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Xoxo, Elizabeth
It’s about thanks. And Thanksgiving.
I’m so happy, and thankful, to be able to share with you my new, updated, movin’ and a-groovin’ blog: Yum Ditties! It’s a work in progress, there will be minor tweaks and shifts as the days roll on, but I thought it was more or less ready for public viewing. Be easy on her, I know she’s nervous about making a good impression!
And…Happy Thanksgiving.
Love, Yum Ditties
Hi fellow followers of all things Ditty!
Just wanted you to know…Yum Ditties is going through a change! Yep, indeed. Evolution at its finest. Revolution at its meanest (what?). You know what I mean. We are taking Yum Ditties to the plastic surgeon and she is getting a FACE LIFT!
Ok…not really…but the blog is preparing to undergo visual, physical, aesthetic changes. Wish her luck, say a prayer, cross your fingers (and toes)…whatever you do, don’t call her vain for stepping things up a little! We all need a change now and then. It does a body (and a blog) good.
And, whatever you do, keep coming back, she’ll be ready for you in no time.
Keep on keepin’ on. And keep on searching out…
The Universe is speaking, can you hear it? Are you listening? Is it just me?
This evening, my mom and I went to USD’s Joan B. Kroc Institute for Peace and Justice to hear Zainab Salbi speak, as part of their “Distinguished Lecture Series,” in conjunction with a three-day public forum titled, “Women, Media, Revolution.” Doesn’t this sound like the absolute coolest way to spend a Thursday night? I think so. Truly, this is right up my alley.
Zainab Salbi. Beautiful spirit, it shines right to you, doesn't it?
Zainab Salbi has personality. She is beautiful, spunky, exquisite, and passionate as all get out. This 41 year-old woman from Iraq has lived enough life for 10 of us, and she is in no way planning to stop any time soon. She is the founder of Women for Women International, “a grassroots humanitarian and development organization helping women survivors of war rebuild their lives in Afghanistan, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Democratic Republic of Congo, Iraq, Kosovo, Nigeria, Rwanda and South Sudan” (this from Salbi’s bio, but please click on the link to learn more about this organization). Did I mention she is 41? Again, full life. The best part is, she started this organization as one person, at the tender age of 20 (TWENTY), and as a new immigrant to the United States. In tonight’s lecture, she said the reason why she began this movement was because, “I did not learn about the Holocaust until I was in the USA in college. It was 1993, and the Bosnian conflict had started.” She saw a magazine with images of women in a concentration camp in Bosnia and reflected on learning about the Holocaust and the prolific manner in which people declared a conflict like that could never happen again. Perplexed, because, well…wasn’t it happening again in Bosnia? She decided she needed to do something about it. So she started volunteering for women’s organizations. And then she decided to start her own, asking a church for one year of support – to which she was granted – and off she went. Her plan: to connect women in the “western world” with women in “countries of conflict” (quotes because this is how she stated the connection). By donating $30/month, a woman in the USA could (and still can) support a woman in a conflict-driven country, providing her the space, freedom, time and resources to find a job, learn a vocational skill, feed her family, learn her legal rights, receive education, etc.
Simple enough, right? She took a risk.
There are some things she said tonight that I want to share with you. For me, they resonated – loud, clear, strong – especially after the many quotes and memories attributed to Steve Jobs we have shared and read these past two days. Like I said, the Universe spoke. I need to listen. And maybe the Universe is speaking to you, maybe these words from her and those words from him will drive you too. We are all part of this journey, aren’t we?
Anyway, the title of her lecture was, “Building Bridges, Rebuilding Societies.” She charges women with the heavy honor of being the reason why life continues. Of course she’s right, we do provide life, both literally and symbolically. She also stated that there is such a profound imbalance between those in power (men) and those as victims (women). Duh.
Now, both men and women are victims, and this lecture was in NO WAY a male-bashing blasphemy. If you are reading this, I encourage you to look past the several years of feminism and the “othering” of men that allegedly occurred. I believe today is a new era where women and men can speak plainly and clearly about global occurrences, without blaming gender roles, etc. We see a problem. We need to fix it. We need to talk about it in order to fix it. Are we okay? Cool. Listen up.
Salbi said “victimhood” comes in all shapes and sizes, because to be a victim means to have suffered loss. She actually said that both men and women are victims in the roles they are identified with. Men are victims as the oppressors, and women are victims as the oppressed. She said, when we narrow down someone’s identity so much, they become that identity. Meaning, a person/nation/movement receives an identity and thus must become just that in order to be heard. It’s so weird how we do this, no? Humans are so interested in putting boxes around the unknown. Bizarre.
Zainab Salbi spoke in detail about the effects of war, most specifically on women, and the repercussions of a culture in war. Her conversation was just that, a conversation. She was not preachy or lecturing as much as she was determined to engage, educate, inspire. She repeated some pretty shameful words that some of our government officials (US Senators) said to her, regarding the Taliban’s demands on women in Afghanistan. Allegedly, the Taliban has requested Afghani women to give up their mobility (job opportunity and education) and their appearance. And allegedly, this US Senator said to Salbi, “maybe the rights of women in the middle east are irreconcilable.” And that’s it. Period, end of sentence. Maybe they just can’t be fixed. Really? That’s not a big deal to you? You don’t fear the ruling of an oppressive ideology, and the continued ruling of said oppression because people do not have access to education? Shameful. Her response is beautiful, she said, “I feel like we are betraying these women, because they have done their part, they have stood up.”
So how do we stand up? How do we move? Create momentum? Be engaged? Do you want to know what Zainab Salbi said? I know you do.
Forgive.
Yep. That’s it. She said, “we need to forgive, even when they have not asked for forgiveness.” Example: Salbi said America abandoned their responsibilities in Iraq (not military, but culture rebuilding, etc.), “but I am not willing to wait for us to do something.” She is not willing to wait for the US to ask Iraq for forgiveness. Instead, she has forgiven, and in doing so, as a citizen of the US, she is helping thousands of Iraqi women rebuild. Did you know that there are over 1 million widows in Iraq? Do you know why? Me too.
“War is a microcosm of what happens in peace. It’s life and death in the same day.”
She said, we cannot be captured in the story of oppression because we have not forgiven. What is it and who says it? Something about when we forgive, we think we are letting someone else be free, but it turns out we are freeing ourselves. Forgive, and be free.
She also said, paraphrasing a South African saying, “culture is water, not stone.” Meaning, approach a new relationship with a new culture using practical methods of solution and conflict resolution, instead of attacking the culture (or “othering,” if you will).
Towards the end of the lecture, the moderator asked her how she does what she does, where does she find the energy to be constantly surrounded by war, conflict, broken women and cultures. How does she make this sacrifice? Zainab Salbi said, “I’m not sacrificing or compromising my life,”
“I’m honestly just living my truth. And when we are living our truth, it keeps us going.”
Ummm…what? Yes please! Has anyone heard this before? Perhaps, last night’s blog post? A certain genius, inspiring man who may have said something along the lines of, “listen to your heart, follow your path. Trust yourself.” Yes? Are we listening?
She concluded with this:
The Arab Spring we are living in currently has provided her with a new-found hope. She said in the voices of the people: men, women, and children, she heard the hope in a dignified life. The need in a dignified life. Wow. She said she has spent the past 20 years building this big bridge between the western world and these areas of conflict. Now, stepping down as CEO of Women for Women International, she said, “I realize the small bridges are just as important.” And maybe it is easier to create a shift through our own images. Me sitting here, talking with you, and you talking with me. Shift. Bridges between people, personal, important, beautiful.
When she said this, it made me think of when Mr. Jobs said that we need to trust that the dots will connect. We won’t be able to see how the dots are connected, but they will definitely be connected, as long as we trust our heart and our journey, even if that leads us off the “normal” path.
I want to build small bridges.
This is weird. Steve Jobs passed away today. My friend, Holly, and I were at Sephora this afternoon and a woman walked by saying, “my brother just text messaged me that Steve Jobs died.” We both stopped, looked at each other, and shared a moment of disbelief and hope that the rumor mill had churned out something incorrect. Ironically, I left my iPhone at home and couldn’t verify the news…
…but here we are. The rumor is true. I’m so sad. It’s not often we have an opportunity to encounter a human who LIVES. THEIR. LIFE. And who believes in their own dreams – enough to follow through with them – despite the larger societal expectations or pressures. Of course I don’t know who Steve Jobs was when he was at home with his family, and who he was to the random person on the street. But I do know that he was visionary. And passionate. And, as G.W.F. Hegel states, “Nothing great has been and nothing great can be accomplished without passion.” True that, right?
I’m attaching a link to a TED Talk (actually a Stanford commencement speech, but linked to TED’s site) Steve Jobs did in 2005. I love this, it’s titled: “Steve Jobs: How to live before you die.” Brilliant. Just like Steve Jobs. Just like you. Just like me.
Love.
Dear Ditty followers…
I have something to tell you. You may first want to sit down, put your feet up, grab a drink. Please don’t smirk, what I have to say is very serious…
I’m…(wait for it)… working on my thesis!…!!!!! I know, I know, it’s a MIRACLE (and miracles are always deserving of too many exclamation marks)!
breathe.
Anyway, there is a lot that goes into this process, both emotionally and intellectually. I know I have mentioned this to you – ad nauseam – but it totally relates with today’s entry. Which is about Identity. I’m capitalizing the “I” in Identity because it feels right. It seems like there is a lot behind a word like Identity. That word is busy, and if you are in any way exploring your own Identity, you are also pretty busy, of this I am certain.
So, turns out my thesis is about Identity: my Identity as a girl, an Estadounidense of Irish and German descent growing up in San Diego (believe or not, a border town!); the Identity of Tijuana: the people, the place, the mis-placed ideas/conceptions throughout the city’s history; and the Identity of the work of an incredible, contemporary artist, Jaime Ruiz Otis. He’s awesome. He totally has a show right now at La Caja Galería in Tijuana. You should totally check it out.
Today, while sitting in Krakatoa, caffeinating and sweetening my day (pumpkin whipped cream – YUM!), I read something I wrote in February of 2010. I’m going to share it with you. It means a lot to me, a breakthrough in Identity, of sorts…
My ultimate irony: from where I come, to where I go.
Identidad/Identity
Tijuana. It always brings me back. This city. It’s like a call from home and I am the prodigal daughter. I return because I have to. I return because it asks me to come home, or perhaps I stand here, on this side, “the other side,” and I look to it, and it beckons me.
At times I strain, cry, scream, and become emotionally incapable of finding my courage, my strength and my voice – I am not one of them, I don’t fit in. The language of my heart, my voice, my blood – though I wish and curse it were – is English, not Spanish. And I grieve. I have wished this a part of me for years, but it seems that wish is futile. And audacious. How dare I claim to wish something I have no right to wish for. All the struggle and torment, the prejudice and inequity and yet I am giving up my birth-right, my national stature (whatever that means), to request a life among “the other.” My heart breaks and yet I am a spring, full of life.
Maybe this is the scar Gloria Anzaldúa describes. Maybe this is because I have existed along this border my entire life. Maybe because I didn’t realize this simple and honest truth until I had wandered other lands and crossed other borders, not realizing I have my own experience to understand, to share, to journey.
My first reaction to Tijuana occurs before I even arrive in San Ysidro. As I roar down the 805 at 90 mph, keeping one eye on the clock and one on my rearview mirror silently praying for no cops, I realize I am NEVER on time to cross the border. As I race closer to my $5 parking lot destination, a place where the employees speak to me in Spanish because that’s who they think I am, or maybe that’s who they are, either way I love them, I reflect on this heightened sense of awareness: I am always late to cross because I don’t believe the border is as far geographically from me than it is. It is here, in this inaccuracy of geographic distance that I believe I exist emotionally. I believe I’m much closer than I actually am to Tijuana. And I believe this expands beyond a physical/geographical construct. Because my heart is right there. On which side? On the fence?
Maybe I needed a place to breathe, to become vulnerable, and to say it out loud that I feel like I don’t belong in my own skin and that this experience is so much more than educational and intellectual.
Colonia Libertad. Only not really, border fence.
Maybe my Identity found her voice and needed just a moment to speak. Thanks for listening.
Alto los que cruzan: las fronteras, las identidades...nunca!
Mom, Me, and the Ángel de la independencia, Mexico City, 2009.
I love Mexico. A lot. And today I’m posting some of my favorite pics I have taken throughout the beautiful country as a celebration of Mexico’s Día de la independencia. I know, I know, September 16th was yesterday. Mexico is cleaning up from their celebrations and the Grito has both initiated call and received response. But I was busy yesterday, and anyway, I’m always one to continue celebrations.
This was my September 16th…After my week-o’-weirdness, I needed some good girl time. Two of my AMAZING, supportive, honest, beautiful and without whom I am certain I’d be in some mental institution girlfriends came over for happy hour. We drank wine and talked about boys. We got frozen yogurt and watched episodes of “Sex and the City.” It so needed to happen. A night of us celebrating our independence. I just made that up, I totally love it!
But my mind is never too far from Mexico, and I thought about this post and the opportunity I have to share my love with you. I haven’t traveled the entire expanse of the country, but what I have seen has led me to the following belief: the people are some of the finest in the world. The landscape is what I imagine heaven to be. The food….oh man, the food. Maybe God is a Mexican? There is so much perfection.
There is also so much pain. We could never understand the amount of suffering, loss, and heartache this nation has undergone. It breaks my heart. Unfortunately, both throughout history and of late, our society and culture here in the USA is so good at casting the entire nation of Mexico as either the victim or villain of the Americas: a broken, hopeless nation overcome by bad guys. I reject this misunderstood idea. Mexico is a powerful people.
Whether you have been to Mexico or not, I hope you enjoy these photos. They were taken with my old Canon PowerShot, point and shoot…so imagine the landscape in all its colorful, dynamic and passionate reality. Let’s take a moment to enjoy Mexico, and really see it: beautiful, powerful, unique, amazing (look at that, just like my girlfriends!)…
The homes…
San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, 2010.
Never…
San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, 2007.
Short…
San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, 2010.
On color.
The art…
Museo Mural Diego Rivera, Parque Alameda, Mexico City, 2009.
Respected…
Emiliano Zapata, Arte Jaguar, street art in Oaxaca, 2010.
And on every corner…
San Ángel street mural, Mexico City, 2010.
Waiting to take your breath away…
B2K, I guess this is an artist/collective (?), street art Oaxaca, 2010.
Progressive, raw…
"Not one more death! Reform now!" US/Mex border fence, Las Playas, Tijuana, 2010.
Great story-tellers, documenting a history, a culture, a people…
Diego Rivera in the Palacio Nacional, Mexico City, 2009.
The food…
Taqueria Loaeza, aka a family home, Oaxaca, 2010.
The most delicious, in the most surprising of places…
El Rincon de la Lechuza, San Ángel, Mexico City, 2010.
The perfect combination of spice…
Churros con chocolate, San Ángel, Mexico City, 2009.
And sweetness…
Mezcal y tortillas, a comedor, Oaxaca, 2010.
Always encouraging joy and content.
The landscape…
Guanajuato, Guanajuato, 2007.
Simplistic, creative, manmade…
Guanajuato, Guanajuato, 2007.
Majestic and ancient, withstanding mother nature…
Botanical Gardens, San Miguel de Allende, 2010.
And yet entirely and respectfully embracing her…
Hillside above COLEF, Tijuana/Rosarito, 2007.
As the absolute force…
El Pípila and Don Quixote, Guanajuato, Guanajuato, 2007.
Documenting their history and pride…
La Mona, Tijuana, 2010.
Their hope and achievement…
Border fence, US/Mex border, Tijuana, 2010.
As well their pain (our pain) and loss (our loss).
Their faith…
Catedral Metropolitana, Mexico City, 2010.
Sacred…
Thank you for this pic, Becca Ansert! La Nueva Babel, Oaxaca, 2010.
Precious, and everywhere…
Coatlicue, National Anthropology Museum, Parque Chapultepec, Mexico City, 2009.
Always rooted in tradition and history.
And speaking of history…
Upon completion of ascent, the Pyramid of the Sun, Teotihuacan, Mexico, 2009.
Monumental and of great pride…
Monte Albán, Oaxaca, 2010.
Preserved, protected, cherished.
The people…
San Ángel, Mexico City, 2009.
Believers in beauty, and in sharing that beauty…
San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, 2007.
Precious, precious, precious and cherished children…
Oaxaca, 2010.
A people persevering…
Street graffiti, Oaxaca, 2010.
Hopeful in action…
Day of the Taxi Driver, Oaxaca, 2010.
And appreciative of the joy in life.
Yes, I love this country. In spite of the pain, so much of these gifts endure, inspire and increase.
Passion, life, love, admiration. Te quiero México.
A park in San Ángel, Mexico City, 2010.
It's just the beginning.
It’s been a weird couple of days. I mean, really weird. Strange. Bizarre. Unusual. Uncomfortable. You know? Weird.
So I decided to make cornbread. Because, that makes sense, right?
Recipe for...cornbread.
We all know that when going through strange moments in life, keeping busy tends to be priority numero uno. And, well, this was my recipe. I was busy. So I began.
People still do this?
I can say with authority that I have not cut corn off the cob since I was in braces. And I guess that means my mom was the one who actually cut the corn off the cob. So…yeah. I guess this was the first time I’ve done this? It was kind of liberating. The corn just came right off. Who knew?
Right about this time, I began smelling some kind of smoke. Of course, as I was preparing to bake in the kitchen, my thought was that I had somehow preemptively set fire to something, without any fire-inducing appliance actually on. After sniffing around and checking the stove/oven knobs and the outlets of all my major electrical appliances (I did, after all, have Percy plugged in), I decided it wasn’t me. Phew. Except this is the next thing I saw…across the street from me…
Someone, somewhere else was also baking?
There were six (6!) firetrucks in total...
Danger!
All this hub-bub meant the road was closed – my car was parked in front of the allegedly burning building, totally in the line of fire (pun so intended) – and of course everyone in the neighborhood who was actually home at 1:00pm on a Monday lined the street waiting for something really exciting to happen. Yes I was one of those people…until I realized I had turned my oven on and didn’t want to be the next in line for an extinguish.
However, whatever happened in the apartment building across the street from me, I never did see flames or smoke. The six firetrucks rather quickly became two trucks, and the spectators began returning to their respective locations. I must say I was quite impressed with the SDFD and SDPD. While I was still assessing the smell – from across the street, mind you – they were on the call within seconds. Yay! Anyway, back to baking/translating my instructions.
Why yes, that is sweetened condensed milk.
Something super neat about this recipe is it calls for sweetened condensed milk. Yum! And gladly, I will put any amount you suggest of this thick, rich and creamy goodness in any kind of cornbread recipe.
Of course, in the thick of the fire situation and the overall weirdness of the day, I forgot to bring the butter to room temperature. People. Really. Really? So I did a little trick we all know and love, I like to call it “speedy room temp,” and placed the 2 sticks of refrigerated butter on the increasingly warming (from the oven) stove top. And yes. I forgot to take the butter off the stove top. Did I mention there was a fire across the street from me? Have I shown you pictures?
So proud of me.
Just in case you were wondering what melting butter on a stove top looks like. I’d like to think that the butter was coming to room temperature in a room in Cuba, perhaps. Or Veracruz. It’s hot there, right? The term “room temperature” becomes very subjective, no?
Despite all, looking good!
Yummy Cuba-room temperature butter, sweet corn, eggs, sweetened condensed milk goodness and diced yellow onion…what? Oh yes, this sweet cornbread recipe called for a bit of a kick. Naturally. And while this was happening over here,
This was happening over there.
All seemed to be moving along quite wonderfully. Oh, by the way, those of you actually deciphering the recipe, I halved it. Because seriously, no one needs to eat 45 pieces of cornbread by themselves. Except, maybe, when there’s a fire outside. I should have thought of that.
Looking good!
So, my mom is the exact opposite than me in the kitchen. She is super clean, super careful, super organized. I am more a follower of the “if I’m not covered in flour I failed” rule…obviously. I took this picture for her, because notice who didn’t clean up the melted butter. Yep. That’s right. I’m her little Pig Pen. So proud.
Also, while we are on the subject, does anyone else have a kitchen gadget drawer that looks like this?
It's an endearing mess, right?
My kitchen is super small…does that count? The sad thing is, the other 3/4s of the gadgets are crammed in the back of this drawer, making things nearly impossible to find. Whoops! You didn’t see that, back to the bread.
Okay, time’s up. The verdict is…
Look ma! No butter spots!
…crispy and sweet on the outside, moist and sweet on the inside. It’s good. The onions definitely enhance the whole concept. Although, for me, it’s a bit too sweet. I don’t know if I was distracted by the burning building or burning butter, the de-cobbing of corn or the mess in the go-go gadget drawer. Maybe I was distracted by things less sweet in my outside world. Or maybe I couldn’t quite translate the recipe’s sentiments exactly, maybe I missed a step. But the sweetness remains. And I guess what I can learn from a not-quite-perfect baking experience is, well, it happens. Sweetness remains. I hope.
p.s. As the recipe is not mine, I won’t post a complete/legible (it’s not really that bad) draft until/if I receive word from its’ author. Thanks!
I hope you are doing well. I am. It’s Monday night and I’m listening to the fireworks at Sea World. They have a little less than a month of their summer season, which means I have a little less than a month to listen to fireworks (and thus car alarms, dogs, etc.) go off at precisely 9:55pm. It’s such a summer sound, I do enjoy it.
Today is August 8th, or, 8/8/11. Three years ago today I was in Sevilla, Spain. My amiga japonesa and I went to our Spanish teacher’s house, Javier (it’s not “Javier” it’s J(hhhhh)avier. Como J(hhhhhh)amón, J(hhhhh)abón. J(hhhhhh)avier. You get it), to watch the opening ceremonies for the 2008 summer Olympics in Beijing. That was magical. After that, I went to a Flamenco show in a cave with my friend from Prague, Jan. We sweated profusely in the hot Sevilla night, and I cried. Bawled, rather. The Flamenco was perfection. Beautiful. Powerful. Strong. The woman was in control and the musicians followed her every single move, down to the last flick of her pinky finger. Wow. Then, Jan and I met up with Mari and our other friends for a concert in Sevilla’s Alcazár. We listened to Flamenco guitar and song, under the stars in this ancient garden designed for moments such as this. We almost missed this show, we were all a bit late. I remember running down the street towards the gate, as they were closing it, screaming, “ESPERA! POR FAVOR, ESPERA!!” They did. We got in. And we were mesmerized. In that moment, part of something much older and greater than ourselves. However, we, ourselves, were something to look at: the USA, France, Czech Republic, Japan, Sweden, and Germany all together under one blanket of stars. A mini United Nations enveloped in one night of Spanish cultural perfection…
But, Spain is not what I intended to write about tonight. In fact, I wanted to share with you what a summer without travel (extensive travel anyway) looks like. Not that you don’t know, but because I often look so forward to these epic journeys and experiences that I forget the joy in what is so completely close around me.
So this is what my summer has looked like…
I got to make dinner for my family.
Strawberries for the flatbread.
Dinner is served.
My mom makes everything so pretty.
I got to spend my summer with lavender and gardens full of roses and plumerias.
Lavender makes the kitchen smell like joy.
This rose was dancing when I photographed her.
Plumerias. Either brilliantly bright or blessedly fragrant. Either way, you win.
Evening enhances the garden's colors.
I got to spend day after day with this little guy.
We took many a summer-sun nap together.
I got to explore love and life in San Francisco.
One thing is for sure, this is a beautiful city.
San Francisco's Fire Department/Flower Garden. I enjoy their priorities.
I got to see some art that made me smile, made me think and made me question who gets to access art and why are we so exclusive about something so universal? Exactly what purpose do these walls serve?
"Everybody's got their own arrow."
Trains. And spray paint. Sprayed trains.
Os Gemeos.
So, no. I didn’t get to go to Chiapas, Veracrúz, Oaxaca and DF. But I did see life, love, art. I did get to watch the sunset, either through my apartment’s windows or overlooking the Pacific ocean. I did get to enjoy a picnic in the park and I got to watch my Pancho Villa continue to grow. I have so many yum ditties all around me. And so for now,
I keep on.
Mexico advertises travel to Cuba everywhere!
The only thing I need is a plane ticket. And, I suppose, some cold hard cash to pay off the airline folks to let me in (and out) of Cuba. And Tony’s whereabouts (in this little dream world, he’s still in Cuba and we will meet on the sea wall and drink rum, listen to Son and just talk).
Perfection.
Not that Anthony Bourdain needs any help advertising his show, but I’m always a little giddy when a new season of No Reservations starts. For me, Tony has the perfect balance of humor and insight, sarcasm (love me some of that) and unabashed joy, New York ego and global humility. He stands firm on his belief that food is the core of culture, and what better way to understand a culture than through a people’s’ cuisine. Oh, and by the way, we are responsible for understanding other cultures. We owe it to the world, and to ourselves, to openly share this space (so…um, bon appétit!). I love this about him. I love food and I love culture. I love food culture. I think world peace is possible through food. And culture. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Maybe not?
And tonight, premier of his 8th (I think) season on the travel channel, Tony is in Cuba. Dream, dream, dream.
Pinch me.
So, Cuba. Cuba is #1 on my must travel to list. It is a country I respect, I admire, and I so desire to know. I know the history is tumultuous, at best. And I know that in my position, I need to be careful that I do not romanticize the country, and thus devalue the struggles of the Cuban people. But I also know, with certainty, that Cuba has something unique. Politics aside, Cuba is Salsa, Son, and Buena Vista Social Club. Cuba is Ibrahim Ferrer, Los Carpinteros, and José Martí. Cuba is free of McDonald’s, Disneyland and Starbucks. Cuba is antiquity and history, mystery and intrigue, proud and strong. Cuba has nearly a 100% literacy rate. And, I believe, Cuba possesses an energy of revolution, because they have lived it.
After years of scheming and dreaming, I made a decision to travel to Cuba when my MA is complete. I will graduate this December and I will travel to Cuba. It will be my gift for completing this large task, and it’s something that inspires me to continue to work towards this graduation goal, which often feels completely overwhelming and impossible. And, just for the record, I’m not worried that I may be disappointed by the reality of Cuba. Because, one thing no one can argue with, Cuba has heart and soul.
Hasta la victoria siempre.
As for my dear fellow-explorer and story-teller extraordinaire, Tony Bourdain, I can’t wait for this evening. Nevermind that I don’t own a television and thus am humbly presenting myself and my cat at my parents’ house with the hope that they may want to watch Tony in Cuba with me…please?
I’m ending with this excerpt from Tony’s blog:
“It’s easy, I know, to over-romanticize the unspoiled. Especially when ‘unspoiled’ means ‘poor’. But look. Look.
Whatever your politics, however you feel about Cuba–look at tonight’s show and admit, at least, that Havana is beautiful. It is the most beautiful city of Latin America or the Caribbean. Look at the Cuban people and admit that they are proud and big-hearted and funny and kind–and strong as hell, having put up with every variety of bullshit over the years. On these things, I hope we can agree.”
¡Provecho!
Me, live Son and La Nueva Babel in Oaxaca, Mexico.
