time that we spent in the US, but which turned out to become our headquarters here and a place of play and fun for every member of our family. We could not bring ourselves to rent it nor sell it. When my husband became ill, we all came here to spend Christmas and again it gave us solace and warmth. My husband's wish was to be cremated and his ashes strewn in the Bay of Biscayne. When the time came we flew to Miami with some friends who accompanied us and brought him to his resting place. For the purpose, we rented a fishing boat in the Port of Miami and sailed, escorted by a couple of Dolphins all the way to the Gulf Stream where we said our final goodbye. During the days we were in Miami for his memorial at our home and the boat ride to his resting place, we went to Versailles and to the beach in Key Biscayne in his honor. I remember going for a walk and leaving my group behind, still hearing the offers of company which I refused. I needed to be on that beach, walking it as we had, by myself with him on my mind, I walked and walked and then lay down and fell asleep. I was woken by our friend Rudy and his daughter Steph who had come to find me after they noticed that I wasn't coming back. I was sorry to have worried them, but that walk and that brief sleep were good for my soul and I needed to be where I was.

After returning to New York, Miami in general and Coconut Grove in particular still had a strong hold on me. I almost commuted between New York and Miami, since whenever I felt the need, I flew down to spend some time here. Every time I came, I looked for a place in Coconut Grove with my friend and realtor who was kind enough to humor me because he was sure I would never leave my home in New York. I did not feel comfortable living in the Pinecrest house by myself. I needed my own place for my new life on my own. One night, sitting at my computer I googled "houses for sale in Coconut Grove" and up popped a picture of what is now my patio. That was it, I flew down to see it, made an offer and bought it. Some time later, I sold our home in New York and moved here. My cottage is close to my old house which has ceased to enthrall me because I now have my place in the Grove, in the world. It is not big enough to house my children and their families so they stay at the Pinecrest House when they visit and I commute from my house to theirs. They do the same.

These are the photos I saw on the internet




My children married in quick succession and just as quickly, I became the grandmother of seven beautiful beings who with their parents, visit often and certainly in the summer. They come from Singapore, Brooklyn and Ottawa and they stay in our house in Pinecrest which seems to have been designed with them in mind. Lots of space where the little ones can roam and play without fear. Where grownups can gather or be on their own with a good book or chatting with a friend and a cold drink. With a pool that has become the meeting point and where we've hosted countless reunions with friends and family. We go to our old haunts and discover new ones.

This year they came in the winter to celebrate my birthday and again, the first visitor of the summer was from Singapore. My son, his wife and two little daughters came to start off the season. A little later, Brooklyn was in the house and quickly followed by the Canadian contingent. Their time here is a soft breeze of loveliness in the scorching heat. Picnics at the beach, partying in the pool and visits to Grandma's house where they can play with my dogs and cats and paint in my studio.

Here's Steven with Ruby and Lily in the Mexican Market

...and Max playing with his Legos in my dining room table

...and Alex and Max at Graziano's




...and Natalia holding baby Stella at the beach

...and in my house



...and Marisa with Max and Sam at dinner

...and me with Eva and Stella

...the many faces of Noemi and Uncle Adam

Today the last of my visitors left and while I started missing them a few days in anticipation and my life winds down to only my plans, my needs and my regular activities, my heart is fuller, my senses heightened and my gratitude endless and deepened. I've often said that my joy of becoming a grandmother to this growing tribe is mainly watching my children with their children and I get that chance by the strong connection that I've built with each one of them. I love to see their interactions with their children and build their own relationships with each other and their kids like their father and I did when they were young.

Yesterday my twin grand-daughters spent the afternoon in my house playing with my animals, swimming and watching movies. When they mentioned that they were going home tomorrow, I reminded them of how nice it is to return home and play with their toys, see their friends and sleep in their own bed, that like their grandfather used to say is "the sign that you've had a good vacation is being happy to be going home."

Back to mornings in my studio and my solitary visits to Key Biscayne where I sun, swim, read and smile thinking of the wonderful times we've had here and looking forward to more to come.

World Cup 2014 - The Best Seat in the House

Steven and his family in Singapore. Like father like son

I enjoyed the World Cup. Not because it was always pretty. Not because my team always performed as I would have liked nor whether they remained or left the competition. Not because referees always made the correct call or decision. Not because of the endless droning of the commentators who bring with them their need to fill dead air and banter in the middle of a game while one is trying to really focus on what’s going on in the field. In the beginning of a Miami summer, I was invited to feel those feelings that one is not always able to bring up all in one place, all at one time, all in one event. The golden trophy was not on my mind. That came at the end.

I enjoyed the passion and the skill, those human emotions evident in every single player and in the people who train them, prepare them, take care of them and of course, the fans who ultimately watch them represent their country.

The World Cup is all of those things and many more to millions around the planet. As I watched each team, I was reminded of trips I’ve taken to many of their countries and of places I’ve actually lived in. Many times it was hard for me to take sides. When Japan (where I lived for 12 years and 3 of my 4 kids were born) played Colombia a country where I’ve also lived and which welcomed me when I was a bride I was hardly able to look at the screen on my TV. When I marveled at the US team or watched Brasil. When I rooted for Costa Rica, a spunky team to which I have no connection. When I saw the Mexican fans or the Nigerian fans with their painted faces and big smiles filled with hope of glory, when I saw that Brazilian kid crying mournfully for their loss, it was just as if I was there, in Rio, taking it all in.

I was born in Buenos Aires and learned how to kick a soccer ball as soon as I learned how to walk. While I was not yet a fan, my best friend Pepito kept me kicking a ball on the street in front of my house every day. As a kid I also played other popular Argentine sports like Polo and Pato on my bike with a broomstick. The sound of GOOOOOOOOOOOL was as familiar to me as the smell of my father’s parrilla and the siesta that my parents took after the gigantic meal. Kids playing futbol (like it is called in Argentina) were everywhere. You could find them in backyards, in empty lots, on the street and in parks. An Argentine boy is not complete without his ball either at his feet or under his arm going to play outside. Babies are given a foot ball at birth together with their parents’ favorite team’s jersey. They speak football echoing Dad’s opinions on the heavy matter of yesterday’s game and while they may not watch the whole game Dad and his chums are watching on TV, they certainly know how to stop their play to celebrate a goal with the rest of the family.

My own Dad was British and lived in Argentina for most of his life. When a British team came to play with ours he would root for England, which infuriated all of us. His reasoning was “it’s not that I prefer the British team, it’s that I have to live here if Argentina wins!” I found this excuse to be rather lame at the time. Of course we (and by “we” I mean every country) can be somewhat obnoxious in terms of sportsmanship. I had trouble speaking to my Spanish friends last World Cup because of their incessant boasting.

Sports and fitness in general are a very important part of Argentine life. If you drive past the parks of Palermo in Buenos Aires, and you look on one side of the beautiful avenue you’ll see the many sports clubs with people playing tennis, football, basketball and all sorts of other sporty activities. If you look on the park side, you see the joggers, a little Tai Chi perhaps or people warming up to do something athletic in one way or another. You also see older men with their beer bellies walking briskly in hopes of getting fitter and women and their friends speed walking around the park under the many beautiful trees as traffic passes them by. That has always impressed me. It is not a “fashion” or a trend. It is a way of life for so many.

At Northlands, the British school that I attended, we had an English curriculum in the morning where all that was spoken was English and a Spanish curriculum in the afternoon. The only thing that the two parts of the day had in common was what we called “gym” which was PE twice a day every day. We were taught every sport and could choose to play and join the team of the ones that we were adept at. My sisters were both field hockey stars, which left me the youngest, rebel against the sport and choose tennis instead. I also chose tennis because the courts were far away from the school buildings and us tennis girls could take a break and sunbathe and chitchat on the grass adjacent to the courts. It was a very strict school and I still don’t know how we got away with it.

One of the most important things that I learned at Northlands was sportsmanship. After a hockey game with another school’s team we would convene at the school or club or wherever we were playing after the game to have tea with out rivals regardless of who had won. We were meant to socialize with them and mingle, no more rivalry, just camaraderie. We learned to see our rivals as girls just like we were. Never speak an ill word, or gripe about a call or a play. Just hang out as a reminder that it was “just a game” after all. I will be forever grateful to my school for teaching me that and for learning to be a good winner and a good loser.

When I was growing up in Argentina, I had no idea what the rest of the world was up to soccer-wise. There were no televised foreign games. Television was in its infancy and nobody imagined that one day we would be able to see ALL soccer games wherever they were played while we checked our Iphones and our Facebook page and record the game, just in case someone missed it.

Then I was more aware of what was happening between rivals River Plate and Boca Juniors. As a River fan, I was vociferously against Boca and couldn’t believe anyone would favor them. I got excited every time my parents drove past the River stadium. I have never been inside it but it was my temple of perfection. When I visit Buenos Aires and drive by it now I still get the same feeling. Next time I go, I’ll try to get in and actually see the inside of the structure.

I married Esteban, a wonderful Argentine man who encompassed everything that a sportsman or a man for that matter, should be. A gentle man, a very fit man who was a Puma and represented Argentina in Rugby but whose heart was in football and taught me and his son and daughters everything one could ever possibly want to know about the sport and then some. We lived in 7 cities in 4 continents together and he brought his interest in sports to all. In England he even watched Cricket on TV which I consider to be the most boring sport on earth to watch – hopefully it is entertaining to play! He played Golf and watched endless hours of the sport on TV and found it thrilling as the commentators whispered their impressions of a complicated shot. In Colombia he dragged me to my first soccer match in a stadium and convinced me that it was OK, that I would not be uncomfortable and I wasn’t. He followed all football games wherever they were played and was fiercely supportive of so many teams.

In 1970 when Brasil won the World Cup we watched and cheered for them living in London. At the end of the game a group of us expatriate Argentines, walked over to the Brazilian ambassador's house and offered our congratulations. He not only thanked us but also invited us in to celebrate with champagne with his family and friends. I will never forget the joy of that day nor his graciousness.

In 1994 we flew from Tokyo to the US with the hope of attending at least one game of the World Cup hosted here. We saw Italy vs Nigeria with our four kids. It was thrilling for all of us. The connection that my children continue to have with soccer is due to his passion and his ability to convey that knowledge and enthusiasm to his kids. My son has inherited his father’s passion and is as athletic and sports minded and knowledgeable about sports as he was and my grandchildren wear the Argentine jersey proudly although they have yet to visit Argentina.

My husband died in April 2002 just a couple of months before the Japan/Korea World Cup. In mourning and still feeling shell-shocked, we watched the games with his best friend Rudy with whom he had seen a thousand games before, with his family all appropriately draped in Argentine flags and eating all the right foods. For those two weeks we could feel his presence with us . We have watched the subsequent championships together or closely connected through computers and phones. My son is now our football guru and my little grandchildren do what we did as kids, they run around and play while the grownups watch the game and acknowledge our excitement trying not to stand in front of the TV.

A mixture of joy and nostalgia accompanied this World Cup for me. I know that my husband would have been very proud of Argentina for reaching the final. I know the emotions that he would have had during each and every game. He was with us in spirit in Miami as he was with his son and daughter in Singapore and also in New York with his best friend Rudy. Like our friend Peter remarked, “he has the best seat in the house.” He managed to be with us all.

Spring Shibori

Spring is pretty much standard weather in Miami but I guess I still function with my New York state of mind and all of a sudden I'm emptying drawers and tidying up closets and clearing clutter as if compelled by the season. I also go to my studio for my pots and pans, my silk or cotton and my hope that something good will come out of my labors. I dip a piece of cloth into the pot of Indigo dye which I had set up in the patio under the bougainvillea. My two cats watched me from the studio and the dogs napped uninterested close by. I stirred the pot slowly waiting for the transformation to occur before fishing out the wrapped and pressed cloth. It occurred to me at that moment that they used to kill women like me in Salem. Alchemy of course is part of what I do and the appearance of magic is all around me. It is very comforting to know that one can make something beautiful with so little. Here's some of my work. Preparation is key.

This is the witches' pot

Some of the results. I've names this one "Sakura"

This one is "Cosmos"

"Anemones

These are a couple of the scarves I made this morning

...and to finish off...some purple Shibori

Random art

Looking at some of the work I've done lately, decided to see it all on my blog. So here they are...

The Nun

Wallpaper

a la Klimt

Gesso

Pink Lady

Meditation

Our Family's First Thanksgiving

For our family, one of the most enriching aspects of living in many different countries has been to participate in local holidays and special traditions. Our favorite adopted traditional holiday is Thanksgiving. What is unusual about this is that we are an Argentine family who began celebrating an American tradition in Tokyo.

The first time we lived in Japan, our eldest daughter Natalia, then two years old came home from her playgroup at the American School and wanted to know what we would be eating for Thanksgiving.Her teacher had told her that it was a very special holiday and that it was celebrated by eating turkey (not that she was quite sure what a turkey was all about) and all sorts of other delicious things. As I began a complicated (for a two year old) explanation about how we did not celebrate Thanksgiving because we were not American, I thought to myself, "so what!" and made an instant decision to have a celebration. My husband would be away on a business trip at the end of November so that would leave just the two of us to participate in the festivities. Her baby brother Steven was nursing at the time so he would not really be one of the diners. Well, not directly although we did place him in his bassinet at the table.

Natalia helped me to decorate our dining room table for two plus baby with fine china and lovely wine glasses - she insisted on those for her apple juice. We shared mini portions of mashed and sweet potatoes, cranberry relish,and the piece de resistance was a Cornish Hen which I told her was a "baby Turkey!" She was very satisfied with our dinner and more delighted yet when I told her years later about our experience that first Thanksgiving together.

Since then, Thanksgiving dinners have included more and more family members. Her brother Steven grew to look forward to our celebration and was joined by sister Marisa who was born a few days after Thanksgiving in 1977 making it an even better reason to celebrate. When we moved to New York in 1978 and a few years later our only American born baby Alexandra joined the family, we were glad that we had acquired some experience in the celebration of "her" holiday. Their father never went away for Thanksgiving again and while he didn't do much cooking, he always made sure that we had a few bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau for this lovely harvest festival and insisted on going out for a chilly walk after we had consumed massive amounts of food.

Every year, we go around the table and everyone shares what they're thankful about. As my children and our guests make their speeches, I often think of that first time. I think about how enjoyable it was when we all lived together in New York. The holiday was preceded by a visit to Arthur Avenue with Fran to stock up on all the food for our respective celebrations and while the kids watched the Macy's parade on TV I cooked like a fiend and delighted in the wonderful smells emanating from my kitchen. I remember our Thanksgiving partners Margie, Paul, Joanna and David. I remember the sights and sounds and I am filled with gratitude for having had the best possible partner anyone could wish for and for having invited these four children into our lives. Now I am thankful for their partners and their families and the beautiful babies they've brought into the world to delight us all.

Our family has grown and so have our turkeys since that first miniature one in Tokyo. For us, an adopted tradition has acquired a very special significance. We claimed it as our own without letting minor details like nationality or origin discourage us from celebrating the true meaning of this special day which belongs to everyone.

A little more doodling...

Thought I'd try the doodling with acrylics this time and this is what happened

And then I got seriously crazy and made her with some help from The New York Times

Finished my doodling with this crazy one entitled "Traffic"

Summer Fun

A little wiggle here and another there...some shading...more wiggles and then...this is what happens

Followed by more and more wiggles and giggles and cramped fingers and obsession

I couldn't stop and just went on to draw these two...

...and this one

I had a lot of fun as you can see. For me summer in Miami this year has meant some time in my studio, some at the beach and the best part of all, some time with my children and grandchildren.

Autumn Birds in Miami

My Meditation

When I walk into my studio I have to control my self-diagnosed ADD. The stimulation is a little overwhelming and as I leave the calm of my house and walk into the studio, zen is replaced by wild colors in a couple of rooms of creative possibilities. My living space is more suitable for calm and peaceful meditation. For me, my working space is more conducive to meditation itself! I open the door and consider... should I paint today? Make mobiles? Finish up yesterday's project or start a new one? Oh my, so many choices. I could drop the whole painting thing for a day and dye some cloth...but then, I have this idea for a series of little paintings... In any event, whatever I decide to do, once I'm actually doing it, the calm returns and I'm immersed in my project as visions of Kahlo's workplace, which I visited while in Mexico pass through my mind. Then I hop over to Japan and my mind wanders over there for a while. In fact, my mind wanders to Japan a lot.

Los Angeles based psychologist Robert Maurer, who studies creativity, compares crafting to another practice with proven health benefits: meditation. "When the midbrain is engaged by the repetitive movement involved in many crafts, the temporal lobe is unable to focus on worry or stress," he says. "The cortex -which controls conscious thought - becomes quiet and peaceful" he adds. "Then concentrating on a pattern you're required to be so present in the moment that you can't worry about the future."

So I guess I'm on the right track and my choices are many - it just has to depend on my mood. Here are some meditations I've done lately.

On the Street Where I Lived

I was born in Buenos Aires on a hot February day on the bed where I was probably conceived. I walked by that house yesterday on the same sidewalk where I rode my tricycle…then my bike. Where I used to play with my friend Jose Manuel. I could almost see him at the door just like when he used to come over to invite me to join him on a new adventure.

I remember his mother just as well as I remember mine. I probably ate as many meals there. Mrs. Lemos was a strong influence on me in those days and I adored her. She was a wonderful cook and home keeper. She made a red beet salad that I can almost taste and I always wished it was part of lunch. Sometimes it was. The table was always perfectly set and lovely. Her house was peaceful and cool in the summer. She used to lower the shades and the whole house was dark and comforting. Like all houses, it had its own smell. And I loved it. I can see her making her delicious “Zapallos en almibar” which is a typical Argentine desert of candied squash and preserving them in large glass jars. My mouth watered and I couldn’t wait for her to offer me some which of course she always did.

Jose Manuel (aka Pepito) and I would take a break from our outdoor activities and just hang out in the living room of his house or mine (mostly his cause I preferred it that way) and plan the rest of the day in a few hours of shady, cool peace. Then we’d go out and run around hosing each other or playing in the sprinkler in the garden before we started our afternoon game of bike polo with the rest of the neighborhood kids. I spent a lot of time outdoors and was only instructed to be home when it got dark outside. We were in and out of each other’s houses all day long. Maria Isabel was a little older and only occasionally joined in our games and plans. I admired her greatly and thought she was wise and sophisticated.

We had a gang of sorts us kids. We lived and played on a couple of blocks of our road and “the mean kids” lived a couple of blocks away. We’d plan strategy of what we’d do and say when we saw them outside. We never became friends despite the fact that bike polo needed their participation, We thought we were definitely better and maybe we were cause we certainly played a lot. Pepito couldn’t have a pet because his sister was allergic to them so he loved coming over to play with my dogs.

Before Pepito I had a girlfriend for a while whose Dad was a construction worker in a house across the street. He’d bring his daughter to work and she and I became friends. The friendship probably lasted till he finished his work in the construction site. It was brief but intense. I think my parents were a little concerned about that friendship mostly because they knew it was going to be short-lived. Her home was far away and we were very young, probably around 4 or 5 years old. I don’t remember her name but I called her “la amiga de mi” which is incorrect Spanish literally translated to “the friend of me”…bad English too!

There were azaleas in the spring and amazing yellow flowers that we used to pick from some neighbor’s yard to give to our mothers. Sometimes we ventured around the block where we were not allowed to go and as we grew we even crossed Libertador (which is a big busy road) to see the widest river in the world the Rio de la Plata or River Plate also the name of my favorite football team. We had television at one point but never watched it. The grownups watched more than we did.

Yesterday I stopped in front of the house where I was born and looked at my parents’ bedroom window and those images of my early days passed right before my eyes. I imagined that the room at 2AM would have been softly lit. My sisters’ windows would have been lit as well as they knew a baby was being born in the house. My mother was 42 years old and had been quite shocked that she was pregnant again. My brother at 19 and my sisters at 10 and 11 years old were delighted to welcome a new little member of the family.

Standing infront of the house yesterday I felt enormous happiness as I saw the little girl I was and thankful for those first years of her life in that house, on that street, at that time. When I was 11 my family moved to New York only to return 5 years later to a new home in the city of Buenos Aires. I never saw Mrs Lemos, Pepito and Maria Isabel again. They live in my memories and yesterday they were very much alive.

Hunting in the Night

I was sitting up in bed watching a movie on TV when out of nowhere, something touched my cheek, sprung on the sheets and made a fast head dive under the bed. Never got a chance to see what it was but I didn't need to...I was out of there and scared to death! My two cats kept guard while I proceeded to move the bed left, then right, then out to the middle of the room as I rolled the area rug and moved out the dresser I turned my otherwise peaceful sleeping abode into a hot mess. Furniture, bottles of perfume, picture frames and whatever else was on any surface had now spilled to the floor while I tried to figure out what exactly it was that I was looking for.

It took a while and the cats managed to coax the creature out of his hiding spot. It was a little frog! I dropped the tupperware on the poor creature and grabbed a magazine to ensure he stayed in there. At this point, the cats were meowing, the dog was now interested and very excitedly barking and my calm and comforting room was in shambles. I turned off the alarm, opened the door and dropped the poor little frog out into the night. It would take him a while to recover from the trauma but at least he was alive. I had to go get a glass of water and calm myself as well. The cats didn't see my maneuver and were walking around trying to find the elusive frog. The dog grumbled and went back to sleep.

So I didn't kiss the frog but he certainly kissed me. It wasn't that unpleasant on my cheek. No slimy feeling, just the element of surprise. I didn't turn into a frog and he didn't turn into a prince. Pity.

Blonde Ambition

(This is an article I wrote about Eva Peron. Today, July 26th is the anniversary of her death so I thought I'd post it.)

Evita had passed into “immortality” and I hadn’t even found out. I boarded the school bus as I straightened my tie with one hand and held on to my book bag with the other. A wisp of a girl, trying to get myself together in time to avoid being scolded by the monitor who was adamant about proper attire. Heaven forbid that our socks drooped or our hair was untidy. Proper British girls behaved and dressed accordingly. Not a word of Spanish was spoken on that bus. Our bilingual education demanded only English in the morning and Spanish in the afternoon.

Like any other morning I sat next to my friend who was quietly finishing her homework. When we arrived at school that morning there were teachers on the street frantically waving their arms in the air and instructing the drivers to take the children back home. The traffic was chaotic as everyone turned right back to leave the school in a hurry. Evita had died at 8:25 the previous night and the news had not traveled fast enough to let parents know that schools would be closed the next day and for several days after that. School officials were afraid that her death would bring the political unrest that was brewing and was evident in the city. Children needed to be returned to their safe homes. The ride back was somber and we all felt in danger somehow although there was no visible sign of violence. But then, it was my first taste of how events unfold in my country. The most gruesome things can happen in a cloak of civility.

The exact time of her death was broadcast by radio for years after that and I believe that there is not one Argentine alive who does not know that seemingly trivial detail. Every television and radio station interrupted normal broadcasting at that hour with the somber announcement “at 8.25 Eva Duarte de Peron, spiritual leader of our nation has passed into immortality.” In the weeks and months that followed, Argentine schoolchildren in public schools wore black armbands on their white school uniforms and had to draw a black stripe on each one of the pages of their workbooks in her memory. At precisely 8.25 pm the country remembered, and it was paralyzed. Nobody could escape it.

Eva’s worst fear was to be forgotten but she should not have worried. Peron summoned Dr. Ara, a Spanish pathologist who was commissioned to preserve her lifeless body forever. After the funeral the good doctor was able to continue perfecting his still life creation and took two additional years to fine-tune his macabre work. She was his masterpiece and there were malicious rumors that he had fallen deeply in love with her. He demanded to be left alone with Evita - his duties were performed in splendid isolation surrounded by strict security.

She lay in state at the Ministry of Labor while four soldiers guarded her coffin. My brother-in-law was doing his military service at the time and was one of them. The young men kept fainting and being replaced because of the intensity of the atmosphere and the strong smell of the funeral flowers which covered every inch of the room. Throngs of Argentines passed by her coffin. The line that led to the viewing wound around thirty city blocks. Calla lilies are the funeral flowers of Argentina and thousands of flower shops and stands in all of the city of Buenos Aires were left bare. The delicate blossoms as well as mountains of gardenias had all been bought to place in homage of the woman who had so captivated their collective imagination.

People were devastated by her death. They did not want to let go of everything that she represented to them. There was the saintly Evita, sweet and pious who made their wishes come true piling money from her famous foundation into their meager lives and compromised living conditions. There was the glamorous Evita who blew into their lives like a cool breeze wearing strapless silk gowns, mink wraps and sparkling jewels and titillated Argentines in the same was as Jackie Kennedy’s style seduced the world many years later. Then there was Evita the earnest union leader who called herself a true “trabajadora,” worker for the people, and made heartfelt speeches wearing military tailored suits with broad shoulder pads counteracting her tiny waist and ethereal persona. As always, with her golden locks tamed tightly into her signature bun above her neck. And then there was Evita the faithful wife standing beside her man through thick and thin and the barren Evita, who was viewed as the mother of all Argentine children. In their eyes, she was a saint and many demanded that the Vatican acknowledge her and wanted above all else to have their own Santa Evita. The Vatican’s reply was negative. Her involvement with Peron who among other faults, had been married before and her own shady past, prevented her the honors that her people desperately wanted.

She was not considered a saint by everyone. My family like most Argentines was, and is divided into the Peron admirers and the Peron haters. Peron was criticized in whispers and murmurs. People were in fear of the consequences of speaking their minds and my family was no exception. I must confess that the woman captured my fantasies as well. I never tired of looking at the photographs on her book La Razon de Mi Vida, literally translated “My Mission in Life,” where she appears resplendent in sumptuous gowns and dazzling diamond jewelry. I was 8 at the time and would sneak into the library at home and sit occupying an eighth of my father’s Chesterfield chair with my spaghetti legs not yet long enough to reach the floor and furtively leafed through the book to find the photographs which showed her in her splendor. I knew that my parents hated the Perons and I rarely shared my incursions into her book with anyone, perhaps only with a friend who also found the pictures fascinating. Years later sitting in a Broadway theater I remember the murmur and my own goosebumps when Lloyd Webber’s Evita comes out to greet her people from the balcony in the same white strapless dress captured in that book from so long ago. For me it was a heart stopping moment. I remembered it so well.

Two years after her death and in what were times of unrest and unhappiness in my country, father decided to move our family to New York. It was walking to school in Forest Hills that I heard that there had been a coup d’etat in Argentina and Peron was on his way to his first stop of exile in Panama. He later traveled to Spain, a country which owed him much and whose own dictator granted him asylum. He lived in a sumptuous villa known as Puerta de Hierro, Iron Gate with his new wife Isabel, an Argentine chorus girl whom he met in Panama. They were visited daily by union leaders and politicians from Argentina eager to make nice with a man who could support their causes and help them to get elected back home with his endorsement. Every president since then, including the present one, has called himself a “Peronista” in the hope of furthering their political careers. His power had not gone into exile with him.

In 1974 Peron returned to Argentina and as luck would have it, bought the house next to my parents in law. The new Mrs. Peron had made a house hunting trip a few months prior and had visited the sumptuous white Mediterranean house with the lush and peaceful garden. The homeowner, Mrs. Bauer, was a family friend and showed her around her beautiful home, the garden of which met my in-law’s garden in the back. In fact, my husband and Mrs. Bauer’s son were close friends and would spend summers jumping the fence that separated them to swim at one pool or the other. She did not recognize Mrs. Peron. The real estate agent introduced her as Maria Estela Martinez which is her maiden name and she remembered her saying that she did not have children that the house would be only for her and her husband. Mrs. Bauer asked her if she didn’t feel that her home was far too big for only two people to which she replied “we like a lot of space,” and left it at that. The next morning Mrs. Bauer found out in the newspaper that she had agreed to sell her house to General Peron. There went the neighborhood.

His arrival at Ezeiza International Airport was tumultuous and the caravan which escorted him to his new home consisted of thousands of people with horns and bombos, a native drum that is played in folk music and used for big demonstrations because of its intense sound. The quiet neighborhood which was blocks away from where the sitting president of Argentina lives and had been where he lived before he was ousted was in total chaos. When Peron finally entered the house and one would have thought that the celebration was over as people started dispersing, many remained sleeping where they could, some on the streets and others in the neighbors’ front lawns. The quiet suburban neighborhood was converted into a gypsy camp where swarms of people needed to stay to be close to their idol. When things finally got back to relative order after a few days, my father in law got a handwritten letter from Peron inviting the family to an asado at his home to thank the neighbors for their benevolent patience and goodwill with all the supporters who had created such a ruckus. My father-in-law refused politely, something which I never forgave him for – I would have loved to meet Peron but by then I had left Argentina so his attendance at the barbecue would have only given me the chance to live a vicarious encounter with the general. He did not want to be part of the circus he explained. For me, Peron has remained one of those famous dead or alive people I would like to invite to an imaginary dinner party. A true missed opportunity to do it in life.

During her husband’s exile, Evita’s beautiful corpse had no place to rest in Argentina. She was still such a strong symbol to so many people that she had to be banished and was taken to an undisclosed location in Italy and was transferred to many other mystery sites. Her body had to be kept away from Argentina until she was returned to her homeland when her husband made a comeback and given her rightful place in history. The folklore that surrounds the years the coffin was missing has filled many pages and imaginations. Her husband was voted back into office with Isabel as his vice president in 1973 and she assumed his job as president when he died. The poor soul tried hard to emulate Evita, even in her appearance. Her mousy brown hair turned blonder and she would attempt a half hearted stab at stardom, but those of us who knew Evita, knew that she was no Evita. With her presidency a joke and the country in shambles, she followed her husband’s footsteps and returned to Madrid and has not been a significant part of Argentine politics since.

I recently visited Evita at Recoleta, the Arlington of Argentina’s aristrocracy. The cemetery is located in a very privileged neighborhood and houses a city of the dead within the bustling city of Buenos Aires where only the very rich and very powerful can bury their dead. There are no ground burials there. The mausoleums resemble a very quiet city of elegant if somewhat garish structures where coffins are placed in marble slabs covered with fine old Belgian lace and can be seen through the glass or iron doors. Outside its walls are trendy restaurants and charming cafes where one can sip an espresso or have afternoon tea and watch the fashionable world go by. Most of the tourists and even some of the locals cross over to find Evita’s resting place and while the place is full of fascinating memorials to fallen heroes and the bronzes read like a who’s who of Argentina’s most significant citizens. As soon as I entered the gates, the guard at the door pointed me and other visitors towards where he knew we wanted to go before we even asked. I crossed paths along the way with a multitude of alley cats which have made a home for themselves among the rich and famous. I reached her tomb which was overflowing with the fresh flowers that her visitors leave daily. Cameras clicked away as everyone posed next to her likeness in bronze to show the folks back home. The very elaborate resting places are tended to by families who visit their dead as if they were visiting them in their apartments while outside those structures and over the wall that separates them from the city of the living, people enjoy the outdoor markets, the fine shops and restaurants and just plain being alive.

I could not help feeling sorry for Evita as I made my way out of the cemetery. A woman who prided herself to come from the people and worked for the people now sleeps forever among the aristocracy who shunned her and she despised. I cannot imagine that she’s resting in peace, but she has definitely met her objective. She has not been forgotten. I never asked my parents how that book made its way into their library. Could it be perhaps that I was not the only one in the family who was more than a little seduced by Evita’s power and charm?

Finding Balance

Most of the time I have an idea of what I'm going to be doing in my studio in the morning. I draw or paint, I write on one of my journals, I finish what I started. Today I had this sudden urge to make a mobile. The last one I made was probably 7 months ago. It was hard work and at times very frustrating. So frustrating that I would just walk away and come back to it to work on it after a few days had passed.
Found a couple of twigs that I had lying around and little by little I started constructing the main structure. I didn't plan it. I played it by ear. A bead here, a cloth bird (that I sewed for something else) there, some feathers and as I went along, I kept trying to make the whole look pleasing to my eyes. And it was looking better and better but just as I attached one more little element, the whole thing needed balancing again.

All of a sudden it hit me. To be able to accomplish what I had set out to do, I needed to have the balance. My mobile was showing me that I had to stop for a minute. Take a deep breath perhaps? Listen to music. Calm my energy and flow a little more and be less task oriented. Just enjoy the process and a little at a time, I would build that mobile with the right elements to make it dangle in my patio and give me pleasure every time I see it. And I did and it all came to pass. I left my studio in peace with myself and my surroundings.

The Art of Being On My Own

I got married straight out of my parents' home so I never lived alone. Never "kept house," never cooked or cleaned or felt responsible for the running of a home. In Argentina, my mother had a housekeeper who had been with our family forever. My Dad loved to cook and both he and my mother took turns in introducing us to wonderful food. There was no "I don't like this" before trying! No special meals made for you if you didn't like what was on the menu that night either! I learned everything that I now know about food from them. The joy of a perfectly heavenly piece of fried fish. The soundness (for lack of a better word) of a delicious "Puchero" Argentina's version of Pot of Feu...boiled dinner. Lots of veggies and a slab of bacon and garbanzo beans, a chunk of Caracu (bone marrow) and beef or chicken and sometimes both thrown in the pot.I ate my first Escargot at 5 and liked it. Nobody made mashed potatoes like my mom.

My father would dress up a simple beef cutlet or Milanesa with foie gras one day and another with anchovies and peppers. A perfectly baked chicken was a weekly routine and of course our Sunday asado which is the typical Argentine barbecue with sweetbreads and sausages and the best possible beef in the world. Sundays when we would all await in eager anticipation almost fainting from the aroma coming from the parrilla. I remember lying on the grass with my dog both of us salivating and waiting to be called to have our late lunch. After lunch...a bit of "sobremesa" which is just sitting around chatting. Soon enough, each one of us would drop into bed for an afternoon siesta. I remember the sounds in the house and in the garden on those lazy summer days. The birds chirping on the trees. An occasional bark from one of our dogs.

The only thing I ever made in those days was a cake called "Delicia"...pretty much a simple enough way to let a young girl experiment in the kitchen without much fuss. One of the most famous cooks in Argentina called Dona Petrona provided that recipe in her book. She was probably one of the first chefs to become a celebrity and have her own TV show in Buenos Aires (maybe the world?) and boss her assistant Maria around. Poor Maria did all the work...chopping, steaming, boiling, baking and acted as her gopher or sous chef! I don't remember seeing Maria's face, but I could see her shuffling stuff in the background and Petrona, an imposing presence took front and center stage.

So there I was, newly married and totally ignorant as to the mysteries of the kitchen and the rest of a house. I didn't even know how to make a proper bed! I still don't know how to wash clothes as my children will gleefully tell you. When they went off to college they knew they were on their own on that one!

Little by little and with the love and support of my husband, I learned what I needed to learn. After messing up a simple roast beef and on the verge of tears and feeling totally incompetent he simply told me that he was not interested in my homemaking abilities. He married me not Dona Petrona! The most important thing that I learned from him was to value and practice my independence. He trusted me to do well in whatever I undertook. He gave me space, time and enormous amounts of love and encouragement in everything I did. And I did these things in so many cities, in so many "new" homes and countries! Homemaking for me was building a new home from scratch every time we moved. And we moved a lot. Without knowing, Esteban taught me how to live without him.

And for the last 16 years of my life, I have lived alone. At first it was a little scary to think of all the responsibilities landing straight on my lap. Nobody to really ask. No shared decisions. No "this is your job, this is mine" type of thing. It was all mine. And in a hurry I had to learn how to do it all, including the tedious part, you know, the finances and the bills and the daily routines, and selling and buying homes and cars and being a strong presence in my kids' lives for both of us and most importantly, the loss of him. I think I should be awarded a PhD for all of this. I think I've done well.

And like he would have expected, I thrived. I have done more things that I ever expected to do and learned the ultimate lesson: how to live without him. Not alone but rather on my own.