my desk
Image by ramsey everydaypants
i moved my computer desk/printer/scanner out of my bedroom and now i just have a drawing table and my record player. it feels so much less crowded!
bk workspace #1 (the attic)
Image by ★keaggy.com
Where most of my web work and photo processing gets done (and time gets wasted).
More Cuba, Dec 2011 - 115
Image by Ed Yourdon
On our third day in Havana, we continued to see one old car after another. I couldn't help photographing them all... Whoops! Is this a new Porsche?!?
This is a second set of a couple hundred photos taken in Havana, Cuba in December 2011. The first set, which included what I felt were the best 100 photos of the 3500+ images, was uploaded earlier. You can find it here on Flickr.
Note: for some reason, this photo was published in a Feb 29, 2012 blog titled "All About Airlines Miles Credit Cards." Equally strange was the Mar 27, 2012 publication in a blog titled "Best Credit Cards for Hotels." And even more strange was the Apr 8, 2012 blog titled Insurance for 17/18 year old female? But this was pretty weird, too: a May 3, 2012 blog titled "What do you do when you’re feeling like nothing is going your way?"
***********************
As I suggested in my first set of Cuba photos on Flickr, the notion of traveling to Cuba is -- at least for many Americans today -- probably like that of traveling to North Korea. It's off-limits, forbidden by the government -- and frankly, why would anyone bother? But for someone like me, who spent his childhood in the Cold War era of the 1950s, and who went off to college just after Castro took power, and just before the Bay of Pigs and the Cuban missile crisis, the notion of traveling to Cuba has entirely different overtones.
And yet Cuba is only 90 miles away from Key West (as we were reminded so often in the 1960s), and its climate is presumably no different than a dozen of Caribbean islands I've visited over the years. Numerous friends have made quasi-legal trips to Cuba over the years, flying in from Canada or Mexico, and they've all returned with fabulous pictures and great stories of a vibrant, colorful country. So, when the folks at the Santa Fe Photographic Workshops sent out a notice in November 2011, announcing a series of photo workshops in Havana, we couldn't resist the temptation to sign up.
Getting into Cuba turned out to be trivial: an overnight stay in Miami, a 45-minute chartered flight operated by American Airlines, and customs/immigration formalities that turned out to be cursory or non-existent. By mid-afternoon, our group was checked into the Parque Central Hotel in downtown Havana -- where the rooms were spacious, the service was friendly, the food was reasonably tasty, the rum was delicious, and the Internet was … well, slow and expensive.
We had been warned that that some of our American conveniences -- like credit cards -- would not be available, and we were prepared for a fairly spartan week. But no matter how prepared we might have been intellectually, it takes a while to adjust to a land with no Skype, no Blackberry service, no iPhone service, no phone-based Twitter, Facebook, or Google+. I was perfectly happy that there were no Burger Kings, no Pizza Huts, no Wendys, no Starbuck's, and MacDonalds. There was Coke (classic), but no Diet Coke (or Coke Light). There were also no police sirens, no ambulance sirens, and no church bells. There were no iPods, and consequently no evidence of people plugged into their music via the thin white earplugs that Apple supplies with their devices. No iPads, no Kindles, no Nooks, no … well, you get the picture. (It's also worth noting that, with U.S. tourists now beginning to enter the country in larger numbers, Cuba seems to be on the cusp of a "modern" invasion; if I come back here in a couple years, I fully expect to see Kentucky Fried Chicken outlets on every corner.)
But there were lots of friendly people in Havana, crowding the streets, peering out of windows and doorways, laughing and shouting and waving at friends and strangers alike. Everyone was well-dressed in clean clothes (the evidence of which could be seen in the endless lines of clothing hanging from laundry lines strung from wall to wall, everywhere); but there were no designer jeans, no fancy shoes, no heavy jewelry, and no sign of ostentatious clothing of any kind. Like some other developing countries, the people were sometimes a little too friendly -- constantly offering a taxi ride, a pedicab ride, a small exchange of the "official" currency (convertible pesos, or "cuqs") for the "local" currency (pesos), a great meal or a great drink at a nearby restaurant or bar, a haircut, a manicure, or just a little … umm, well, friendship (offers for which ran the gamut of "señor" to "amigo" to "my friend"). On the street, you often felt you were in the land of the hustle; but if you smiled, shook your head, and politely said, "no," people generally smiled and back off.
As for the photography: well, I was in one of three different workshop groups, each of which had roughly a dozen participants. The three dozen individual photographers were well equipped with all of the latest Nikon and Canon gear, and they generally focused on a handful of subjects: buildings and architecture, ballet practice sessions, cockfights, boxing matches, rodeos, fishing villages, old cars, interiors of people's homes, street scenes, and people. Lots of people. As in every other part of the world I've visited, the people were the most interesting. We saw young and old, men and women, boisterous children, grizzled elders, police officers, bus drivers, and people of almost every conceivable race.
The streets were clean, though not spotless; and the streets were jammed, with bicycles and motorbikes and pedi-cabs, taxis, buses, horse-and-carriages, pedestrians, dogs (lots of dogs, many sleeping peacefully in the middle of a sidewalk), and even a few people on roller skates. And, as anyone who has seen photos of Havana knows, there were lots and lots and LOTS of old cars. Plymouths, Pontiacs, Dodges, Buicks, and Chevys, along with the occasional Cadillac. A few were old and rusted, but most had been renovated, repaired, and repainted -- often in garishly bright colors from every spectrum of the rainbow. Cherry pink, fire-engine red, Sunkist orange, lime green, turquoise and every shade of blue, orange, brown, and a lot more that I've probably forgotten. All of us in the photo workshop succumbed to the temptation to photograph the cars when we first arrived … but they were everywhere, every day, wherever we went, and eventually we all suffered from sensory overload. (For what it's worth, one of our workshop colleagues had visited Cuba eight years ago, and told us that at the time, there were only old cars in sight; now roughly half of the cars are more-or-less modern Kia's, Audis, Russian Ladas, and other "generic" compact cars.)
The one thing I wasn't prepared for in Havana was the sense of decay: almost no modern buildings, no skyscrapers, and very little evidence of renovation. There were several monstrous, ugly, vintage-1950s buildings that oozed "Russia" from every pore. But the rest of the buildings date back to the 40s, the 30s, the 20s, or even the turn of the last century. Some were crumbling, some were just facades; some showed evidence of the kind of salt-water erosion that one sees near the ocean. But many simply looked old and decrepit, with peeling paint and broken stones, like the run-down buildings in whatever slum you're familiar with in North America. One has a very strong sense of a city that was vibrant and beautiful all during the last half of the 19th century, and the first half of the 20th century -- and then time stopped dead in its tracks.
Why that happened, and what's being done about it, is something I didn't have a chance to explore; there was a general reluctance to discuss politics in great detail. Some of Havana looks like the less-prosperous regions of other Caribbean towns; and some of it is presumably the direct and/or indirect result of a half-century of U.S. embargo. But some of it seems to be the result of the collapse of the Soviet Union in the early 1990s, and the subsequent collapse of foreign aid that Cuba depended upon.
As for my own photos: I did not attend the ballet practice sessions, nor did I see the rodeo. I did see some interesting graffiti on a few walls, which I photographed; but for some reason, I missed almost all of the numerous political billboards and stylized paintings of Che Guevera on buildings and walls. What I focused on instead was the "street scenes" of people and buildings and cars, which will hopefully give you a sense of what the place is like.
Enjoy!
Image by wakingphotolife:
...la
Leaves that swirl in circular patterns, expanding and contracting in front of you, are ghosts walking about; you shouldn't walk through them. I learned this from Sam. I forgot the month or season in which she told me this. Or on which trip.
Now when I see swirling leaves, I step out to the side and only watch them; let them pass.
"What would happen if you did?" I said.
"It's bad luck my grandma says. I believe her."
I loved Sam's grandma so I believed her too.
Let them pass.
Sam's grandma smoked Lucky Strike Menthol’s. Her voice had the same texture as the sand that's left at the edge of the shoreline, the grains that are too heavy to make it out to sea. She shared a room, next to the hallway, with the Filipino maid.
Sam's grandma was never home. In the daytime, she was at the Jumping Gym USA next to my apartment. If not, then playing mahjong somewhere. If at home, watching TV and sneaking cigarettes late at night.
She gave me a deck of playing cards decorated with photos from Hangzhou, China on the last day I was there.
“Who’d she go with?” I asked Sam.
“She went by herself. My grandma is like this,” Sam said.
She came out to watch TV as we were packing in the living room: we had packed earlier at my apartment but took everything out when we arrived; packing kept us from thinking too much. We did it without thinking.
Sam's grandma had a big smile as she handed the deck of cards to me. Her eyes turned to slits when she smiled; I thought of the Cheshire cat from Alice In Wonderland. I said thanks in Cantonese. She told me that my Cantonese was improving and to visit again. I said I would.
I regret not getting anything for her before I left. When I first arrived, I bought two large bags of organically grown pistachios from Costco for Sam’s family. Sam's mom emptied them into a large plastic jar that was used to hold lychee jelly snacks.
I caught Sam's grandma with a handful of pistachios while watching TV once. It made me happy. Could have been July, could have been late June. It was two in the morning. Sam’s parents were out playing mahjong somewhere and wouldn’t be back until the next afternoon so I spent the night. It was rare that I did.
We watched Three Times on her parents’ bed; Sam fawned over Chang Chen until she fell asleep. “He’s too cool,” she said. We watched him ride at the stern of a fishing boat across a large harbor.
“He’s very stoic,” I said.
“What’s that mean?”
“It mean he’s cool.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Who wouldn’t be.”
“Kit’s a friend of his. They’re drinking buddies.”
“I’m jealous.”
We watched Chang Chen play pool with a beautiful woman, Shu Qi. We watched him ride across Taiwan on an old rusty bike to find her years later, wearing an immaculate pair of khakis and clean Converses. The city signs passed by: Taipei, Kaohsiung, Taichung, Tainan, and a few others. All on the western coast. Later in my life, I’d realize that the eastern coast was much more beautiful.
I sat down next to Sam’s grandma on the sofa after I was finished brushing my teeth.
The TV was turned to the news. "How old are you know?" her grandma said.
"Twenty-two."
"Are you guys going to get married soon?" She smiled. I smiled.
"Someday.”
I wondered if I’d be able to ride a bike across Hong Kong to find Sam if I had to. Since Hong Kong is much smaller than Taiwan, I reasoned I could. Someday.
She patted my knee with her bony hand. Her skin was loose, but felt solid in the way that a strong rubber-band feels solid. I could see all the dark green veins and wrinkles root up her forearm. She had a jade bracelet around her wrist which felt cold to touch.
Besides the few times that I held her elbow as we got onto the bus or the MTR, this was the only meaningful contact we had. "I'm going to bed," she said. She smiled with her Cheshire grin, tossed the pistachio shells into the trash, finished her cigarette and went into her room.
Everyone called her Mama.
I stayed on the sofa for a few more minutes and looked around: the fold out dining table with its six matching chairs pushed against the far wall: flowers in a plain transparent vase on top of the drawer next to the TV stand: the TV showing a story about a backpacker who fell to his death from the 17th floor of a hostel after being pushed over a railing: a finished and framed one thousand piece puzzle on the wall behind me: the stereo system that belonged to Sam's dad (it was never turned on during my time there, though I heard it over the phone once; he played "Voices of the Wind" from Pocahontas): Sam's sister's school uniform hanging on the the other side of the linen curtains by the window: a steam iron which I used to iron my shirt and trousers for the interview at Langham Plaza the next day: an aquarium with swirling water but no fish.
"What happened to them?" I asked once.
"We fed them too much or there was something wrong with the water so they all died. We use to have a lot too," Sam said.
Then I remembered Bibi. Sam told me she cried hard when Bibi died. The first time I visited her room, she showed me her journal with photos of the aquarium taped to the pages. Bibi looked like any other goldfish - small, lazy, curious and gold. Not much different than Fatty Jr., the smaller of my pair of goldfishes. The photo captions were written in Chinese and I don't remember what it said when she translated it for me. I looked in it when she was sleeping once. There was a list of many dinners with the names of many men who I didn't know and she never mentioned. Everyone's entitled to their past; I closed it and went back to bed. And never said a word.
I found the TV remote behind one of the Monchichi cushions. Sam's mom had a thing for Monchichi, monkey dolls with upturned puppy dog eyes and freckles. Below the one thousand piece puzzle was a pair of Monchichi plush dolls, a boy and girl version. They were holding hands and leaning against the wall.
The desire for cute things ran through Sam's family. Every inch of her sister's disk was cluttered with Buzz Lightyear paraphernalia. Her mom had Monchichi. Sam slept with a big Rilakkuma teddy bear who I was the father of. It was a beige brown, dots for eyes, and looked as lazy as the photos of the goldfish. Sam's dad seemed too cool for cute things. For work, he stitched the inside labels for Ralph Lauren Polo and his English name was Andrew. Andrew drank Pabst while reading the Apple Daily in the kitchen late at night. It was strange to think that he was the same man who bought the Monchichi dolls and cushions but I knew it was to please his wife. It was the same kind of thinking that allowed me to drag Teddy into bed with us.
Sam's grandma had her Lucky Strike Menthol's, playing cards from Hangzhou and an unlimited supply of coins which she took to Jumping Gym USA to dispense. She played that game where you slid coins into the machine, hope it would land just right, and cause the other coins, in stacks at the bottom, to fall. What she won or did with all her tickets, I never knew. Sam told me she used to be very rich but a lot of sons and daughters took her wealth and never looked back.
It was a humid day and there was a lot of people in Mong Kok. There always is. But this day was crazy. The sunlight was harsh (I had become use to the pollution haze so a normal clear day became blinding) and it made me feel annoyed. The interview was not in Langham Plaza but next to it.
The interviewer was a nice woman. She had short hair and her office was on the 30th floor above a cluster of toy shops and boutiques. Behind her chair was a wide window with a view over the rest of Mong Kok. Her name was Faye Szeto and she seemed to be very a solid woman. Very career oriented.
I showed her my degree and certificates when she asked me to. We talked about California some. She had studied in UCLA when she was younger. "I take it your degree is signed by Arnold Schwarzenegger?”
"It is." I showed her the signature; there it was.
“Do you want to know what it sounds like in Cantonese?”
I said I didn’t know. I listened then I laughed.
“It’s ridiculous isn’t it?”
“Yeah it is.”
"How's your Cantonese?"
"Okay la," I said. Laughed again.
At the end of the interview she said: "It'll be hard since you're so young and you look young too. I'll be honest, these things might not matter much in the States, but they do here, especially with the private and auxiliary schools. There's also the fact that you need a visa sponsorship. I've had fully credentialed teachers from the states who were turned down because of this. I don't mean to discourage you but this is how it is. Still...I like you and I'll do what I can to help you find something. You don't mind children and working weekends right?"
"Not at all," I said.
"Good." She gave me her card. "I'll give you a call in a week or two. Or if you don't hear back from me, just give me a call instead."
We shook hands. Since the elevator was full and there was an additional crowd of people waiting, I took the stairs. Sam was waiting outside.
We had lunch at Cafe de Coral. I wasn't in the mood to eat but it was lunch time. I told Sam everything that Ms. Szeto told me. Sam looked sad. We stopped talking for a few minutes and she looked outside the window. I took a photo of her bare shins and white Converses in the window reflection. "You look cute today," I said, "What were you doing when I was inside?"
"Just wandering in the shops around there."
"She was really nice. I think there's a chance at least. Let's a buy a set of catbuses if it happens."
Days came. Days went. She cried and cried and I held her a lot.
Add oil la.
Later on, my mom found a Polaroid of Sam and I that was cut in half. She took it out of my waste basket and put it in her safe inside my parent's closet. I think she was sad too. "Don't throw your pictures away. You're my son," she would say much later on.
Add oil la.
I took Sam to meet my cousin Joan and her fiance Sean. They were recently engaged. Sam and I saw the photos online while I was with them. Sam’s mom saw them too. The diamond was huge and was presented by a trained dolphin in a swimming pool in Hawaii.
Joan wanted me to be a best-man but I lived too far to keep up with all the planning. She wanted a wedding photographer but I wasn’t confident then and only had film cameras. I felt bad.
The four of us went to Sean's sister's place. Sean’s sister, Mimi, and her husband had just bought a new home in Milpitas. They were planning to have dinner from Buca di Beppo and asked us to come along. Sam and I sat in the backseat of Sean’s new Lexus IS. “You can tell the difference,” Sam said, “It’s so quiet in here. You can’t hear the wind at all.” I was very happy. It was a nice ride, the dinner was good, and I liked taking Sam to see new homes.
They had two cats, Snowball and Oreo, who had eyes like humans. They were named after the color patterns of their fir. They looped around our legs as we ate and jumped onto the surface of the dining room table when we were having pistachio gelato.
Sam and I loved cats so we were happy. We talked about the cat cafe in Tsim Sha Tsui and how a gray Persian had leaped onto the table, in the same way, and stole a clam from Sam’s linguini.
Oreo bent its head underneath Sam’s hand. "These cats are scary though," Sam said, "They look too smart. I feel like they're reading my mind or seeing into my soul."
I laughed. I was thinking the same thing. But, I reasoned that since they were big fat cats, it was only natural that they should have large intelligent eyes.
"Are they Main Coons?" I said.
"Actually, I forgot. Let me ask Kevin...Sweetie! What breed are Snowball and Oreo again?"
Kevin was setting up the instruments in the living room for Rock Band. "Oreo's a Norwegian Forest Cat and Snowball’s a Maine Coon. But chubby versions.” He had a guitar strapped across the front of his body and two drum sticks, real ones, tucked through the back belt loops of his shorts. He didn’t turn around. He was focused.
“We fed them more on purpose,” Mimi said.
As a band, our best song was "Creep". It was only natural. Sam and I loved Radiohead. We had numerous OK Computer puns. “My computer froze!” Sam would say.
“That’s because you don’t have an OK Computer la,” I would say.
Mimi sang, Sean played bass, I was on guitar and Joan, drums. Kevin was doing dishes in the kitchen. Sam watched all of us from the sofa while stroking the underside of Oreo’s neck.
It was a happy night. I will remember this night for the rest of my life.
"Do you remember Joan and Sean? They bought a house next to San Francisco. Sean asked me to help him set up his home stereo. It's quite nice of them to ask me. I don't mind spending their money for them."
"Of course! I met them. You forgot," Sam said.
"You’re right. God, that felt so long ago... We should have spent the night there when they asked us too."
"Yeah, we should have."
"We always end up going home. I'm sorry."
"It's okay la."
"Regret la."
Sailor/California native uses translation card to ask Japanese citizen question.
Image by Official U.S. Navy Imagery
KURO-SOKI, JAPAN (March 16, 2011) Naval Air Crewman Chris Tautkus, from Simi Valley, Calif., assigned to the Black Knights of Helicopter Anti-Submarine (HS) 4 embarked aboard the aircraft carrier USS Ronald Reagan (CVN 76), uses a translation card to ask a Japanese man what additional supplies and assistance is needed in his area. Ronald Reagan is off the coast of Japan providing humanitarian assistance to Japan as directed in support of Operation Tomodachi. (U.S. Navy photo by Mass Communication Specialist 3rd Class Dylan McCord/Released)
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