There's something very mysterious about Puerto Rico. I've never been able to fully put my finger on it, but something lingers just below the surface that is exciting! I ventured there recently, taking my off time to breathe in the warm sunshine and vibrant life that surrounds those visiting this nearby paradise.
I'd had some experience here before, as a travel escort for large groups that often sought out the history and beaches of San Juan. I'd even cruised into her port a time or two. But nothing fills the senses as when you can
walk the cobbled streets of Old San Juan seeking the rich history of this tiny nation.
A short cab ride from the Old San Juan hotel ($21) drops you into the heart of Old Town, where old men face off on giant domino tables and old women are not afraid to smoke a Cuban cigar. A short shuttle ride (free) takes you up the daunting hill to Castillo Dan Filipe del Morro, fondly known as El Morro, a structure built to protect the city of San Juan in 1539. Views from this area are spectacular!
Strolling through the streets of the old city one is apt to see trolley buses winding through the tiny avenues, motor scooters squeezing into the tiniest parking spots, nightclubs, and taverns that have been part of the city for hundreds of years. The people are friendly and warm, and the youth smile when you cannot understand their Spanish, although they speak English quite well. Shopping is everywhere, from trendy boutiques to stores clearly recognizable by any tourist.
But the pulse of the city is music. Salsa, in particular. You'll have a very pleasurable experience at the El San Juan Hotel, one of Puerto Rico's most beautiful old hotels. The night was steamy and you can hear the high-pitched squeals of tree frogs in the courtyard as you walk to the hotel. Strains of salsa already emerges from the doors when you arrive. Just inside the door, smells of heavy perfume and cologne covered you like a warm blanket. Bodies are moving to a rich sound of bongo drums, guitar, and steel trumpets slice through the dark like a newly sharpened bread knife. Women and men of all ages gyrate across the floor, their smiles wide and happy.
You'll could hear the chinking sounds of the casino to your right, but it is the music and the dancers that keeps your attention. Stand quietly out of sight taking in the joy in the lobby of that gracious hotel and when its was time to go, you'll leave unwillingly. They say the dances go on until the wee hours in Puerto Rico, each dancer enjoying life to the fullest.
If you love the charm of Puerto Rico or want to read a more historical piece of fiction, you'll love,"Conquistadora" by Esmeralda Santiago. It's an epic novel of love, discovery, and adventure by the author of the best-selling memoir When I Was Puerto Rican.(striaght from the book review.)
This is a riveting tale, set in a place where human passions and cruelties collide: thrilling history that has never before been brought so vividly and unforgettably to life.
Adios' Amigo.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
The Edgefield Manor Hautings
Sometimes when I travel I'm amazed by the history that's found in the most odd places. I'd finished my work for the day and opted to not eat my dinner on property, instead deciding to take a quiet drive along the historic Route 30 to Multnomah Falls. While driving, I saw off to my left a small sign almost obscured by bushes that said, "Edgefield Manor." With a quick jerk to the right, (those who know my driving know this is easy for me,) I found a winding driveway up to a large building that bore the name Edgefield Manor. I wandered throughout the grounds, slowly discovering the beauty and history contained on the property.At least ten or twelve outbuildings had all been restored and housed things outside of the main lodge, like a movie theatre and pub, Jerry Garcia's bar which sat only 10 people, the Black Rabbit gourmet restaurant, a distillery, gift shop, tea house and vineyards.
Seems this property had a rich past, most notably as an Oregon "poor house." The dark hallways and doors just inside Edgefield were painted with some of the prior residents, their faces long and sad. Black and white photographs intermingled with faded walpaper and gave this explorer the chance to think about who they were, what lives and circumstances brought them to this place. The smell was not musty as one might expect, but savorful and rich, most notable because of the Black Rabbit Restaurant.
After talking with a few staff I discovered that the place was supposedly haunted, or at least a few of the rooms are and that guests can request to stay in a haunted room. Old women and several young children (the place had once been an orphanage,) had been seen in various rooms and on the grounds throughout the years. Poorhouses or Poor Farms as they were called were homes people were required to go to if they could not support themselves. They were tax-supported and used as a system of what would be known today as "welfare." They requested assistance, or someone might do it for them,from a town official. If the "help" was deemed to be long term, they'd be sent to the poor farm. They might also be sent there if they were found begging.
I actually have a memory of a poor farm in Indiana that was situated between Elkhart and Goshen. It was next to a county park. The structure was large, white with a huge garden in front of it. I can remember drving past the old place, it's 14 residents sitting on the front porch on those hot and humid summer days waving at the passing cars. Every old man and woman was smiling. I never saw a car turn in and often wondered what happened to those people the day they shut it down.
It was quite a journey this trip and with it I learned about a book that might be of interest to those who go to Portland or enjoy the history of the poor house. It's written by Michael B Katz and it's called In the Shadow of the Poor House:A Social History of WelfareEnjoy!
www.poorhousehistory.com
Seems this property had a rich past, most notably as an Oregon "poor house." The dark hallways and doors just inside Edgefield were painted with some of the prior residents, their faces long and sad. Black and white photographs intermingled with faded walpaper and gave this explorer the chance to think about who they were, what lives and circumstances brought them to this place. The smell was not musty as one might expect, but savorful and rich, most notable because of the Black Rabbit Restaurant.
After talking with a few staff I discovered that the place was supposedly haunted, or at least a few of the rooms are and that guests can request to stay in a haunted room. Old women and several young children (the place had once been an orphanage,) had been seen in various rooms and on the grounds throughout the years. Poorhouses or Poor Farms as they were called were homes people were required to go to if they could not support themselves. They were tax-supported and used as a system of what would be known today as "welfare." They requested assistance, or someone might do it for them,from a town official. If the "help" was deemed to be long term, they'd be sent to the poor farm. They might also be sent there if they were found begging.
I actually have a memory of a poor farm in Indiana that was situated between Elkhart and Goshen. It was next to a county park. The structure was large, white with a huge garden in front of it. I can remember drving past the old place, it's 14 residents sitting on the front porch on those hot and humid summer days waving at the passing cars. Every old man and woman was smiling. I never saw a car turn in and often wondered what happened to those people the day they shut it down.
It was quite a journey this trip and with it I learned about a book that might be of interest to those who go to Portland or enjoy the history of the poor house. It's written by Michael B Katz and it's called In the Shadow of the Poor House:A Social History of WelfareEnjoy!
www.poorhousehistory.com
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
John Grisham and Mary Mahoney's
I love discovering connections between authors and historical places when I travel. I travled to Biloxi, Mississippi last weekend where I happened onto a fine dining restaurant called Mary Mahoney's Old French House. I took a few photos on the outside then wandered in the place for a bite of lunch. The small stone bar was empty and the bartender was eager to serve, as it was the middle of the day and the lunch crowd had long gone. For me, it's rarely about the food or beverages, it's about what one finds when you get off the beaten track and rummage a bit around these old cities. It passes times and gives me the area's "sense of place," something all writers end up using at one time or another.
It was odd, but something here triggered a memory. A city. Bioloxi. A name. Mahoney's. A book. The Runaway Jury. I tapped my fork on the bar top and got the attention of the waitress.
"Was this the restaurant featured in John Grisham's book, The Runaway Jury?" I asked.
"Yup," she replied, and The Confession as well! Joh comes in here all of the time. Sits right where you are sometimes."
Then I remembered the passage from a Grisham's book....
"He turned left and was soon entering a large, old white building that houses Mary Mahoney's, a locally famous restuarant where most of the town's legal community usually gathered for lunch when court was in session.
Nicholas enetered the restaurant and asked the first waitress he saw if Judge Harkin was eating. Yes. And where might he be? She pointed and Nicholas walked quickly through the bar, through a small foyer and into a large dining room with windows and sunshine and lots of fresh flowers."
And here I was, munching on a bowl of Mary Mahoney's famous gumbo, and sipping a sweet tea on a chair where a fellow writer soaked in the atmosphere of a building almost as old as the country itself.
I jotted down a few observations and walked through the old place, taking the same route as Grisham described, to the large dining room befit with large greenhouse-like windows and white table's bedecked with sweet smelling flowers.
Nothing like discovering truth in fiction. For those readers who love a good "sense of place,finding a "real" place that's been used in fiction is like finding buried treasure. Gold, all around. Imagine what heaven will be like?
Any place from a book you've ever found to be real? Share it with us, won't you?
It was odd, but something here triggered a memory. A city. Bioloxi. A name. Mahoney's. A book. The Runaway Jury. I tapped my fork on the bar top and got the attention of the waitress.
"Was this the restaurant featured in John Grisham's book, The Runaway Jury?" I asked.
"Yup," she replied, and The Confession as well! Joh comes in here all of the time. Sits right where you are sometimes."
Then I remembered the passage from a Grisham's book....
"He turned left and was soon entering a large, old white building that houses Mary Mahoney's, a locally famous restuarant where most of the town's legal community usually gathered for lunch when court was in session.
Nicholas enetered the restaurant and asked the first waitress he saw if Judge Harkin was eating. Yes. And where might he be? She pointed and Nicholas walked quickly through the bar, through a small foyer and into a large dining room with windows and sunshine and lots of fresh flowers."
And here I was, munching on a bowl of Mary Mahoney's famous gumbo, and sipping a sweet tea on a chair where a fellow writer soaked in the atmosphere of a building almost as old as the country itself.
I jotted down a few observations and walked through the old place, taking the same route as Grisham described, to the large dining room befit with large greenhouse-like windows and white table's bedecked with sweet smelling flowers.
Nothing like discovering truth in fiction. For those readers who love a good "sense of place,finding a "real" place that's been used in fiction is like finding buried treasure. Gold, all around. Imagine what heaven will be like?
Any place from a book you've ever found to be real? Share it with us, won't you?
Friday, January 27, 2012
New York, New York!
Last week, I finished a long work day on Friday, and boarded a red-eye flight for Newark, NJ. Now why, you might ask, did I do something like that? I know, it's like going from a slum to a ghetto, but it was not without purpose. Being a 1K (100,000) mile flier, you'd think I'd had the best seat on the plane. Continental saw differently. I was given the "little people" treatment.You've all been there. Back of the plane where I swear they put eight seats across the back not the regular six. My seatmates were three little Asian women squished into the two seats next to me and they giggled the entire way to New Jersey.
After arriving into New Jersey at 6:15am, I had a car pick me up for the drive to Manhattan. Of course, I hadn't checked the weather, and no surprise,found myself slepping through ankle deep slush and snow to the awaiting car. The driver was an old man in a big Town Car that evidently had bald tires. For the next hour we careened down the highway barely able to stay on the pavement for most of the ride. All of that doing less miles per hour than I can walk to the mailbox.
I arrived at the hotel in one piece. It was near 8 o'clock. The Writer's Digest Conference I'd decided to attend at the last minute was to start around 9am. True to my luck as of late, my room was no where near ready, and I was relegated to take a shower in the tiny "health club" in the basement of the high rise. So here I am, trying my darndest to make myself presentable in the dingy basement of a sweat-smelling gym whose "amenities" included a well used bar of soap, complete with the long dark hairs of a stranger, and a one watt bulb in which to see my shadow as I tried to apply makeup.
I sat through three decent classes before the 3 hour "pitch" session, whereby all of the 600 wanna-be-best-selling writers stood in line just to have a chance to share an abridged version of their manuscript with an agent, editor or publisher. There were about 60 agents, etc. in attendance, so you can see what a chaotic event it was. Four rooms, 60 agents, 600 writers. Do the math. We stood outside the four rooms with a list of the agents we hoped would request our manuscripts. At exactly two p.m., the doors opened and we all ran toward the first ahent we hoped to see like cattle drive with each of scouring the room as we ran, ent on our list. Sort of looked like a The cost, a whopping almost $400 for the day, proved to be money well spent. Out of eight agent visits, all eight agents asked for more of the manuscript, a good showing for any writer!
With that said, I send my kudos to The Writers Digest Conference, and all of the agents who sat at those tables throughout those grueling three hours. A special shout-out to Rachel Dugas from Talcott Notch Literary Agency. That young woman kept the biggest smile on her face and every writer who left her booth felt like a million bucks!
A thorn goes to the writer who shouted at an agent that "It's not fair! You said you took children's stories! I waited in line for over 25 minutes!" The agent, whom I will not name, tried to explain she looks for children's series (more than one book.) The writer stormed off leaving that poor agent a little soured, but who could blame her? A lesson to new writers....be polite, no matter what. You don't have the knowledge base to do anything but listen.
And finally, to all of the writers in attendance....Wow! Way to go! You and I are living our dream! Now get out there, polish those manuscripts and get them off to the agents that requested your stuff!
After arriving into New Jersey at 6:15am, I had a car pick me up for the drive to Manhattan. Of course, I hadn't checked the weather, and no surprise,found myself slepping through ankle deep slush and snow to the awaiting car. The driver was an old man in a big Town Car that evidently had bald tires. For the next hour we careened down the highway barely able to stay on the pavement for most of the ride. All of that doing less miles per hour than I can walk to the mailbox.
I arrived at the hotel in one piece. It was near 8 o'clock. The Writer's Digest Conference I'd decided to attend at the last minute was to start around 9am. True to my luck as of late, my room was no where near ready, and I was relegated to take a shower in the tiny "health club" in the basement of the high rise. So here I am, trying my darndest to make myself presentable in the dingy basement of a sweat-smelling gym whose "amenities" included a well used bar of soap, complete with the long dark hairs of a stranger, and a one watt bulb in which to see my shadow as I tried to apply makeup.
I sat through three decent classes before the 3 hour "pitch" session, whereby all of the 600 wanna-be-best-selling writers stood in line just to have a chance to share an abridged version of their manuscript with an agent, editor or publisher. There were about 60 agents, etc. in attendance, so you can see what a chaotic event it was. Four rooms, 60 agents, 600 writers. Do the math. We stood outside the four rooms with a list of the agents we hoped would request our manuscripts. At exactly two p.m., the doors opened and we all ran toward the first ahent we hoped to see like cattle drive with each of scouring the room as we ran, ent on our list. Sort of looked like a The cost, a whopping almost $400 for the day, proved to be money well spent. Out of eight agent visits, all eight agents asked for more of the manuscript, a good showing for any writer!
With that said, I send my kudos to The Writers Digest Conference, and all of the agents who sat at those tables throughout those grueling three hours. A special shout-out to Rachel Dugas from Talcott Notch Literary Agency. That young woman kept the biggest smile on her face and every writer who left her booth felt like a million bucks!
A thorn goes to the writer who shouted at an agent that "It's not fair! You said you took children's stories! I waited in line for over 25 minutes!" The agent, whom I will not name, tried to explain she looks for children's series (more than one book.) The writer stormed off leaving that poor agent a little soured, but who could blame her? A lesson to new writers....be polite, no matter what. You don't have the knowledge base to do anything but listen.
And finally, to all of the writers in attendance....Wow! Way to go! You and I are living our dream! Now get out there, polish those manuscripts and get them off to the agents that requested your stuff!
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
We are all Novel Travelers
This has been an interesting week so far. After my full-time job is done, I've been polishing up my book, gathering up my courage and setting out for yet another adventure! I'll be on the road for work this week, Vegas, no less. Sin city, as if I didn't have enough of my own sin to worry about. I picked up the book by a Pulitzer Prize winner,Larry McMurtry, called The Desert Rose,written in 1983. The main character Harmony is both tough and tender as an ageing Las Vegas showgirl. Here's a cut from the book.
"When she turned off the pavement onto the bumpy dirt road Harmony looked back at the Strip, eight miles away. It looked so miniature, like a wonderful toy place, with all the lights still on … It was one of her favourite things, to turn onto her own road with the air smelling so good and be able to see the Strip, with the Trop up at one end and the Sahara at the other, and besides that have the sun coming up just as she got home. With sights like that to see every day, who could complain?"
Trying to follow a novel I'm reading is turning into quite a good time. On airplanes, I have a ton of time to read. I mark up my books, circling locations and street names, restaurants and tourist attractions and then when I arrive, if I have any time, I try to find them. It makes for interesting travel. Now you see why the name change on the blog.
Writers are are odd as the characters they create. Think about it. You know you've always wanted to go to Laura Ingall's, little house on the prairie. Because some writer created an image that eventually made it from the written page to the silver screen, you visualized along with the writer what they had in mind as the book was written. The writer gave enough of a description that you could see, smell, feel, and hear the house. That's the beauty of what a writer does.
So off I go! I'll be looking for places and streets that McMurtry made come alive. Should make for a more interesting journey, don't you think?
How about you, have you ever tried to see if a place or person in a novel existed? Share that with us, won't you?
"When she turned off the pavement onto the bumpy dirt road Harmony looked back at the Strip, eight miles away. It looked so miniature, like a wonderful toy place, with all the lights still on … It was one of her favourite things, to turn onto her own road with the air smelling so good and be able to see the Strip, with the Trop up at one end and the Sahara at the other, and besides that have the sun coming up just as she got home. With sights like that to see every day, who could complain?"
Trying to follow a novel I'm reading is turning into quite a good time. On airplanes, I have a ton of time to read. I mark up my books, circling locations and street names, restaurants and tourist attractions and then when I arrive, if I have any time, I try to find them. It makes for interesting travel. Now you see why the name change on the blog.
Writers are are odd as the characters they create. Think about it. You know you've always wanted to go to Laura Ingall's, little house on the prairie. Because some writer created an image that eventually made it from the written page to the silver screen, you visualized along with the writer what they had in mind as the book was written. The writer gave enough of a description that you could see, smell, feel, and hear the house. That's the beauty of what a writer does.
So off I go! I'll be looking for places and streets that McMurtry made come alive. Should make for a more interesting journey, don't you think?
How about you, have you ever tried to see if a place or person in a novel existed? Share that with us, won't you?
Friday, January 13, 2012
I Wanna Go Home!!!!!
This week is the week I'd normally be at the Wilkes Writing Program residency. For the past 3 years I've made my pilgrimage to Pennsylvania to mingle with some of the nation's most caring and congenial authors, playwrites, screenplay writers and poets.
Now for those of you who have not been to Wilkes-Barre/Scranton area, (and that doesn't count those who watch "The Office,") Wilkes-Barre is the epitome of Pennsylvania's "Rust Belt." It lacks any true beauty or viable downtown, although it does play host to unsavory buildings and characters, great fodder for those who love the arts.
Every day I would walk, rain, snow, or shine the mile to school leaving the warm arms of the not-so-posh Best Western Genetti Inn to the campus. Rounding the first corner of the brick-lined sidewalk, I'd beeline pass the men and women who hung out at the Quick-Mart smoking cigarettes and begging for cash. At the next corner I'd brush pass what passes as the "theatre," often having to kick away trash and cigar butts that had twirled into the concave entrance during the night. Across the street the circular park filled with the homeless who found there way to a bench during the night, their wakings startling passersby.
I stopped at Dunkin Donuts for a bagel, then crossed the street for my morning java at the Barnes and Noble bookstore, often the stage for many readings during the week of residency. I always bought a book, not able to leave without knowing I'd somehow contributed to someone's climb to fame. A quick pass through at the alley past Boskov's, a clothing store that demanded my attention at least once a day while in Wilkes-Barre, then a dart through the parking lot to the old building that had been converted to the YMCA and I was just a block away.
The campus of Wilkes University gives off a historical air, one I grew to love, but it was inside those walls where other writers, poets, screenplay writers and playwrites gathered that gladdened me to my soul. I had a cohort whose talent still amazes me and whose recent successes have made me proud. Gail Martin, known to me as "Gray," recently published her wonderful humorous novel, "Don Juan in Hankey, PA," a hilarious romp through the world of a small town opera guild. And others I worked beside, like Amye Archer did us proud with her publication. More to come on other alumni!
What Wilkes does have is an extraordinary gathering of artists from around the nation that gather to give of themselves to wannabe artists like me. Sara Pritchard, my mentor was one of them. She encouraged me as a writer, lifted my spirits when I thought I could never do what she asked of me, and made me laugh at myself.
So today I'm feeling a bit blue knowing that another group of talented people have arrived, and taken our places. I'm here missing all of the interactions that had become such a part of my life. It always felt like home there! Smells and shady characters and litter and all!
Writers are funny like that! We are souls that do our best work alone, but no greater group have I ever met that loved the social aspects of sharing others work! I want to go home:)
Now for those of you who have not been to Wilkes-Barre/Scranton area, (and that doesn't count those who watch "The Office,") Wilkes-Barre is the epitome of Pennsylvania's "Rust Belt." It lacks any true beauty or viable downtown, although it does play host to unsavory buildings and characters, great fodder for those who love the arts.
Every day I would walk, rain, snow, or shine the mile to school leaving the warm arms of the not-so-posh Best Western Genetti Inn to the campus. Rounding the first corner of the brick-lined sidewalk, I'd beeline pass the men and women who hung out at the Quick-Mart smoking cigarettes and begging for cash. At the next corner I'd brush pass what passes as the "theatre," often having to kick away trash and cigar butts that had twirled into the concave entrance during the night. Across the street the circular park filled with the homeless who found there way to a bench during the night, their wakings startling passersby.
I stopped at Dunkin Donuts for a bagel, then crossed the street for my morning java at the Barnes and Noble bookstore, often the stage for many readings during the week of residency. I always bought a book, not able to leave without knowing I'd somehow contributed to someone's climb to fame. A quick pass through at the alley past Boskov's, a clothing store that demanded my attention at least once a day while in Wilkes-Barre, then a dart through the parking lot to the old building that had been converted to the YMCA and I was just a block away.
The campus of Wilkes University gives off a historical air, one I grew to love, but it was inside those walls where other writers, poets, screenplay writers and playwrites gathered that gladdened me to my soul. I had a cohort whose talent still amazes me and whose recent successes have made me proud. Gail Martin, known to me as "Gray," recently published her wonderful humorous novel, "Don Juan in Hankey, PA," a hilarious romp through the world of a small town opera guild. And others I worked beside, like Amye Archer did us proud with her publication. More to come on other alumni!
What Wilkes does have is an extraordinary gathering of artists from around the nation that gather to give of themselves to wannabe artists like me. Sara Pritchard, my mentor was one of them. She encouraged me as a writer, lifted my spirits when I thought I could never do what she asked of me, and made me laugh at myself.
So today I'm feeling a bit blue knowing that another group of talented people have arrived, and taken our places. I'm here missing all of the interactions that had become such a part of my life. It always felt like home there! Smells and shady characters and litter and all!
Writers are funny like that! We are souls that do our best work alone, but no greater group have I ever met that loved the social aspects of sharing others work! I want to go home:)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
