There was a time – I was still young, in my mid-20s – when I thought I was going to be a perennial traveller, a woman without a country or permanent address, a vagabond. Not that I was ever the backpacker type. I liked lace blouses and high heels too much. In my fantasy image of myself, I floated from place to place in long flowing gowns. In real life, I travelled heavy, lugging way too many suitcases wherever I went. Read full article…
The night of February 20, 2014 an overflow crowd of passionate Cuban-American fans awaited the island writer, Leonardo Padura, at the Coral Gables Congregational Church. Books & Books, the organizer of the event, together with the Cuban Research Institute of Florida International University, had wisely foreseen the need to move the reading to the larger location down the street from the landmark Miami bookstore.
Leonardo Padura has achieved an international following for his Mario Conde detective series. More recently, his long and probing historical novels have won him a new literary fame in the United States, including a recent write up in The New Yorker. An American edition of his work, The Man Who Loved Dogs, ostensibly about Leon Trotsky and his assassin Ramón Mercader, but ultimately a profound meditation on utopian ideals, was just released by Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Read more
I knew who they were the minute I saw them at JFK Airport. He was tall, white-haired and white-bearded, elegant in a black turtleneck, and she was slender and sleek and had a well-traveled air about her. They were no longer young but you could never call them old. He stood too straight and she looked out at the world with too much curiosity. Later I learned they were both 82.
“Felicia? Edmundo?” I asked.
She turned to me with a smile. “Yes, it’s us.”
Felicia Rosshandler is the author of Passing Through Havana, an autobiographical novel about her German-Jewish family’s escape to Cuba at the time of the Holocaust and her unceasing search for home.
Edmundo Desnoes is the author of the novella, Memorias inconsolables(Inconsolable Memories), which later inspired the screenplay for the 1967 film, Memorias del subdesarrollo (Memories of Underdevelopment), directed by Tomás Gutierrez Alea, one of Cuba’s greatest filmmakers. Read more
Everyone wanted to know: Is this your first time?
Yes. My first time in Tokyo. First time in Japan. First time in Asia.
I’m the kind of traveler who likes to go to the same places over and over. I rarely go to places where I won’t be able to talk to people. I’ve made short trips to Turkey and Poland, the ancient homelands of my grandparents, and to Israel, where I have family ties. Mostly I travel to places where I can speak Spanish, my native tongue—Spain, Mexico, Argentina, and Cuba, the land of my childhood. Read more
How thrilling that you were the inaugural poet today. For days I’ve wanted to take to the streets like a peddler carrying braids of onions on my shoulders and shout out the news: “Richard is a great poet! And he’s my friend!” But I’m in Cuba, our native land, and there was no one to share my excitement with, because your poetry isn’t known here, you write in English. So I told the thirteen University of Michigan students who are here with me for three months on our study abroad program. We watched you on CNN, and cheered for you from this side of the ocean.
Over the last twenty years, you and I have talked obsessively about where is home, and what is home, and whether home is a place or a state of mind. Your poems burn with the sorrow of Cubans who longed to go back to the island but never did. Our parents, the Cuban exiles, settled in America reluctantly; they never could get used to eating turkey on Thanksgiving. Now you will speak, not just on behalf of Cuban Americans, but all Americans. You, Richard, symbolize that we have been fully accepted as citizens of our adopted nation. And so I’m wondering: Is it time for Cuban Americans to let go of their obsession with the island, to stop looking back? Read more